After drizzling a bit of lime over the plate he noisily sucks his fingers. "Yes, Cantarella. It does sound lovely, doesn't it. Like a song or a dance... or a beautiful girl. But it's far more prosaic. Spanish Fly, actually. Squashed bugs." He dips melon into the pepper and licks it off. "Causes rhenal failure and the like. The Greeks and Ancients Romans already used it." Cesare shrugs. "But some addle-pated people went so far as to say my blood was poison. Prego. Molto comico. I have needs of my blood, methinks, wouldn't you agree? As if I could go around, liberally splashing it on each and every traitorous little bastard I wanted expired."