There's something flitting across the other's face, something Cesare can't read, can't fathom. He may not be able to unravel its meaning, but the curl of Xellos's lips suggests it might have to do with a flesh-eating disease. Involuntarily, Cesare brings up a hand to see if perhaps signs of the mal francese have returned.
"Gentilissimo, friend." He nods at the topped off cup. "You'll have me drunk quite soon, I fear. My intent? Why, a dynasty, of course."