Don Juan could appreciate her take on revenge being best served dramatically. He wasn't sure he had personally been involved in anything of the sort; his two modes in a disagreement were either not caring a wit about it and therefore not bothering to stir himself to any action whatsoever, or caring far more deeply than he wanted to let on and slinking away before anyone could realize he was invested. Still, dramatic revenge seemed like the sort of thing he ought to support theoretically as a Dempsey; probably his mother or Porphyria or Ozymandias would have been on this side of things.
He'd noticed her accent earlier but been unable to place it precisely over the buzz of other voices in the crowded party, but on hearing her name the pieces finally fell into place together. "You're Italian," he said appreciatively. He had only spent the briefest of time there after things had fallen apart in Spain, plus a two-week stint during his original tour of the continent. He didn't speak the language except for a few phrases here and there, but he had enjoyed the culture and the food. "My tattoo is Italian. Don Juan Dempsey."
He'd noticed her accent earlier but been unable to place it precisely over the buzz of other voices in the crowded party, but on hearing her name the pieces finally fell into place together. "You're Italian," he said appreciatively. He had only spent the briefest of time there after things had fallen apart in Spain, plus a two-week stint during his original tour of the continent. He didn't speak the language except for a few phrases here and there, but he had enjoyed the culture and the food. "My tattoo is Italian. Don Juan Dempsey."