It was the unpretentious way in which Fee told his tale that captivated Gian most.

He described Rome in such detail that the apprentice thought he could smell the different perfumes, see the flurries of skirts and breeches that vanished into wide, sunlit streets, a constant hushed murmur rising from the never-ending stream of faces.

"It was easy to blend there," he caught Fee saying as he envisioned the scene; "There were far too many people to focus on one alone. You would have liked it, Maestro. A lot of architecture. History, too."

Gian saw in front of him the table being swallowed up, vanishing into a nothingness that was soon changed into Rome. The Coliseum stood at one side of him, bold and intimidating, with arches going all the way up to the sky and disappearing into a dense black mass. Denser still were the shadows they housed. Anyone could have crept through them, if they were skilled enough to climb so high, and never be caught for a murder.

"If you were quiet, you could hear the birds nesting in the most worn areas. The people who lived there – all so hospitable – they would be asleep soon after sunset, and there was such stillness, such silence that you couldn't help but hear everything that made so much as a whisper."

In his vision, the apprentice saw Fiorentino balancing on a decrepit piece of ledge, far out enough to make it dangerous. He was as quiet as the scene he was talking about. The hood revealed nothing of the admittedly handsome face, for it shrouded him in shadow, and under the starry night sky he was nothing but another black figure seeking solace.

Leonardo, too, was becoming ensnared. He could see all that was being described as though it were right there, laid out in front of him. His eyes slid closed while Fee went on, and in the back of his mind he wondered if his son were not set for a literary career.

"I climbed. It went on forever. When I reached the top, I never…I never thought I could be so high. I truly was one of the birds. I could barely see the torchlights merchants were carrying, or the carts pulling their wares; they were like pinpricks in the distance. I've never in my life felt so at peace."

It occurred to Gian that nothing had been said of his kills. Fiorentino brushed over them without so much as two sentences, as though the very thought sent dread through his veins. Those eyes; they weren't the eyes of a killer. They were haunted, but kind, and just, and the way Fee's hands moved in front of him to put emphasis on what he saw…the man was no murderer. In circumstance, perhaps, but not in spirit.

"What did you do, il mio figlio?" Leonardo asked, still somewhat enthralled by the tale.

His son smiled; "I waited there until dawn. The sun burned through the trees and flooded me with its beauty. I saw it rise and greeted it to the new day; I only wish I could have stayed to help the women with their little ones. Many of them were widows, you see. Poor girls. Left to fend for themselves by drunkards, fools or death."

"Sounds awful," Gian interjected. Annoyance stirred when Fee only gave him a passing glance, his eyes falling back to his meal of cake and wine seconds after.

"It was."

Leonardo sensed the shift in Fee's mood, and put his hand on the boy's forearm to comfort him. His smile was warm, affectionately so, until his son had no choice but to give his own smile back.

"It's all over now," he reminded in a soft voice; "and your time can only stretch so far. I know, if you had the chance, you would have given those children the shirt off your back."

Fiorentino's genuine smile twitched. Melancholy eyes roamed over to his chalice, which he picked up and sipped from, taking time to taste it before he spoke again.

"But I didn't."

Such a tortured soul! Gian rolled his eyes; I would die of boredom if I were in his shoes. Killing sounds like his only respite.

The moonlight slanted in and mingled with the unobtrusive glow of candles, the crackling fire to the side of them growing smaller. Fiorentino's eyes caught a flash of movement – the mouse that Gian had yet to catch – and instead of following it, stilled at the unfinished 'masterpiece' that had been abandoned near the fireplace.

"One of yours?" he asked his father, though it didn't look like his work. Leonardo had a problem with procrastination, but he loved his art so much that it would normally get out of the sketch stages, at least to be painted part way.

"Mine."

The boy turned to his new companion; the interest in his eyes was marred by suspicion.

"What is it?"

"That I'm not sure," Gian took a bite out of his cake, "I simply wanted to practice, that's all. Maestro tells me I have potential."

Leonardo smiled; "It's true. Salaì shows great promise. If only he would spend as much time practicing as he does flouncing around the marketplace."

He could almost feel Fiorentino's gaze burn into him. Perhaps it was the wine, but the heat behind them was amazing, as though they had the ability to sear through his mind and read all his thoughts.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem anymore, right, Gian?"

"Please – I only respond to Salaì."

"About that; I thought Salaì was a devil from Morgante?"

Leonardo, who had just sipped some of his wine, peered over the edge of the chalice with inquisitive eyes, staring at the boy whose back was painted silver by moonlight and face was in the orange glow of candles.

"I never took you to see that?" he said; "How do you know where it's from?"

The smile that rose on Fee's face was almost impish. He seemed shy, as though he were a child being asked about a crush, and he glanced everywhere before settling on his father's face.

"I may or may not have had to entertain a few ladies during my work."

Leonardo's mouth stretched into something that was almost a smirk, but more like a teasing grin.

"Davvero? You? Entertaining ladies? Now I've heard everything."

The boy clasped two hands to his heart, careful to upset the still healing wound across his stomach; "You wound me, Maestro. Am I not pretty enough to have interest?"

"Ah, Fee, you know you are the prettiest of all," Leonardo chuckled.

In the corner, Salaì watched as father and son jibed at each other, genuine, warm smiles on their faces the entire time. He was unsure how the conversation had drifted from him to Fiorentino's love life, which seemed to send a warm blush through the boy's cheeks, but he felt somewhat irked by it.

"So, who was the lucky lady?"

"Ladies," Fee corrected, then; "and I forget most of their names. There were a few Elizabeth's – one or two Aria's – and a few more I can't remember."

"A ladies' man," Salaì muttered, "And they were all content with plays, I take it?"

Fiorentino's eyes dulled somewhat, but were only dull for a moment. There seemed to be a life within that could not be quelled; only dampened.

"Some, no. But the rest, yes. Quite charming people, too. Chatterboxes; I think that's why Machiavelli sent me. I'm a good listener, and that's all they needed to tell me about their father's businesses, who their contacts were. Amongst all the other noise, of course."

He sipped his wine again, and felt almost at ease in his old home. So long had he spent catching naps between missions, surviving on twenty minutes every three or four days that the idea of sleeping undisturbed was alien. The fact he was with his father again made it all the more sweet.

"You know," Leonardo said as he carefully put his chalice down, well aware of the delicacy in the topic he was about to bring up; "Isabella came to see me a few months ago."

Fiorentino's hand paused. His eyes were half-lidded as he was taking another sip of the wine, and the stillness was but a second long, for he soon carried on as though the subject didn't bother him.

"Truly? How is she?" he asked, feigning nonchalance.

After Carnevale, the pair had seen each other, but Fiorentino took great pains to make sure they never spoke again. He avoided her gaze when she looked at him in the street, ashamed of what he was, ashamed of what he had done. If they so happened to be walking towards each other, he would dart off in the other direction as though distracted, and tried his best to not notice the hurt in her eyes. When Isabella and her family moved the following year, it had been a bittersweet relief.

"Well. She was asking after you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you were away from my shop, learning other areas. She asked when you would be back, and I promised I would write when you returned."

Salaì noticed the unease in the assassin's shoulders, how he allowed his eyes to roam as he rolled his muscles back and tried to regain composure. Isabella – a beautiful girl, thirteen years old but looking much older – had been quite disappointed when she found Fiorentino gone. When Leonardo offered to send word of his return, she had almost jumped at the chance. The apprentice found himself wondering what memories they shared.

"That's probably not a good idea, Maestro. No; sicuramente non."

"It would do you good to speak with her again. You were quite close."

Before Fiorentino could reply, even form a decent argument in his head, his father glanced upwards to the moon, and let out his warm smile.

"Ah, but enough of this talk. Come; it's late now."

"Maestro-"

"You must be tired after your journey. No doubt that wound isn't making things better. Your room is how you left it, if a little barer, and your bed…well…we'll buy a bigger one tomorrow. No," he cut his son off before he could argue, "it's much too late to discuss this. Salaì, it's time you were asleep too."

Without further argument, Fiorentino obeyed, closely followed by Salaì as they approached the stairs. Leonardo stopped him just in time to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders, smiling with the barest hint of relief in his eyes, the smile itself void of mirth and filled with the most genuine love his apprentice had ever seen.

"My son is home," he said, and planted a quick kiss on Fee's forehead before moving to let them up the stairs.

When they reached the hallway, Fiorentino turned. One hand pressed against his stomach, the other moved to stop Salaì, and the coolness in which he regarded him sent shivers up his spine.

"I sincerely hope we won't be at each other's throats all the time, Gian," he said, "But should you try to fool my father out of gold or put him through any undue strife, there will be retribution. You can be sure of that."

The apprentice smirked; "You speak as though I should be afraid of you."

"I'm afraid of me, Gian. You should be terrified."

With that, the boy turned, disappearing into the dark room that Salaì had never entered.