Chapter 1:

Niccolò recognized her the moment his dark eyes caught sight of that copper hair. Vittoria, daughter of La Volpe, mistress of Lorenzo de Medici and famed beauty of Firenze. Though she tried concealing herself in the corner of the tavern; having forgone her priceless jewels and wearing a simple umber frock, it was impossible for Niccolò to miss her.
Vittoria's storied climb to power had become legend in Firenze. It was rumored that Lorenzo had been crossing the Ponte Vecchio with two of the Signoria when Vittoria stopped him in his tracks with a single glance. Those golden eyes, filled with fire had ensnared him. Some say she possessed enchanted eyes like her father and was capable of bewitchment. Not only did Machiavelli find this claim to be laughably ridiculous but he also knew it to be false because not only did the assassin know Vittoria well, he was there with Lorenzo that day.
Vittoria, clever as she was, had strategically placed herself in Lorenzo's path. She had charmed him with her coy smiles and sharp wit. The young woman was an educated commoner, an intellectual with a Venus-like façade. Therefore, she was an exciting oddity to a man of Lorenzo's privilege. The bait was far too tempting for him to resist.
Before she and the banking mogul parted ways, he insisted on buying her the book she'd been admiring at one of the stalls. He gave it to her with the promise they would discuss its contents one day soon. Vittoria had not only left the Ponte Vecchio with a copy of Dante's The Divine Comedy, but a future paid for and secured by Medici money.
It was not long after their meeting that Lorenzo had gifted her a villa and paid for all of her expenses. Furthermore, he was often seen in public with her at events and even weddings. Needless to say, Vittoria de Firenze was synonymous with the word scandal. There were many who loved her for it and many, many more who hated her. Vittoria was no witch, but she had become a cunning player in the game of advancement and politics. Niccolò would argue those gifts were far more dangerous than any supposed magic she was accused of possessing.
However, those same rumors of witchcraft swirled around her like a tempest now that Savonarola had risen to power and chased Lorenzo and his family out of Firenze. She had no protection, save that of her father's name. But that bridge had been burned years ago as a direct result of her alignment with Lorenzo de Medici, for it had broken the strategic marriage La Volpe had arranged for her.
Looking at her now, Niccolò could only surmise that the half-drunk decanter of wine in front of her current means of coping with her precarious position. It appeared that emptying her goblet was the only task distracting her from her troubled mind. Even so, her dark expression suggested that she was drowning more in her thoughts than in her cup.
As fate would have it, the day after his return to the city, Lorenzo had sent Niccolò a message requesting him to see Vittoria safely to Roma. Despite knowing her desire to stay in Firenze, Lorenzo wanted her out of danger. Niccolò, however, doubted he could convince her to go. She had always been quite willful.
The assassin briefly scanned the room for Savonarola's men. Finding only thieves, courtesans, and their potential clients, he began to weave his way through the crowd between tables, chairs, and dice games towards Vittoria's table. He had to admit, he felt anticipation stir in him as he approached. It had been months since he had seen her, much less talked to her. He couldn't imagine how their conversation would go. She might ask him to leave straight out, but he hoped there was some semblance of friendship left between them. Niccolò wanted it to be so, and he never much wanted anything from others.
As if she could hear Niccolò's thoughts, Vittoria's amber eyes flicked up to meet his dark gaze.
"Messere Machiavelli?" She asked before offering him an inviting, albeit, short-lived twist of her lips. Even though their past history could be categorized as complicated at best, she still felt her heart race in the assassin's presence despite herself. She hoped he could not read her feelings as plainly as she felt them. "It's been some time since you've been in Firenze. Tell me, how do you like our new tenants?"
"Buona sera, Vittoria." He greeted. "I was attempting to make us allies in Forli only to find Firenze rotting from its enemies within," he told her, not hiding his displeasure.
The copper-haired woman considered the assassin for a moment. They were always on the same side of every argument, always in agreement regardless if their reasons for being so were different. She wasn't sure if that was more comforting or frustrating to her. Mostly, she felt a dull ache for the loss of the closeness they once shared.
"Come, I cannot discuss the matter further without more wine," Vittoria stated before motioning to the seat beside her and signaling the serving maid for another glass. Once Niccolò was settled in and had a full goblet of wine in his elegant hand, Vittoria raised her cup.
"To your return, Signore. Your council has been sorely missed here," she told him canting her goblet so it tapped the lip of his before taking a sip.
Even without the trappings of her status, she was still beautiful, he thought. She looked just as she did in the days before she caught Lorenzo's eye; when he would find her by Il Porcellino fountain in the market, scribbling lines of poetry in the small red book she always kept with her. Thanks to Lorenzo's patronage, her poems were now published and well-known in Firenze. But before that time, in quiet moments, she would share her work with him. He loved glancing up from the page of her little book and seeing her cheeks burn red and her amber eyes fixate on anything that wasn't him as she nervously waited to hear what he thought. But what thrilled him the most was knowing that the words she invited him to read were the secrets she kept from all eyes but his. No one had ever trusted him so implicitly before.
He was glad to see her work get properly recognized. However, when he first thumbed through a copy of her book, what he felt was bittersweet. It wasn't so much that the title was "Excrucio" and that the bulk of her work obviously alluded to him. It was the fact that the intimacy they had once shared was now lost. It was a bitter medicine to swallow. One more piece of their time together was gone.
"Gratze, Vittoria," he told her before taking a sip of his wine. He was genuinely grateful for her sentiment. He could not help but feel partially responsible for what was happening in Firenze. If only he had gone with Ezio to retrieve the Apple, this disaster might have been avoided.
"Tell me, did you ride in from the East or the West?" She asked, her gaze fixed on him. Her eyes were alight for reasons the assassin well understood.
"The East," he replied grimly.
He'd seen Savonarola's followers building large pyres along the road and the ones already reduced to clotted mounds of ash from burnings already carried out. These pyres were not for vanities but for sinners.
"Thou shall not suffer a witch to live." She muttered. Those eyes burned brighter than he'd ever seen them. Just one glance at them and he could feel her fury at what was done to those women. "Is this what it's come to, Niccolò? The loss of all sense and reason?"
She had not spoken his given name in some time and it surprised him to hear it fall from her lips so easily. Back then, she was simply La Volpe's daughter- the bright young woman who possessed talents her father and brothers could never see nor value.
Looking at her now, he knew what she was thinking; any of those women could have been her. He could see the worry written on her face. Savonarola's chokehold on the city tightened every day and she feared she might yet be dragged to a pyre. She was just as much of a symbol of wealth and overindulgence to these fanatics as Lorenzo and his family. Perhaps even worse, because she was something men like Savonarola's followers could not stand- a free woman.
"You will not be one of them." He told her, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I have men already working to liberate the city."
"Are my father and brothers among you?" She questioned as she held her goblet close to her, those delicate fingers worrying on the stem. It had been years since she had talked to them.
"They are." He affirmed.
"Is see." She murmured, her gaze wandering from his. Again he could see the conflict written on here face and he wondered if she had attempted to make contact with La Volpe at all since breaking off the engagement he had arranged for her. "What can I do?" She asked after a quiet moment.
Niccolò could see the need in swimming in her eyes, the desire to help, but he couldn't allow it. She was not a fighter and the only way to take the city back now was with blood and steel.
"We have it taken care of. I've received a letter from Lorenzo requesting your delivery to Roma," he informed her in that pragmatic tone of his; his expression had become stone. "I can arrange an escorted caravan by the morning."
"I'm not going," she stated flatly before taking another sip of her wine for good measure.
Niccolò's mouth grew into a thin line, as he leveled his sharp gaze at her, "Vittoria-"
"Niccolò," she shot back, cutting across him as she abruptly pulled away from her glass. He was certainly intimidating, but she was not going to back down.
"You are a prime target for these fanatics," the assassin argued, trying to get her to understand. "Tell me, why did you not follow Lorenzo to Roma in the first place?"
She knew leaving Firenze was the most sensible thing to do, but when the time came Vittoria could not bring herself to go. Not even when all copies of her poems were fed to the fire.
"I can't just run away. This is my city… and my family is here." she told him. Her voice then grew quiet as she looked down into her cup. She knew neither her family or her city wanted her at the moment, but she still wished to fight for them. "I don't know why, but I have to bear witness to this nightmare and to put an end to it if I can."
Niccolò let out a noise that landed somewhere between a frustrated sigh and pensive grunt. He knew he had played a significant role in leading her into Lorenzo's arms and, as a result, into a very precarious position. If he could protect her from Savonarola's men, he would at least feel somewhat better about his part in all of this. But he couldn't force her to go. He had promised himself he would not interfere in her happiness again.

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