Ezio jumped, hard. His arms spread behind him, his cape and cowl fluttering in the night air. His boots made a harsh, clacking grind against the tile roofing of the opposite house. The slating made an indignant shriek when Ezio turned to give an audacious wave to the guards on the other side, waving their arms and stomping their feet. A few of the smart ones started calling to the archers on nearby rooftops, but the assassino was too fast for the Guardia.
The thieves didn't call him an Eagle for nothing.
Sometimes, he almost scared himself with the speed, the momentum he built up as he disappeared between chimneys and various roof gardens. He would be launching himself from a shop sign and landing squarely in a cart of flowers and leaves, but before he even smelt them he was already running down the streets of Venetia. Maybe he would slow to dance around a carpenter wandering around with his box, or saunter past a group of courtesans, just to dazzle them before he slipped away. He wouldn't stick around anywhere, because sticking around meant possible detection. Possible detection meant that the Templars, the Borgia, and whoever else has massed against him was in the know. He was there, in the shadows.
He was coming.
A part of him, the young, egotistical Ezio that had gathered those other boys to fight the Pazzi that day, where he cut his mouth, wanted them to know. Wanted to scream it from the rooftops, thunder through the markets, and stalk into the Pazzi family home and howl it to the rafters.
You're mine.
You won't live past Sunday, stronzi.
He leapt from one of the old beams as if he had no fear, landing perfectly in another conveniently placed patch of hay. As he pushed himself up and walked towards the workshop, he tried to style it out. But to be completely honest, anyone would stare at an unorthodox Italian man casually getting out of a seemingly innocent haystack, dust his ass off and wander away as if it was as normal as the weekly sermon.
Thankfully, it was rather quiet at this time of night.
Only the odd coo of a nearby pigeon or the drunken ramblings of a floundering beggar. Nobody to stare at him this time. He was across the road and knocking on the door within an moment, but instead of the usual bright Leonardo that would greet him, a lump of flesh with a mass of blonde hair met him at the door, clothes askew, eyes hazed, covered in paint. There was a garbled nonsense that followed, and a motion to enter, but if Leonardo hadn't stepped aside with an open arm, Ezio would have been standing dumbstruck in the doorway for a long time.
"Leonardo, what-"
"I have to finish a commission for a new Patron, Ezio. As usual I left it late. And now it's become an all-consuming nightmare in the shape of his daughter."
"What?"
Leonardo motioned to the painting on his nearby easel, once again a masterful thing that his friend had created. The painter made a strange garbled growl before he strode across the room, arms folded, "It is imperfect, and unfinished. But the old fool won't know the difference. He will see a rendition of his daughter, while I will see a pay check that allows me another go at my latest invention!"
"Leonardo, I have never seen you be so…"
"Nasty? The man is a brute. Making his daughter smile for the portrait was almost impossible. If I didn't need the money after the latest fiasco with the Guardia, then I would tell him to stuff his money up his-"
"What happened with the Guardia?"
"They trashed my courtyard, harassed another apprentice into leaving me and almost killed my cat."
"Almost?"
"My latest cook, Nanette, managed to throw a small plant pot at the offender and my cat ran away. I haven't seen him since."
"I don't take good enough care of you, amico mio."
"You do enough, Ezio. It is already much better than it used to be," the blonde finally smiled, a true Leonardo smile.
"Now, sit. Tell me about your latest adventure."