Dear Maestro—

Fear not – I am safe. I will not return tonight, for I must meet first with the Roman thieves and question them about the city's mood. We must tread carefully. The Vatican and their eyes are all around us, and if we are caught in their sights we will come to regret our journey.

I have enclosed a map of the city. Give it to Salaí. No doubt he will find the tailors and taverns without much trouble. Be wary, Father – I fear there is a viper in this field, and we are half-blind men stumbling to water.

Be safe,

Fee.

Leonardo had read his letter a number of times, even after he had retired for the night. It worried him that his son had not returned to visit them. He waited on edge to hear a crier call out that an assassin had set foot in the city and, soon, all the guards would be upon him.

"Maestro," said Salaí as he put the washbasin cloth to the side, "That map Fiorentino sent us – do you have it?"

"Yes, I do. Are you going out?"

"No, non ancora, almeno. I've had a thought."

Leonardo handed the map to him, though his brow furrowed and he eyed his student with a puzzled frown. "Why do you want it?"

"The Roman thieves," he opened it up and held it to the light; "I've heard him murmur in his sleep before. Fiorentino met them near the colosseum, which means he must have spent the night in one of the farms-"

"And what does this have to do with you, Salaí?"

"I want to see!" he replied. "Fiorentino is always so severe. He hardly ever smiles, he rarely drinks wine, he's humourless – and your story tells me he was a happy child!"

"No," said Leonardo, and his stern frown and serious gaze brooked no room for argument; "Let him be, Salaí; leave Fee alone. Go with the map and find the tailors – we may need them later."

Gian scowled, but obeyed.

The thieves were more than helpful, and when he had the information he needed Fiorentino promised that Ezio would soon land in Rome and cause quite the stir, lessening people's paranoia over their coin purses. The news brought smiles to his friends' faces. Theirs was a delicate art, and any advantage was welcome.

"Aspetta, amico," one man caught him before he could vanish through the door of the brothel. He turned and smiled. Antonio was a lithe man, made up of long limbs and a curiously sharp face, but his eyes were warm and intelligent. Young and inexperienced, he reminded Fiorentino of an excitable dog. "I have a question for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. There's a woman, you see – I see her often in the town, with her husband, usually. I've had a mark out on her necklace for a few weeks, but she's fiercely protective over it. Do you have any tips on how to creep through her house and steal it while she sleeps?"

"I have advice for you, friend," Fee replied; "Don't venture into someone's home unless absolutely necessary. There's no necklace large enough to be worth the risk."

"Have you not done the same?"

Memories flashed through Fiorentino's mind. He caught fleeting images of faces in the dark, bodies curled up under blankets and quilts, of dogs growling until he satiated them with meat. But most of all, he could feel the terror, the thrumming of his heart against his ribcage as he stepped down a flight of stairs and hoped – prayed, even – that no child would wake and see him.

"I have," he said, "and there's no terror like it. One wrong move, and you'll be facing a hangman's noose before the month is up. Leave it be, Antonio. Who is the woman?"

Antonio's face was dark with disappointment, and he was almost sullen when he replied, "Isabella."

Fiorentino's lips thinned. "Isabella?" His body turned more fully towards him, as he had moved to open the door. "Describe her."

Antonio appeared confused, but he complied.

"A beautiful woman," he said; "Long hair, blonde, grey eyes. Taller than most – perhaps a few inches shorter than you." The assassin's eyes grew more severe as he spoke, and when he cut in, he did so sternly:

"Let Isabella and her family alone. No one's to rob them."

Antonio's eyebrow rose. "No one at all?"

"No," he said, "and I'll say the same to your leader when he returns. Isabella, her husband, and her son are to be left alone."

"Is she someone important to you?"

Fiorentino fell silent. He stared into Antonio's eyes, willing him to understand, but he was young. Their experiences were not the same, and he could never hope to excite some sympathy in him.

"Yes," he said, "Very much so. She and her family are not to be interfered with. Where does she live?"

"One of the manors on the east side of the Tiber River. I'll find a map and mark it for you. Are you planning on meeting her? Is she an assassin concern?"

Fiorentino's mouth twitched, "To an extent."

"Not a matter for thieves."

The voice jolted both Fiorentino and Antonio out of their discussion, and with a smile the assassin welcomed Matteo, the thieves' leader. Matteo's calm, cool blue eyes stared into Fiorentino's wide brown, nodding Antonio away before he spoke.

"I apologise for him," he said once they were alone, "Eager to make his mark."

"It's fine, as long as we have no trouble. Isabella is very important to me. I want her immune to us."

"If what you say about Ezio's arrival is true, then we'll have no shortage of people to steal necklaces from. Relax, amico. Isabella and her family are free from harm." Matteo smiled at him and, despite himself, Fiorentino felt comforted. "Now, let me fetch you a map and mark her manor. There's some debate over it at the moment – you'll have to be careful. Guard presence has been increased."

"Cristiano and his brother?" said Fee as he followed him through the dimly lit corridors of the rundown villa, avoiding the girls as they prepared themselves for their evening. Matteo opened a door and led him into a room with covered windows and several candles, which he quickly set about lighting.

"Their argument is the talk of the town," he explained; "Their father's business remains in Cristiano's hands until such a time when his brother can prove he has more right to it. It's all very political. In my opinion, it's a pissing contest – Abele and Cristiano have been at each other's throats for as long as they've had reason to envy each other."

"Motivo di invidiare l'altro?"

"Oh, Abele is jealous of his brother's life – a business, a beautiful chaste bride-" Fiorentino kept his face carefully blank, "and, of course, a son. Cristiano simply hates his brother's good looks and natural athleticism. It's pathetic how petty their troubles are."

Fiorentino shook his head, then gripped Matteo's arm and drew his attention to him. He tried once more the silent appeal that had no effect on Antonio.

Matteo understood.

"I'll fetch the map," he said; "and, amico…I wish you the best of luck."