[It's a difficult thing, tearing himself away from the visceral pleasure that threatens to overcome him in the moment of violence, from the feel of the man thrashing beneath him, the beautiful crunch and twist of those broken bones as the patient tries to yank his arms - pointlessly, uselessly - out of Giovanni's inimical grasp.

He does it, though, the laughter cutting off, a moment of near-panting breaths (not a sign of exertion, no, just an indication of the animal joy in him that pulses and glitters so bright he struggles to see past it), and he settles himself around the sound of Julius' voice, his obedient conditioning setting in. The nurse eyes him with a mix of terror and awe, edging a little closer to the steely calm that Julius represents, but Giovanni pays her no mind at all, his attention divided between Handler and victim.

And again, there's a question, a choice, and Giovanni tilts his head in that canine gesture of confusion. It's not an order, it's an option, and as such he holds back from acting any further until the decision has been reached. When his voice comes, it's surprisingly level and calm.]

I'll do whatever you deem necessary, Sir.

[And there's something in that obedience that seems to settle the nurse, though she remains close to Julius, wary and tense.]

But if the choice were mine, I'd dispatch him. By all accounts, he has a slow and agonized death ahead of him. At least, with me, it would be quick.