[Giovanni doesn't so much as glance in the other man's direction as he begins to drag himself up from the ground, can't see the expression on his face, the strain written there. He can smell it though, in the form of the sweat that slicks his brow and the unmistakable reek of pain, a scent he knows right down to the core of himself and which, even now, makes something rattle and spark in him, the quiet desire for more. He keeps himself in perfect poise, though, keeps moving along the stone corridor that leads out of their little cell, lit only - as Rhys had discerned - by the dim flame of sconces lining the walls. Plenty of fire then, plenty of opportunities to set their little plan in motion. A good start.

When he responds, his voice is a quiet thing, little more than a murmur, but despite that and the deceptively cheery tone that trips off his tongue, there's something underlying it. A steely kind of promise.]

And you'd better do as I say and keep your voice down, or I'll be forced to remove your capacity for speech. I wonder how much more it would hurt, to have your tongue ripped out of your mouth.

[He's already discerned that the guy is going to be little more than extra baggage here. Really, Rhys ought to be thankful that Giovanni's decided against killing him and leaving his body to rot beside the guards in the cell.]