For once in his life, Lorenzo wished he was taller. As he turned his head, he recognized the freakishly tall man. And he'd be damned if he showed any fear. He stood straight, leaving the empty glass on the counter, and faced the man who had wrecked so much havoc and destruction upon the Sovrani. The man who was, most likely, behind the death of Alessia. The Italian felt his blood boil beneath his skin, but kept his demeanor calm. Well, as calm as he could. It was lucky he'd left any weapons at home. The temptation to use them, to hell with the consequences, would be nearly impossible to resist. "What," He said, looking around in mock amusement, "No girls you've trafficked from Fuck-All-istan on your arm tonight?" He felt no remorse for the dig. After the death of his brother, Lorenzo had realized he had nothing left to lose. Some would say this made him brave... others would go with the term "reckless". "Surprised to see you've crawled out of whatever shithole you're living in these days. Run out of frenchies to torture there, did they? I hear you all have become quite the ring collectors."
"I see the Sovrani has stooped to allowing just about any crass imbecile represent their interests. How disappointing. Alessia, at least, conducted herself with dignity. There appears to be quite the fall off in her absence."
