Iris follows Dante inside his walk-in closet where he opens one of the drawers of his dresser. It was filled with baseball bats.

"You still play baseball?" she asks.

"No."

"So why the baseball bats?"

"Emergency purposes. I keep one in each of my cars at all times."

"Why do you have a drawer full of them?"

"To replace the ones that break."

"Not from hitting pitches, I bet."

"No." said Dante, and she left it at that. He picks up one of the bats and examines it, measuring the diameter with his index finger.

"How many?" he asks.

"How many what?" she asks back.

"The men who hurt you," said Dante, "how many were there?"

"Three." replies Iris, "always the same three night shift guys. Branson, Kowalski, and Dunbar."

Dante takes two more bats and examines them like he did the first. Satisfied, he put them under his arm.

"Okay. We'll go tonight."

"But what will I wear?" she asks playfully, tugging at the shirt she's wearing. His shirt.

Dante opens up one of the armoires, revealing a row of beautiful French clothes he had bought for her the week before she was released from prison. Upon seeing them, Iris let out a squeal of delight.

"Go nuts." he says with a smirk.

"Ooh, designer." she purrs, peeking at the labels, "but won't it be a bit much to wear these to Greenwood?"

"Grown men will be crying at your feet. Wear something special."

"Well if that's the case," Iris picks out a sheer, black tulle dress embroidered with a heart on the chest and a sword down the thigh, "I'm wearing Dior."

They set off at seven, riding away on Dante's gunmetal grey Bentley with Otto at the wheel. She in her Dior, and the devil in Hermès.