Mob Boss who is making sure people know its the day of their daughter's—not their son's—wedding
He walks up to the man, hanging from the ceiling, whimpering. Makes a brief motion to Big Tony, beside the winch, and the man is lowered. Not enough to let his feet touch the ground, but enough to let the iron weights attached to them clang against the floor.
"Now," says the capo, "I wasn't there to witness your little outburst. I was sitting up front, like a dutiful father should, witnessing my beloved daughter on the happiest day of her life." He takes a puff on his cigar, slow, and then lets out a breath, the smoke cloying in the enclosed space. "She was beautiful, walking down the aisle. Radiant, even. An occasion of pure joy." He gestures with the cigar to the trussed-up man, who flinches, his bare chest already covered in burn marks. "But, you know, a little bird told me something about you. Said some pretty nasty things, actually. Said you were being disrespectful to my daughter."
The man babbles, a bit, something about I would never and please I didn't mean it.
The capo, for his part, nods to another goon behind the man, and his free-flowing stream of pleading is dammed behind a scream of agony.
"Now, I know you're not questioning the integrity of my men by insisting they were wrong," says the capo. "You wouldn't do that, on top of everything else. So, you disrespected her. Thankfully, my men here removed you before she could hear what had happened. And now I have to decide what to do with you."
He takes another deep puff of his cigar, gazing through the man, drawing out the moment. Sweat and blood drip from the man through the grates on the floor.
"My daughter," the capo decides, "is not a violent woman. She's never agreed with some of the ways I do business. All of this," and he gestures briefly with the cigar, the other hand in his pocket, somehow encompassing the goons, the warehouse, the blood-spattered instruments, the weights, and the chains, all in one small motion, "she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. She's too pure a soul for the kind of business I'm in. And I have to respect those wishes, on this of all days."
He nods to Big Tony, and the man drops heavily to the floor, chains crashing into his arms and back. He whimpers half-apologies and half-thanks, more prayers to a vengeful God than any real words. But when he looks up, the capo is handing his jacket off to another goon, and loosening his tie.
"See, now, the problem is, when you disrespected her, you also disrespected me. Respect is what this whole town runs on. I can't let it be known that I simply let someone disrespect me and walk away." He accepts an iron poker from Big Tony, the end glowing white. Tests the weight of it in his hand. "So. I will dirty my own hands. I've got plenty of blood on them already, someone like you won't make a difference either way. And, in deference to my daughter, I'll let you go. After," he points the poker down at the man's face, and the room fills with the smell of burning hair, "we've made sure you're very clear on the subject of who my daughter is. And then there won't be any more mistakes like this again. Tony?"
The man's vision goes dark as a black hood is forced over his head, and the warehouse fills with screams.
