Sofia's living quarters were fixed above her comfortable shop, though Ezio had never seen them. As he had hoped, his students had done excellent work, following his instructions to the letter. Though he did not mention it to Sofia and spoil her happy mood entirely, the spot where Yusuf had sacrificed his life sent a pang of sadness through him when he rounded the corner. Ezio murmured a silent prayer for his fallen fratello, wishing that the whole thing had never happened-the trauma to Sofia, or the loss of such an animated young man's life.

As Sofia bounced from shelf to shelf, checking her inventory and amazed to find every book in its place, Ezio spotted an overflowing bouquet of tulips tucked on a desk. Attached was a brief note scribbled on a piece of torn parchment, which read Good luck, mentor! Assicurati di non svegliare i vicini!

He sighed, then stuffed the note into a pocket with haste. That would have to had been the work of Piero, the scrawny little bastardo. Quick and smart, but far too cheeky.

"Everything is as it should be, Sofia?"

She was beaming. "Si. Your pupils are remarkable, Ezio! It was as if no one was ever here. My work has been cut in half."

"What is there still left to do? Just name your task."

Expecting to be asked to make a run to the commerciante di carta for ink and parchment, Ezio couldn't repress delight when instead she said, "How about we have our morning meal? Please, pick up whatever you like and we'll dine together in my rooms." The people of the streets, peasants and rich alike, were probably dining as they spoke. Indeed, now that he concentrated, the smells were drifting in through an open jabbed at him-also a familiar sensation, but no friend.

"As for the rest," Sofia continued, "let's not worry about it today, va bene? I'd like to see you put your feet up for once, uomo occupato."

Now there was an idea that Ezio could get behind.

With ingredients gathered from il mercato alimentare, they had a nice meal set up at Sofia's table; meat of a pigeon, various grapes and cheeses, and a bottle of wine went down smoothly between the two of them. It was a welcome change from the days of grainy-tasting fish they'd eaten overseas.

When the last of the fat pigeon had been eaten and their glasses emptied, Ezio rose to his feet to help Sofia tidy up-and was surprised to find himself unsteady on them. Had the wine really affected him so easily? He felt pleasantly warm, a little drowsy again, but it had been many years since he had been unable to hang onto his drink. His first taste of it had been with Federico, decades ago now. Ezio had downed a whole glass, his throat burning, just to prove to his fratello that he was man enough to do it. Around an hour later, he'd retched in the garden, and had ended up dozing off on the roof. Federico had teased him for months.

Chuckling to himself, Ezio regained balance on a nearby wall and continued his efforts.

"Perché stai ridendo, silly man?" Sofia turned from the plate she was cleaning to see him half-trip towards her.

"I think," He was smirking ear-to-ear, the lines on his face disappearing- "I may be a little drunk."

"So the big, scary killer is a lightweight with his alcohol?" She looked as if she was trying very hard not to laugh, but it didn't matter much to Ezio. She looked beautiful when teasing him-or just ever, in general, always…

"Here," Sofia was saying, suddenly much closer than she had been only seconds before. "Sit down before you hurt someone." Arm in arm, they walked around a corner into an open, sunlit room with a four-poster bed at its center. Stacks of books were piled here and there, and a few even lay open within the bed itself. A desk faced the tall window on the far wall, where Ezio was sure she loved to sit and look out on the city. The scent of Sofia was almost overwhelming, making him tremble.

"Now siediti per favore. Are you even listening? Ezio! I am getting you some water."

Feeling warmer than ever, Ezio perched on the edge of her bed as she had asked. Watching her bustle away, apparently flustered by his less-than-sober state, he sighed contentedly and tried lying down. It didn't work very successful-his sword's sheath emitted an awkward clunk at his side, and Ezio was painfully aware of the crossbow strapped to his back. Feeling a sudden urge to be as comfortable as possible in this sweet-smelling Sofia space, Ezio set to work removing his weapons. In deft seconds, he had unstrapped the sword, crossbow, dagger, throwing knives, belt of bombs, hidden blade bracers, and belt of pouches that contained anything from poison to gold.

It was wonderful to feel that much lighter, so next went his armor. Heavy greaves of the finest material known to the Brotherhood, accompanied by matching vambraces, spaulders, and chest guard. All that remained were his assassin's robes, handwoven by a master tailor to make blending with the shadows almost effortless. These were trickier with their assortment of buckles and belts, but Ezio knew them well, and at last they too were shed. He could not remember the last time he was completely free of these robes; surely it had been some close family event, Claudia's birthday, perhaps, or Mother's passing. Certamente it had been years since they had been removed in the presence of a woman who was not relation, in this sort of privacy.

The assassin was no more. In his place was a man, inhibitions loosened by wine and affection, sitting cross-legged in only trousers and a loose white shirt that he hadn't bothered to tie. In his time he had seen many things, perhaps too many, and on his skin he bore the scars of a life driven by bloodshed. Long ago he had once been able to attach a memory to each, but they were too many in number now. Only a special few still retained the privilege of coming with their own story.

"Well, don't you look rather dashing under all of that armatura." Sofia reappeared, holding a glass in one hand-her expression clearly said she would not be satisfied until he drank the entirety of its contents. Wrinkling his nose at her playfully, he accepted it and gulped the cool water down. "You sound surprised, mia cara. It hurts me."

The room had stopped tilting on its axis when he'd sat, but still lingering was that sensation of warmth that preceded a good brawl, lovemaking, or ending up absolutely wasted on some taverna floor. (In his youth, perhaps all in one night.)

Sofia moved to place his empty glass on the desk, and as she turned her back, Ezio felt his cheeks growing ruddier-the laces of her dress hung open, revealing bare flesh underneath. She wore no undergarments that he could see; the entirety of her was exposed to him from here, with the long line of lacing ending just above her rear end. Excitement rushed like stormwater to his crotch, stiffening with no subtlety through the trouser fabric.

It seemed as if Sofia couldn't help but shoot him a smirk when their eyes met, but she quickly arranged her features back into stoicism. Instead of acknowledging their shared look, Sofia smoothed her skirts and sat beside him. "In tutta serietà, Ezio. It is nice to see you in something more...casual." She leaned on his shoulder, incredibly warm and close through the thin material of his shirt. Ezio noted the small sigh, content on his neck, as she settled. There were many occasions-many nights-when he had imagined them this way, close enough to feel each other's heat, on the cusp of intimacy. Would her skin be as soft as it looked, as yielding?

Although something in their atmosphere was crackling, it was nice to be able to lean together, comfortable against one another, without painting the air with meaningless chatter. As if they had always been this way, like old friends would-not a man and woman starting una relazione intima much later in their lives than most did. To some it would seem unusual, but then again...when had anything about his life followed the tradition or rule that society laid out before the feet of men? Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Even the flesh of a beautiful woman years younger than himself.

Gripped by impulse, Ezio let his fingers travel up Sofia's shoulder, their connecting point, to fuss through her hair once more. When one hand became tangled in the small net she used to pull most of her hair back, Ezio tugged it loose in one quick motion. Cascades of auburn tresses spilled loose like a rain of fire, framing the face of the woman he would soon claim as his amante and making her look of surprise that much more enticing. "There," he said, casting it to the side. "Now the both of us look a little younger, a little più selvaggio."

The disposition of her face had changed. It wasn't the state of her hair that had changed it, the way it splayed messily over her shoulders and around her face. It was her eyes. They weren't playful anymore, they were… God help him, he wasn't a wordsmith at the best of times. They were like a cat who is watching a mouse. Predatore. Ezio's heartbeat had become audible in his ears when he noticed the flush of color on her breasts, the way she pressed ever closer.

"Ezio," Sofia breathed. One of her own hands reached out to him, carefully alighting on his exposed collarbone. Her touch was butterfly-light, but it still rose gooseflesh on his arms. "We are not the years we have lived, but the experiences we have had. I read that and thought instantly of you. I thought of how you must have the most young, adventurous heart inside your chest." (And the most cazzo senza valore back of any man my age, Ezio thought.)

"And what of you, Sofia?" Ezio shifted sideways, one leg on either side of her torso. Wordlessly she mirrored him, eyes never leaving his, until she was kneeling upright in his lap. "You are both soft and strong, wild of spirit and gentle of soul. What does that make you?"

There was no space between them now, no room for thought that was not dizzy with the rush of her, of love, of sex, so close that it almost had a taste. Never had his nerves threatened so badly to spill over at the thought of being with a woman. Federico would have laughed to see him now, when once he'd been so eager to woo any carina giovane donna who winked an eye. Was this simply age? Was it the gap of time that had passed between her and the last woman he had taken? No. She was a maga, an enchantress.

"I think that might just make me your match." Her lips nearly spoke the words onto his own, and he could stand it no longer-he attacked them.