Ezio looked up in confusion at the woman sitting on the bed. "I don't understand," he said from where he knelt on the floor.
Cristina sighed in exasperation. "What is there to understand?" she asked. "You're never around, and when you are, you're either working on that letter, or talking to that man..."
"What man?" Ezio asked, raising a brow.
"The hooded one. The one I am not supposed to know exists."
Ezio sighed softly and closed his eyes. She knew about his meetings with Volpe... The only way she could have known was by having him followed—a highly unlikely explanation—or by hearing from an inside source. He didn't like either option, but regardless of the explanation, it wasn't good news. If she was looking into his business, she didn't trust him. That in and of itself was reason for alarm.
"Cristina," he said softly, "my business with him is as important as your father's business with his clients."
"Does that mean you must be away from home so often?" she countered. Then her voice softened and she lowered her gaze. "Away from me?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Cristina sighed and looked away as Ezio crawled toward her and reached up, taking her hands and resting them on her lap. "I love you, Cristina," he said. "I would do anything for you. But don't make me choose between you and—"
"Me and what?" Cristina interrupted. When he didn't answer, she shook her head, holding his gaze. "You never talk about your work. I thought you were a banker, like your father. But you don't have any paperwork, any files; the only time I even see you writing is when you're working on that letter!"
"Why are you so upset?" Ezio asked. "I thought you would prefer I kept my work separate from our relationship."
"Because I feel left out! You're always running around town. The only time we see each other is when we sleep, or when we fuck." She pulled her hands from his, standing from the bed. "I'm too upset right now to speak about this...why don't you work on your letter or something when I am away? It's apparently better company."
"Where are you going?" he asked, following her to the door.
"Forli. Father has business there and he's asked me to accompany him. We'll be back before the end of the month." She swept out of the room then, leaving behind an air of frustration and indignation.
Ezio sighed and rubbed his temples, shaking his head. This wasn't the first time they'd argued, and he doubted it would be the last. There was nothing he could do to fix the problem, and working on his letter sounded much more appealing than brooding over Cristina's complaints. So he made his way to the study Cristina's father had lent him. From a drawer in the side of the desk, Ezio pulled out his latest draft. He took up his quill once again, dipping it in his borrowed inkwell and holding it poised over the paper.
What should he say? He'd tried so many times to write this letter, but the words never came. His quill remained where it was, refusing to write what he felt. This used to be so much easier...it was easier to talk to him face-to-face. He sighed in frustration and crumpled the letter again, tossing it over his shoulder to join the numerous others in and around the waste bin.
Maybe he should visit Venezia? It had been so long since he'd seen him. Surely Leonardo wouldn't object to a quick visit? Ezio had the perfect opportunity. Cristina and her father would be in Forli for the majority of the month, and he could easily slip away to Venezia. It would only cost him a hundred florins for a boat, and it would be quick. It would erase the need for him to send a letter at all, which would solve one of the many issues that had wedged themselves between him and Cristina.
Within an hour, Ezio had packed a small sack full of extra clothes and withdrawn enough money from the bank to stuff his coin purse. Cristina and her father had already departed in a carriage, and he'd seen her off, though she had remained stiff and unyielding in his arms, obviously still upset. He would give her some time to cool off before he apologized to her. She would forgive him—as she had numerous times before—and they would go back to their normal activities.
He'd traveled most of the day by horse to reach San Marino, which was the closest port to Firenze. He stopped at a vendor to buy cheese and bread for lunch before continuing to the docks. The ship that would carry him to Venezia was not large; it would hold fifty people comfortably, but it was all he required.
"Ezio!" the grisly-looking captain of the ship called, his arms open in a grand gesture. "It has been so long! Your Uncle spoke very fondly of you last I saw him."
The assassin smiled at his uncle's friend, embracing him for a moment before pulling away. "It's good to see a friendly face," he said.
"Indeed it is. We'll set sail in a few minutes. I recommend you get on up there. We'll be in Venezia before long, my friend."
"Grazie," Ezio said with a nod before the captain departed. He took one last look at the city before he climbed the short board and stepped onto the boat. Soon enough, he would finally be able to see the man whose heart he had broken, and hopefully mend some fences.
"Maestro," Salai called from the main room of the studio. "Is this another of your experiments?"
Leonardo shuffled over to his apprentice and peered over his shoulder. "No, I believe that was last Thursday's lunch..."
"It's moving!" Salai exclaimed, standing sharply and stalking away. "I'm so not touching that."
Rolling his eyes, Leonardo picked the mutation up off the floor and tossed it into the bin they used for trash. "I pay you to clean, not to squeal in fear," he muttered.
"You pay me to clean, si. Not to..." His voice trailed off into silence, and when he didn't finish the sentence, Leonardo turned to face him. "Who is this?" Salai asked.
"You have found a painting?" Leonardo questioned. "It could be anyone. My paintings were brought here from Venezia, but I don't know which ones—" His voice stuck in his throat as he walked toward Salai, looking over his shoulder. "Dio!" he shouted. "Give me that! Turn your eyes away this instant!"
"What? Why?" Salai protested as Leonardo took the painting, sweeping him back.
"This is not for you to see," Leonardo answered, setting it on an easel and taking a tarp from a nearby table. He covered the painting, fussily straightening it and standing in front of the easel.
"Who was it?" his apprentice pressed. "I want to know."
"You don't need to know. Go back to cleaning. I will handle the paintings from now on," Leonardo ordered. He studied Salai, whose eyes were locked on the painting once more.
After a long pause, the teen said, "He's beautiful."
Pain lanced through Leonardo's heart like an ice-cold spear. He placed his hand on the covered portrait and said in a soft voice, "He was beautiful."
Salai puzzled over that for a moment before his eyes widened. "Oh...he's dead?"
Leonardo closed his eyes at the words, trying to shelter himself from the memories. "Si," he finally said. "He has been for nearly six months."
"I'm so sorry, Maestro. Were you close to him?"
The artist nodded in affirmation, lowering his gaze. "We were good friends."
Salai remained silent for a moment before he stepped toward the portrait. "I'd like to look at him more," he said. When Leonardo opened his mouth to protest, Salai raised a brow. "I am seventeen, Maestro. He has nothing that I haven't seen before."
Having been raised in Venezia, Salai wouldn't have been privy to the fiasco that had affected Ezio's family all those years ago. There was no way he could recognize him. Even if he did, what would it matter? Ezio was dead. The Borgia no longer had any reason to be concerned with him.
After another moment of thought, Leonardo stepped aside, removing the tarp from the portrait. A small tear near the edge—which was likely caused by being moved from Venezia to Roma—marred the canvas, but other than that, the picture looked as magnificent as it had the day Leonardo painted it.
Ezio lounged in a soft, golden glow from the candle on the bedside table. The satin blanket draped artfully over his body hid as much as it revealed, and Leonardo found himself longing to return to that moment. Back to that day when Ezio had been so reluctant, so uncertain. When that uncertainty had melted into strong confidence after the painting was finished. He longed to feel Ezio's hands on him, feel his lips once more, the warmth of his skin.
"Maestro," he heard Salai say, though he took no notice of it.
Leonardo's hand reached out, and his fingertips touched the canvas lightly, feeling the texture of the paint where he had captured Ezio's face, his broad shoulders, his hips. Every inch of the man he loved, right before him, yet just out of reach.
"Leonardo!" Salai's demanding voice brought him back to his studio, dragging him away from the warm, sweet memory and into the cold, lonely existence he now lived.
"What?" he croaked, hardly able to squeeze the words past the tightness in his throat.
"You're crying," Salai answered, holding out a handkerchief.
Blinking, Leonardo reached out to take the offered cloth, dabbing at his cheek. It came away wet with his tears, and he felt confused. He hadn't felt the sorrow that was so often a prelude to them, only pain. "I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. He wiped the tears away and handed the handkerchief back to Salai. "Grazie."
Salai tucked the cloth away and looked up at his mentor. He'd never seen the man cry. Leonardo was always happy, always putting on a brave face even when he was upset. "You loved him, didn't you?" he asked.
Leonardo's grey, teary eyes moved back to the canvas, and after a long, silent moment, he nodded slowly.
"Did you love him? Or his body?" Salai prompted cautiously.
The question dragged Leonardo's eyes to the young man, and he frowned. He felt he should be angry that his apprentice had so easily guessed at his secret, but what he felt more than anything was frustration. He and Ezio had something. Something special. Because of other people—people with whom he had no business whatsoever—they couldn't be together. His lips quivered, and his frown became an expression of sorrow. He bowed his head. "Both," he finally admitted. "But that's in the past. He's gone now."
Silence fell over the room like a shroud, with both men occupied by their own thoughts. What would Salai do with this new information about his mentor? Surely the Borgia would pay handsomely for an opportunity to snuff out the last living outside man who knew of their plotting? He had to keep this information in this room, but how? He couldn't very well tie the boy down, and killing him was out of the question. Bribing would work...Salai always seemed to need coin. But where would Leonardo find enough florins to make a substantial offer?
His brooding thoughts must have shown on his face because Salai was the first to break the silence with words that surprised Leonardo.
"I won't tell anyone."
"What?" Leonardo asked, turning to face his apprentice.
"It will be our secret," Salai pressed.
Leonardo's eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward the teen. "How can I trust you?" he asked. "You have lied to me before, stolen from me, cheated me out of money. I don't know how I could trust you with something as simple as a recipe, let alone something that could get me killed."
With every point Leonardo made—valid points at that—Salai winced, hunching his shoulders a little more. Then, when Leonardo finished speaking, Salai looked up at his mentor, his blue eyes uncertain, yet gleaming with indignation. "You can trust me," he said forcefully, "because I share the same secret."
Blinking, Leonardo took a moment to absorb that. "But you're always going on about your conquests, and how important it is for a boy your age to bed women."
Salai scoffed and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Lies," he said. "All of it. I'm not a dithering old fool like you, cooping myself up in my studio with various young boys flouncing about. No one suspects a young, foolhardy man of being...strange. Especially not when he's boasting about his latest lay."
Leonardo raised a brow at that. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood back, examining the young man before him. It was like seeing a completely different person. The snide remarks, the disrespect, the insolence...could it have all been a facade to hide what lay inside the boy? Hadn't Leonardo done the same with his work? Hiding behind it, trying to busy himself so he didn't notice the urges?
"Very well," he finally said. He held out his right hand. "A bond, then. You hold your tongue, and I'll hold mine." He watched the wheels turning in Salai's head as he had so many times before. The boy really was brilliant, and could have been a great theorist if he had the patience for it. After Salai came to a conclusion, they traded grips.
"A bond," Salai acknowledged, nodding his head. His eyes widened slightly when Leonardo's hand tightened around his own and pulled him forward. "What are you—"
"I may be old," Leonardo said, "but at least I'm not a virgin." The artist smirked before releasing his apprentice and walking away.
"And who says I am a virgin?" Salai demanded, flustered. "I could have slept with a hundred girls, and you wouldn't know!"
"Oh, young Salai," Leonardo called from the kitchen. "You have much to learn about spinning tales. In all the boasting I heard from you, never once was there anything that could actually happen in a plausible sexual encounter with either gender."
He could practically feel the dumbfounded expression on Salai's face, and when he turned around with a plate of stale bread and a glass of room-temperature milk from his cow—whom he'd demanded was brought to Roma before he ever started working on Cesare's weapons—he was pleased to find that he was correct.
"Old man!" Salai huffed as his cheeks reddened. He turned and stalked from the room, doubtlessly going to clean some corner of the studio to distract himself from his embarrassment.
"Oh, the ego of the young," Leonardo muttered, setting the plate and glass aside. He'd lost his appetite long ago, but Salai had ordered him—none too gently—to start eating on a regular basis, else he would receive a swat on the head. He ate only to humor the boy, not in fear of punishment.
When he walked into the main room once more, he walked toward the portrait on its easel. The assassin lay so languidly, as if his body were liquid in state. He looked at peace...happy. "I hope wherever you are," Leonardo whispered, touching his fingers to the canvas again, "you are happy. I will never wish you ill, love...but I cannot keep you here." He retrieved the tarp and settled it quietly, gently, over the canvas. "Requescat in pace...amore mio."
Evening had come and gone, taking with it the second day of their journey from San Marino to Venezia. The boat arrived at the harbor just as the sun peeked over the horizon, signaling the third and final day. The passengers from San Marino filed off the ship with relieved expressions. Even in such modern times, the conditions across seas weren't amply suited to the Lords and Ladies who crossed the vast bodies of water.
Ezio stood at the railing of the boat, eager to see his friend. He waited for the crowd to thin, and then followed them down the slat of wood. The moment he stepped onto the Venetian docks, he knew something wasn't right. The mist slowly crawling in from the sea, the forlorn look of the buildings. It was all so ominous.
Though he wasn't a superstitious man, Ezio took note of the uneasy feeling in his gut and started forward cautiously. His boots were silent on the shale paving stones as he moved, and the only sound in the early morning came from a raven, cawing atop a roof.
When he rounded a corner and came across a tailor's booth, Ezio stepped up to the vender and knocked sharply on the wooden counter. "Messer," he called. "I would like to purchase a cloth."
The tailor looked up from his project, pulling a threaded needle through some expensive fabric. He glanced at Ezio as he stood, not really taking notice of him. "What kind of cloth?" he asked, opening a chest and rifling through it.
"Something simple. White, preferably."
After a bit of searching, the tailor produced a short strip of white cloth about ten inches in width and long enough to tie. "How much?" he asked.
"That will be perfect," Ezio said, holding out six florins.
The vendor raised his gaze from the coins to Ezio's face, and when he did, his eyes widened. He set the cloth on the counter and stammered quickly, "Th-thank you for your business...have a nice day."
Ezio raised a brow, but took the cloth, laying his hood back long enough to tie it around his head, adjusting it so it covered his mouth and nose, leaving only his eyes exposed. Then he pulled his cowl up and turned away, grimacing when he heard the wooden board vendors used to close their shops snap into place. Whatever was going on, the Venetian people were on edge. The streets—which were normally bustling with excitement and life—were devoid of anyone. Even dogs.
Ezio's eyes scanned the streets before him, looking for anything that might be out of order. Nothing other than the lack of life seemed odd. He continued on, though his hand rested on the scabbard of his sword, prepared to draw it at the slightest hint of trouble.
Rounding a corner, he sighed gratefully when he saw Leonardo's studio. It was a welcome sight, one that he wished to always remember. He walked to the door and knocked, feeling his heart beat faster with every moment that passed.
An elderly woman opened the door. She had thin white hair and wrinkled, leathery skin. She frowned at him, peering up with cloudy eyes. "Well, are you just going to stand there? Or are you going to introduce yourself?" she croaked.
Ezio cleared his throat and pulled the cloth from his face, allowing it to rest around his neck. "I am Messer Federico Melone," he said with a short bow. "My apologies for not introducing myself sooner." The elderly woman extended her hand, and Ezio took it, bending to kiss her knuckles. He held her hand in both of his—a comforting gesture—and asked, "Signora, I wonder...does a man named Leonardo live here?"
The elderly woman seemed to ponder this a moment, and she hummed quietly to herself as she did. Finally, she said, "No, I haven't heard that name before...is he your friend?"
"Si," Ezio said. "Do you know where I might find him?"
She took another moment to ponder. "Roma, probably. When I moved in, there were men loading things into carriages, very strange things...and marvelous paintings. How beautiful they were! I believe they brought a cow with them as well."
Roma? What business would Leonardo have there?
"Grazie," he said, stooping to kiss her hand again. "You have been most helpful."
"Oh wait, dear...if he is your friend, you best hurry to find him."
"Why is that?" he asked, turning back to face her.
"Because the people moving his things were soldiers. Soldiers from Rome. I don't think they were here for good reasons. They mentioned a man named Cesare...does that name mean anything to you?"
The assassin froze, fear gripping his gut like an ice-cold hand. "Yes," he said, "it does."