The chained man was the one Miles was interested in. He was Francesco Lancinelli, a convicted goon for the Mafia. He looked the part too, with a muscle-bound body, a squarish shape and a hideous face — not ugly, but mean and glowering and a little crooked from being punched so much; he had a scar on his forehead, a divot in his left eyebrow and a chipped front tooth. His facial tics, while voluminous, were asymmetrical from nerve damage on his right cheek.
He had a sandpapery voice too, like he had swallowed fire. Miles could hear it: low, murmurant and endlessly menacing, echoing against the steel walls of the prison. Even before he could make out the words, Miles heard Francesco’s voice and his dick stiffened up.
Francesco wore a pair of pajama-like prison pants — he was too tall for any of the other options, so he was forced to wear the navy-blue pajamas, which he thought looked ridiculous, like he had beaten up a child and taken their pajamas. They ended on his ankles. He had a lighter blue workshirt on because he had just come from his job in the prison factory.