The look that Cesare gives Natasha is one of surprise, appreciation and almost pride. By this point he is too impressed to be combative. He had not expected that from her. He expels the air from his lungs in astonishment, a half-laugh, half-growl, grins and bites his lip.

He hasn't spoken Latin in a long time, but it flows naturally from his lips, the same way that someone would sing an old nursery rhyme that they had learned as a child. There's some joy in it. He speaks with the round vowels and soft consonants of Ecclesiastical Latin.

"Undoubtedly. But I am foul and unprincipled, so I'll ask again: what the fuck is stopping you?" He smirks as he swears, wondering if Natasha was taught that in school, or whether or not she might have learned such language the same way he had: by reading scribbled notes passed around by giggling classmates.

He's not angry or belligerent anymore. By this point he is curious, playful, throwing in some colourful language for good fun.