"Nothing you would be ashamed of, bella, I assure you," he grinned back at her, the rapid-fire Antivan of a man who listened very closely to those around him, and studied and learned with remarkable aptitude. Although he would have been slightly out of place in her homeland - pale-skinned as he was, with no regional dialect to taint the vowels or the rolling consonants of the tongue - he would have made a fantastic Crow, and for reasons other than the immediately apparent. Those dark eyes were quick and missed nothing, much less the seemingly casual touch to Ignacio's shoulder, the squeeze, the passing of the note. It was not the first such transaction to occur before Matthew, and not even the first involving Ignacio, but the man who was on occasion known in Denerim's underworld as Death's Own Raven knew better than to ask uncomfortable questions. His relationship with Ignacio was all friendship, no business. Mixing your prospects on either side of the fence was only going to lead to trouble.
"Come now, signora," he smiled easily, and offered her one of his clever hands, palm up; his blackened fingers were as sure as a calling card, to anyone who was in the know about the truths behind his legend, as Ignacio was, but his lithe form was at ease, the cords of muscle in his frame relaxed and loose, like flowing water. He made the simple gesture of asking for her hand look like an art. "You must call me Matthew; Ignacio, my friend, give Cesar my regards, if you would? Business calls, as I understand it, but I would be happy to keep signora company while you attend to it." He flashed a wink, all silk and smiling charm. Oh, truly a dangerous one, this.