"Ngk. Che fai-" Alex jabs an elbow into Cesare's solar plexus and pretends he's simply fumbling for a hold, "what the fuck? How can I move while you're gutting me?" He shuffles out of Alex's grip, at last, and hobbles over to the windows.

Leaning against the cold glass, he then eyes Alex shrewdly. "How about we strike a deal? Bottle of 48 year-old Armagnac for you, piece of your arse for me?"