TMWolf: Aaaand update time! We are... one chapter away from the end of Act I I believe. I think it's the longest one, so the others will be a bit shorter. Kinda weird considering I do 60+ chapter stories usually xD But I did say this one was just a small sequel. Anyways, time for the shit to start getting crazy and then just getting worse yay! :"D

Right, so... Thank-you for all your reviews! I seriously love that y'all are enjoying my, uh... crazy story and sticking with it to see how Catherine makes it out! Y'all are awesome!

This chapter is from The Fray - We Build Then We Break

Have fun reading :'D

10 – We Build Then We Break

April 24, 1500

Rome, Italy

True to Volpe's word, Bartolomeo soon returned to his barracks, a former base for any mercenaries in Roma, but now was home to the burly, exuberant man and his troops. The Assassin had received word from the thieves, and set out the same morning to meet with his old comrade. He had last seen him in Roma during their assault, and before that had been when he stopped by while moving to this city from Venezia—back when Diana was only a few years old. At first he'd only come here to fight, but now it seemed the move was permanent, which Ezio was grateful for. He needed an ally such as Bartolomeo d'Alviano by his side once more. The man was a fighter unlike any other, and his loyalty, once earned, would not be broken. His troops were quite the boon as well.

Ezio reached the barracks before mid-morning, dismounted his horse just outside the walls, at the bottom of the incline that led to the entryway. The establishment wasn't terribly impressive and looked in need of repair—it seemed many places his allies were to use were, much to his amusement and annoyance—but it looked strong. Sturdy, too. A good place for mercenaries, whom, if he were hearing right, already training hard in the courtyard. Sure enough, he found various groups of men hacking at dummies or sparring with one another all along the outside of the main building. It rose up a few stories, certainly much higher than the walls around it, which were tall to begin with. There were outposts at strategic locations along the wall, and with only one proper entrance, it would be easy to waylay enemy troops. Truly, Bartolomeo had chosen wisely.

The Assassin rapped three time on the door hidden under an archway and was greeted by the familiar face of his old comrade, who gave him the widest grin he'd ever seen.

He spread his arms out in welcome, elated, "Ezio Auditore! Come in, come in. I'll kill you if you don't!"

"Bartolomeo!" Ezio laughed with his friend, and the two embraced. They had fought too long and in too many battles together to not do so. Once parted, the man's eyes suddenly widened almost as much as his grin, and he gestured for the Assassin to pause.

"Wait here. You have to meet my wife!" he laughed before turning and headed towards the stairs in the back of the room. "Pantasilea! Pantasilea! Hmm… where is she?"

"Did you check behind the table?" Ezio smirked, motioning to the furniture that was, per the swordsman taste, set in an odd position. The rest of the room wasn't all that decorated—in fact, it was sparse beyond weapons and shields. A hearth had a fire burning, but it was all in all a very mellow space.

Bartolomeo threw a look to the Assassin, but before he could say anything, a woman emerged from the staircase. She was a fine beauty, her blue-and-gold dress made of silk threads and adorned in ornate designs that complimented her features. Her hair was a brownish color, perhaps a little lighter in sunlight, and fell short along her pale face. She was more than he expected for a wife of the infamous Bartolomeo, but he had to admit the swordsman had good taste.

"Ah, here she is," Bartolomeo spoke, his voice gentle as he held his out, as if presenting her to a crowd.

"Nice to meet you," she spoke, her voice calm and serene—very noble like. She even looked upon him as such, her eyes reflecting an intelligence as she saw far beyond his clothes and mug. No doubt she could discern a great many things most would miss.

He took her hand, kissing it gently, "Charmed. Truly."

She smiled a little as her husband stepped forward, hand raised, "Now, we talk about war."

"How goes the fight against the French?"

"Good," he nodded. "My men are holding their own."

Ezio raised a brow, "Machiavelli seemed to think things were more difficult."

"You know Machiavelli," Bartolomeo scoffed. "He—."

"We need your help!" a voice suddenly cried out, and a mercenary darted through the door. He looked to his commander, whom nodded.

"Excuse me," he told the Assassin, then turned to his wife. "Throw me Bianca!"

As soon as the blade was in his hands, the mercenary commander raced out into the courtyard with his soldier, calling may others to him. Ezio sighed softly, knowing it could be nothing good, and made to go after them. He paused, though, when Pantasilea's hand gripped his arm.

"Ezio, let me get straight to the point: the fight is not going well. We have been attacked on both sides," she explained, having him walk with her briefly. "Borgia on one, French on the other. But know this: the Borgia position is weak. If you can defeat them, we can concentrate our forces on the French front."

"Thank-you for telling me this… although I had hoped it might be the other way around," Ezio frowned, earning a similar expression from the woman. He sighed again. "I need the Borgia distracted—pulled away from the city. Enough so even those in the Vaticano and Castel are called out."

Her brows scrunched together, "You wish to attack the Castel? What for?"

"It… did Bartolomeo mention my wife, Catherine?"

"Ah, yes—he did," she replied, pausing for a moment. "Was she taken?"

"In the attack on our Villa. We know she must be within the Vaticano district, and we have heard rumors of a special guest in the Castel. It can only be her, but it is heavily guarded. I need a distraction to get her out. Time is running out, though. She was with child when they took her, and it has been months…"

"My God," the woman breathed, shaking her head. "I understand now… Bartolomeo was fond of your wife—he admired her, as he does you… This is… troublesome. I do not know how much aid we can give you with the Borgia, but if you help us… then perhaps it will be easier to lend it. The French are still our biggest concern, but we might spare you some troops. And who knows; killing the Borgia here might draw more out."

"I will take all the help I can get for my wife. You have my word I will deal with the Borgia," Ezio bowed his head.

"Thank-you, Ezio. Come speak to us here when it is done, and we can find a way to help you."

"I'll see you soon then," the Assassin nodded, and with his leaving, a Borgia Captain was assured death that day.

-O-

Ezio scowled as he looked at his ruined sleeve, the cloth gone from his elbow down and the remaining piece was bloodied thanks to the slice into his bicep. It had been a lucky strike, but the Captain had managed to tear into his arm some—not enough to do lasting damage, at least not to his flesh. His outfit was ruined, however, and he'd need it mended if not a new sleeve entirely. He lamented it, but Machiavelli had the sense to have extra cloth made and there was a loyal, and very talented seamstress on the Isola. She could have it fixed in no time, and he'd need a break from his work to culminate his findings. That, and he needed to visit Diana. It had been a while, and he was eager to hear of her progress in her education, and to just hold her in his arms again. Giovanni, too, would be there, and he'd come to enjoy talking with his nephew. He reveled in the few spars they sometimes had, too; the young man was so much like his uncle Federico, and in some ways the bouts took the Assassin back to Firenze.

He shook the memory away as he came upon the barracks, reminding himself he had to confirm his new allies could help him before he considered such things—to allow himself such a moment of respite. Although, that alone could make him feel guilty; knowing his wife would have none wherever she was held, while he would sometimes be allowed to breathe easy. There was only so much he could do, though, and most of it was a waiting game—an agonizing one. Every new day without the love of is life was draining, and it was only his daughter who could make him feel even a flicker of life again.

Ezio dismounted as he entered the gates, not far from where Pantasilea and Bartolomeo stood, the mercenary leader having already returned from his skirmish. The woman was tending to a cut on his cheek, and he could not help but feel a pang in his heart. He missed the touch of his wife; missed the days she tended to him and gave him a little pout for getting into trouble. He could still clearly see the worry in her eyes when she asked of the wound Rodrigo gave him. Such things hadn't seemed so special or important before, but now? Now he longed for them, like a starved man for food.

He did his best to smile as he approached them, Bartolomeo releasing a deep, raucous laugh. He held himself high, looking to his wife briefly, whom smiled gently—lovingly, in fact—back at him.

"Ezio! We sent those fucking cowards running for the hills!"

"Yes, we did," the Assassin mused, sharing a quick, secret look with Pantasilea, whom smiled coyly.

"Now that the Pope's dogs have fled, I will be able to draw more men to the fight," the mercenary barked, his chest thrust out proudly. "I can already see the hoards who will come running to join us!"

"Good—I will need their aid, if you would allow it," Ezio replied, bowing his head slightly.

Bartolomeo raised a brow, "Of course! But what cause has you coming to me?"

"His wife," Pantasilea spoke up, and her husband's eyes widened before his brows scrunched together again. She went on, "It seems Catherine was captured by the Borgia. They believe she is held within the Vaticano—particularly the Castel. Ezio hopes we might be able to draw as many soldiers away as possible to allow her to escape."

"Bah! Easy enough… but I admit, I am surprised: surely she could escape on her own? Although, that does explain her absence. You two are never apart," the man rumbled, rubbing his jawline.

Ezio's frown grew deep, "She's with child—heavily by now. She could not escape on her own—not without help… but there has been almost no word of her, even with rumors, and getting into the fortress has been impossible so far… but La Volpe is searching for a way in already, which leaves the guard. Getting in will be simple enough, but even I have my limits fighting against a large force, and I will have Catherine to worry for. I need as few men to deal with as possible."

"Say no more," Bartolomeo spoke, raising a hand. "You are both dear to me, and you have aided me more than I care to admit. I can tell my wife would not let me refuse anyways, so my men and I are at your disposal, though it will take some time."

"I don't have much more time…"

Pantasilea touched his arm briefly, "You need time to heal your wound to begin with, but you must understand: our own forces must recover from this skirmish, and we will need more men to create the distraction you need. We have to draw Cesare and his armies out, and they have not considered us a grave threat—not until now. It should take perhaps another month before we are ready. I realize this is not… opportune, but you need a way in first, no?

Ezio nodded, so she went on, "Then have faith, Ezio. Your wife, if my husband has not embellished details, is strong. She will hold until you come, and you will have her—and your child—back. You cannot rush things, either. Catherine's life and the life of your hild is at risk, so you must approach this carefully. That goes for you as well, my love."

"Tsk!" Bartolomeo scoffed, looking away, but sighed in defeat a moment later. "My wife, bless her, is right. I would rather go charging in now and take the Castel, but it would be suicide. I need to improve and reinforce the barracks—give a place to support my troops."

"You have a plan for it?" Ezio inquired, relenting to their logic, though he hated it. He was tempted to simply go and barge in the front door at this point, but there was too much risk. He could not ensure the Borgia would not slaughter his Catherine if he made himself known.

"Yes—I leave it to you," the man smirked, causing Ezio to balk. He laughed, clapping his good shoulder. "You are the educated one. I have no eye or mind for it, so you approve the plans."

"You give me too much credit… Alright," the Assassin chuckled, shaking his head. "But, in the meantime… keep an eye on Cesare and Rodrigo's move. I want nothing more than to kill the man, but getting Catherine out will be easier with either Cesare or both of them gone. I need your men to track them for me."

"Of course. What else do you think we do out here?" the man smirked.

"Good… come to Isola Tiberina with any findings—and when you are ready to make our move."

"I will ensure he does so… May God be with you—and your wife—Ezio. Our prayers are with you as well," Pantasilea smiled gently, and Ezio returned it.

"My thanks, my Lady. I hope He is with us, too."

-O-

April 29, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

"You know, my Lady, I don't know much of your mother and father—you rarely speak of them," Paula mused as she finished wiping down the last of the stone floor and wrung out her rag. She moved to the vanity, sitting down in the chair as she always did, and had the rag at the ready in case someone came in. No one really seemed to mind she spent hours—perhaps one too many—cleaning; she was obviously just doing a good job, and not speaking so plainly or in a friendly manner with the Borgia's prisoner. No one knew how much of a life-saver she was for the redhead, who smiled sadly in reply to the young woman's comment. Paula, having become rather astute, gasped slightly, and lowered her gaze. "Oh, no—I'm sorry! I didn't… I didn't realize they had… passed on."

"Oh. Oh, no—or, well, my father passed many, many years ago, but my mother was still alive when I came here—to Italia," Catherine chuckled softly, which received a perplexed expression. Once, letting slip she was not native to this country might have worried her, but she had almost come to think her cover story was true sometimes. Of course, she would never tell Paula she was a time traveler, but it helped that story seemed so impossible. It was only her memories and her stolen trinket that ever reminded her she was from a time that had yet to pass.

"I'm from England, originally. My mother married an Italian man, and we moved here when I wasn't too old—hence the lack of accent. My father was a banker of sorts, and we lived in the country near Firenze… somewhere in Toscana, I can barely remember where. But when my father passed she decided to return to England. I followed, for a time, but then returned to Firenze where I stayed with my husband's family—he was a friend of my father, you see—and then moved to a place outside the city, to stay with my husband's Uncle. It was for my safety, as there was unrest in Firenze, but I ended up staying there, in Monteriggioni, and I never came to regret it."

"That's so fascinating! You must have been so terrified to be on your own, but-what of your mother? Have you never seen her since?"

"Well, it's… hard, being she's in England. She can't visit much, but we wrote letters. I don't get them very often anymore being so busy with my, um, work, and I imagine it's possible she passed away without my knowing, but…"

"Oh, that's awful! To think she had passed! And you wouldn't know!" Paula cried, hands pressing to her face.

Catherine smiled gently, "It's alright. We weren't terrible close by the time I came back. I was always more like my father, but… I do miss her—when I dream about her, I mean. About our family when I was younger. I haven't done that for a long time, actually… but I've been remembering more lately."

"You must be homesick," the young woman replied softly, her expression full of the same pity she always showed. It was both comforting, yet like a stab to the gut. She hated yet craved it; the empathy of it. Paula was the one person on her side, yet her inability to do anything for her made her loathe the woman at the same time. She could come and go as she pleased, while she was stuck here. It wasn't fair. Catherine refused to succumb to such petty feelings, though, and forced herself to appreciate the looks and the small measures of kindness Paula would give her—such as now, in their little talks; these precious moments of clarity.

"I suppose so… I do miss Ezio and Diana terribly. Claudia and her boys and Maria, too. And Mario…" she spoke, almost at a whisper. Her hands clenched at her dress as she fought back tears. They came more than she liked and felt more pathetic for it. But what else could she do? Even after Giovanni's kindness she could not think of any way to use the paper. There were no pigeons, and there was no way to get a letter out without being caught. Despite the boon, she was no better off.

She hated it.

"Ah… I… I'm sorry… I… I don't have anything I can do to help you. I wish—God, I wish I could, but all I can do is pray, but… but it seems He has not heard, but you just… you don't deserve this. You shouldn't be here," the young woman rasped, looking on the verge of tears herself.

Catherine forced a smile to her face, "Don't cry for me, Paula. It's not your fault… and you've been good to me—more than I could ask for. I'm pretty sure I haven't lost my mind yet thanks to you."

"Still… you've been just as kind. No one here or in the city speaks to me like you do, and the world you've shown me with your words… there's so much out there I never knew about. I wish to know so much more now. I have dreams I never thought I would have! I would ever have thought I should ever try to move beyond these walls if not for you," she replied, coming over to sit on the bed and take Catherine's hand in hers. "I cannot save you… but at the very least let me cry for you or—or do something, however small."

Catherine squeezed Paula's hands, more grateful now than ever the woman was there. Still, there was nothing to be done for her situation. There was no point hoping for it. So she forced her tears back, and cemented her smile on her face.

"Well, I wouldn't mind hearing any news—any good rumors in the Castel? And how fares Roma?"

"I can do that," Paula chuckled, albeit weakly. She settled down as she thought, humming aloud. "Well… the city seems… happier? People look less frightened, and it seems like less and less soldiers are harassing us. Yes, it's been very lively lately, and I've heard rumor there's trouble in the country—something about a fight going on. I heard even the French are involved, which is… well, scary. They've been so close lately, and many worry they hope to conquer us while Cesare is doing the same for Romagna. It's all very strange, but, um… hmm… as for here… Oh!

Paula jumped up slightly, clapping her hands together, "Oh, we had a special guest come here, although, I think he's staying somewhere in the Vaticano. A very somber man, but in very fashionable attire. He carried himself very well, but his face was so stern. He looked like he was trying to intimidate you, but also understand you at the same time? It is hard to explain. I think… I think a guard said he was Sir… Machi? Machivel? I didn't fully catch him name, but—oh, my. You've gone pale. Are you alright, my Lady?"

Catherine's heart raced a million miles an hour, but it was nothing compared to her mind. She couldn't believe it, but Paula had given her a life line. A God. Damned. Lifeline.

Machiavelli.

Niccolo Machiavelli.

He was here. In the Castel, or at least somewhere nearby. He was a visitor to the Borgia. They didn't know his true allegiance—she refused to believe he was a traitor, not after everything—and so he could come in here safely. Did the man know she was here? Had he come to rescue her? No, he would have sent Ezio to do that. Was he trying to create a distraction then? No, no; he would be smarter than that. They both would. Ezio could get in here without Niccolo's help, so then he most likely didn't know she was here. She had to get word to him then. She had to let him know where she was so he could send Ezio to her.

She could out.

She could escape.

Her child could be free.

She could see her little Diana.

She could see her family again.

"My Lady?"

Catherine's gaze, originally staring straight into her sheets, shot up to Paula. The woman flinched, but then the redhead turned so she could reach beneath her pillow. The other maid had thankfully failed to notice the hidden parchment, which she pulled out now. From it she removed the paper and writing ink—her friend gasped in surprise—and quickly scribbled words down—to let her fellow Assassin know she was here, and to send help. Quickly. It was done sloppy, but she had no time. She couldn't risk anyone coming in and finding it. She made sure to add Paula was a friend, though, and could be trusted, and made doubly sure she didn't name Machiavelli. She couldn't risk him being found out either.

As soon as she signed her name she held it out to her, practically shoving it into her hand, not caring it might have smudged some words. Paula stared at her, eyes wide, and no doubt her heart racing, too.

"Find that man—Machiavelli. Niccolo Machiavelli. That's his name. You have to find him. Either in the Castel or in the district. Just find him. Get him this letter. He'll help me. He can get me out. Just get him the damn letter! Please! This is my only hope, Paula! My one chance! Please!" she rasped, eyes welling up once more. Her friend stared long and hard, unable to form words although her mouth open and closed. After a long moment, though, she finally pressed her lips firmly together, pulled the letter close to her chest, and nodded.

"Yes. Of course. I'll find him. I promise," she spoke, and Catherine felt relief for the first time in a long time. She rubbed at her eyes as Paula stood, folding the parchment and putting it into her dress. "It seems God heard my prayers after all, my Lady. I can't promise I'll find him today or tomorrow, but I will find him. I'll see you freed from this awful place."

"You'll come with me—I can't leave you here. We'll make sure you get out, and you can start a new, better life. Your parents, too," Catherine smiled, sincerely this time, and Paula's face brightened.

"Yes… Yes! I can't wait. Just hold on, my Lady. You will be free," she spoke, and then, caught up in the stupor, she made for the door. She paused, remembering to collect herself, though, and spared Catherine one finally look—this time of hope—before she left. The door was locked not a second later, but this time it did not drive a knife into Catherine's gut. Rather, she took courage from it. Soon—very soon—Ezio would come for her, and she and her child would be free.

-O-

May 1, 1500

Rome, Italy

Diana laughed with delight as she was picked up and spun around in her father's arms, just as he always did when he was able to visit. He pulled her close to his chest after, keeping her cradled in one arm so she could wrap hers around his neck. She peppered him with kisses as he walked over to the sofa in the library, their favorite meeting place. Giovanni was already there, lounged like usual, and looked far better than he had months ago. His arm was fully healed, and he'd been practicing with a blade recently. Even Machiavelli seemed sure the young man was back to full health, which was both good—and a little sad. It meant his nephew would be leaving to fight soon, leaving Diana alone, and Ezio knew he would worry.

"Uncle! Good to see you. We were beginning to worry you wouldn't come this month," the young man chuckled, a book in his lap. Despite preferring combat, his mother had ensured he was educated, so he enjoyed a book every now and then.

"I've been very busy—but we've made good progress. I've managed to get Bartolomeo's aid now," Ezio replied as he sat on the soda, Diana squirming so she was in his lap, her back to his chest. She tilted her head to look back up at him, brows scrunched.

"Bartolomeo? Who is that, Papa?"

"An old friend. You met him when you were only a few years old, so you might not remember him. He tossed you in the air, and your mother almost hit him for it," he grinned, pinching the redheaded child's cheek. She giggled, slapping at his hand.

"How is Mama? It's been so long since I saw her," the girl pouted, head drooping. Ezio gently took her chin and tilted it up again.

"Don't worry—she's alright… she'll be back soon, too. Everything's almost ready, and she'll be back. Just you wait, little one," he smiled, kissing her forehead.

"Okay. Good! I wanna show her all I've learned! I'm learning numbers and more words—Machiavelli has me learning French now! Latin was easy! He says I still have much to learn, though."

"Diana's pretty smart—she's a lot further along than Federico or I were at her age. Even Machiavelli praises her," Giovanni snickered. "She's a troublemaker, though. I think her tutor is on the verge of quitting because she keeps pulling pranks. She does well in her studies, though."

"She takes after me, I see," Ezio snickered as Diana grabbed a book and held it up to him eagerly. He opened it for her, setting it on his knees. "And you? How's your training? Diana, how about you read me the story this time? Try in French."

"Ugh, fine, Papa," the girl huffed, and began, struggling here and there. Ezio helped her with the word and let her go on. Across from her, Giovanni set his book down and shrugged.

"Fine. I don't feel pain in my arm anymore. I imagine I'll leave here soon and take up the fight."

The Assassin raised a brow, "Do you know with who?"

"Well, I didn't—until now," he hummed, and Ezio's brow rose further. Giovanni chuckled. "Bartolomeo d'Alviano. You always spoke highly of him, as did Father and Mario. I figure, of all people to join, he would be a good choice. I'm a swordsman at heart, and he has an army of such men."

Ezio did not reply at first, instead helping his daughter with another word yet again, and entertaining her excitement as her favorite part of the story came up. As she continued, he watched his nephew carefully. There were no signs of hesitance; the young man was sure of himself and what he wanted to do. The Assassin could only sigh, sinking back in the sofa a bit more.

"You're nineteen—your own man, Giovanni. God knows I had to grow up and make hard decision at seventeen, so I have no right to judge. But—," he paused to look the young man straight in the eye, "—did you tell your mother?"

His face said it all. The young man squirmed in his seat, refusing to meet his Uncle's gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck, and let out a deep, almost nervous sigh.

"No… I didn't… and I don't want to, but… I know I have to," he grumbled. "I've been working on what I want to say, but… I know she'll worry. She'll cry, I imagine… and I suppose it's cruel of me, but… I can't deny my purpose. I am a fighter like my father and grandfather and Uncle and you. Sure, I don't do the Assassin work or kill politicians or jump across rooftops, but if my sword cutting down one Borgia soldier helps the cause, then it's what I want to do."

"Then hold onto that, Giovanni. And remember you are Auditore. The blood is in your veins, and we are strong… And I can see about introducing you to Bartolomeo personally."

"Thank-you, Uncle. That means the world to me," the young man smiled, though had to laugh when Diana puffed her cheeks out and slapped the book against her father's lap. She hadn't failed to notice he wasn't paying attention, and so he apologized profusely before getting back into place. He looked to his nephew, though, whom gave him an impish grin.

"Remember, Giovanni: tell your mother."

That shut the boy up quick, and Diana could tell the story without interruption, much to her delight.

-O-

Ezio was reluctant to leave Diana that day, but he had to return to Isola Tiberina. She wasn't happy about it, either, but she had become accustomed to it, although she made him promise he would let her come live with him one day. He assured, once Catherine was returned, they would, and he used all his power to not let her see through his façade. He had managed to keep it up with the notion he was building his Order slowly, bit by bit, and each gain was another flicker of hope, but it was hard. No child should endure what she did, and he was eternally grateful to Machiavelli for taking care of her. He could ask for no better man to care for his child while he worked.

Now the Assassin found himself back in his headquarters, looking over his map of the city; marking which towers he had rid of Borgia markers—a sign to the people the Captains were gone. He checked where his allies were as well; spots la Volpe had informed him where his spies lounged; prominent spots for Claudia's girls, and also where Bartolomeo had mercenaries, both in the city, and in the countryside. The numbers weren't large yet, but they would improve in time. He only lamented that Roma was large—more-so than any city they had visited, and it was difficult being the only Assassin working. If only there were more of them, then perhaps it could be easier, but who would take up such a role? Oh, there were other Orders out there, but here in Italia he had worked alone with his Uncle. Even his father had done it alone, but that no longer seemed enough.

The Assassins needed to grow again.

'First, though, Catherine. We're so close now,' he rumbled silently, tapping a finger on the marker of the Castel. His sister was supposed to be coming soon, hopefully to confirm the rumors. If they were true, then all that was left was the thieves giving him a way in, and Bartolomeo finishing his preparations. He was both relieved, yet more anxious than ever. He was so close, yet so far. Catherine was there, waiting for him. He knew it deep in his soul, and it crushed him to know she was still too far for him to reach. What had the Borgia done to her all this time? Had they tortured her? Had they harmed the child? Had she lost the child? Was she in chains? Was she healthy? Was she alive?

No. No, she was alive. He refused to believe she wasn't. He couldn't let her down like that. He couldn't let Diana down like that.

"Just a bit more…"

A door slamming brought Ezio's gaze up from the map to the main entrance. He figured it was his sister, and so braced himself. Despite having more than a few meetings, his younger sibling had not settled down—and neither had he. They were constantly snapping at one another whenever together at the brothel, and it was only their mother stepping in to appease both sides that got most of anything done. He knew he was being childish, but his pride wouldn't allow him to back down from his words from the beginning of it all, and it seemed she was the same. He still didn't like her as a Madame, either. The brothel was no place for her or Mother, but she insisted. It was frustrating, but he would let it slide this once—if only for his wife.

"Claudia," he hummed when, as he expected, his guest was none other than his sister. She wore her usual garb and her usual scowl, and so he readied himself for some quick jab of words.

To his surprise, he received a slap instead. He had no time to react, and stared, blinking foolishly, and touched his stinging cheek. It was then he realized his sister had tears in her eyes, and her face was flushed with anger.

"How could you! How could you! How could you, how could you!" she shrieked, the tears coming faster.

"Claudia—," he rasped, but she began to hit at him with weak blows.

"You sent him away! You did this to him! To me! How could you!" she bawled, still throwing her arms at his chest. He caught them after another strike, and though she struggled, there was no real strength behind it. "You bastard! Why did you do it!? Why did you let Giovanni go!? He's all I had left!"

Ezio silently groaned, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders slump. So. That was it. His nephew had told his mother. Despite his confidence before, regret ate him now. He might have been at odds with his sister, but this was not what he wanted. He hated her tears more than her stubbornness, and though Giovanni had already made his choice, he had given it power.

"Claudia…"

"No! Don't you dare make excuses! You should have told him to stay! You should have kept him from fighting! I already lost a son! I already lost Ottavio! I loved him! I loved my boy! And now they're gone, and you let my only boy left go! He's going to fight and get himself killed and you did nothing to stop him!" she howled, her struggles done, but the tears still flowing.

"I couldn't have changed his mind, Claudia. He was determined. You know he was. He's like his father."

She glared so fiercely she was able to wrench herself free, "No—don't you dare tell me what Ottavio was like! How would you know? You were never home! You left me alone there all the time, and he was all I had! Federico and Giovanni and Ottavio were all I had with me while you were off with Catherine 'saving' the fucking country! Ottavio and Federico were always there and now they're dead! You don't know anything! You haven't lost anything!"

"Mother!"

Both Auditore siblings jerked, Claudia spinning to find her son there in the entryway, panting lightly. A sob escaped her throat, and the young Giovanni sighed softly. He approached, but she backed up a step, shaking her head. He still came for her, and eventually she stopped retreated. He embraced her, wrapping his arms tight around her so her head buried into his chest. Her sobbing went on in full, still audible despite being muffled by his vest. Ezio watched on somberly as the young boy comforted his mother, whispering and cooing gently to her. It took much too long for her to finally settle down, and all the while the Assassin's guilt continued to eat at him.

After all—what did he know of her pain? All his children lived, and his wife was definitely alive. But her boy Federico? Her husband? She had seen nothing of them. No signs. After the attack they endured, it was inevitable they had perished. Giovanni was all she had left.

"Mother, this is my choice, and mine alone. Father would have wanted me to fight," he spoke softly, caressing her hair. Finally, she pushed away, wiping her tears, and shaking her head.

"I don't want you to fight! I want you to stay here—safe!"

"I can't, Mother. I can't. The Borgia stole them from me, too, and I want to get back at them… but I can't do it like you can. I can't run the brothel. I don't have the finesse for it, and I'm more liable to invest back into the business by spending it on the women there, you know that," he chuckled, managing to get a small one from his mother, too. "I'm not good at that… but I'm good at fighting. Father trained me well, Mother. I… I was scared in the attack on our home, but I'm ready now. I'm ready to fight and to face them, and Bartolomeo is a good man. A strong man, too. He'll train me. Make me stronger. I won't die."

Claudia looked into her son's eyes, reaching up to touch his face. He leaned into it, his smile kind and loving, but his eyes just as sad as hers. Determination was there, though, and they all knew it. The young woman closed her eyes, taking in a deep, shaky breath. Her hand fell to her son's collar, which she gripped tightly.

Opening her eyes, she gave him a harsh stare, even as tears welled again, "You promise me—you come back alive. You will fight, but you will not die. You will come back to me when all this is done; when the Borgia are gone and we have our vengeance and we are free… you will come home. Don't leave me like your father and brother. You must be better than that."

Giovanni made a sound torn between a sob and a laugh and hugged his mother once more, "I will, Mama. I promise."

"Good. You're a good boy," Claudia huffed, wiping her tears away. She took a bit more to calm down, her son rubbing her back gently as she sniffed and kept wiping at her eyes. When she had contained herself just enough, she turned to her brother, glaring more now than appearing upset. "And you—I expect you to look out for him. If he is harmed, I'll… I'll…"

"I won't let that happen," Ezio replied quickly, sincerity in his voice. It tempered her some, but not much.

"Mother, tell him your news. He needs to know," Giovanni spoke up, and his mother paused, biting her lip briefly. She shook her head, though only to clear her head, and turned to face her brother fully.

"We confirmed it—a nobleman from Cesare's inner circle came by, and he made mentioned of a woman matching Catherine's description. Better still, she was called the 'conquest of Monteriggioni'. There is also talk of Cesare soon to have a new son."

It took only a second for the Assassin to comprehend the words, and a burning rage filled him, "What!? He—How dare he! That bastard! He wants to take my son!? Damn! Damn him! I'll kill him!"

"Do you have the way in yet?" his nephew asked, and though Ezio glared at the young man, the hate was for not him.

"No," he spat, fingers clenching. "Not yet. Volpe is still working on it, and he thinks we're close… but Bartolomeo still needs time to prepare, but I don't have time!"

"You know the risk, though—."

"Of course I know the fucking risk!" he snapped, slamming a fist on the table. He left it there, seething. No one said anything, giving him the chance to close his eyes, breathe in deep, and force himself to settle down—if one could call it that. He leaned both hands against the table, a darkness coming over his face. "I know… I know I have to wait…"

"We'll get her out, Ezio. We will."

"I'll speak with Bartolomeo for you—see if we can't speed things along," Giovanni added.

"Please do," Ezio replied, glancing at them before heading towards another hallway, this one leading to the tunnels expanding all around the city.

"Where are you going?" Claudia called, sniffing just after.

"I need to… I need to cool off. To think. Report back to me when you have anymore news," he barked back, and, giving them no more time to speak, he ventured off into the night.

-O-

May 4, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

It was taking too long, but it had to be because Ezio and Machiavelli were being careful. That was what Catherine told herself as, yet another day started to end, and she was still stuck in the bed. Each passing hour made her stomach churn more and more uneasily—that, or it was her child kicking more furiously. Could the little boy—or girl—sense her unease? Her anxiety? Her fluttering hope? She hung onto it, though; letting her mind wander and question. Ever since Paula had left her room in a rush days ago, the letter hidden in her dress, she'd been on edge.

At first, she'd feared the worst—that Paula had been caught, or she'd chickened out and ran away, leaving her here despite her words. However, she would always quickly banish the thought and assure herself her friend had come through. The young woman had found Machiavelli, given him the note, and he's absconded her to safety. After all, she was in danger, too, for helping. He would have taken her to his home or some place safe, and summoned Ezio. No doubt they had been making a plan—some way to ensure they could get her out safely. She was heavily pregnant, after all; they couldn't just come in and grab her. She wouldn't be able to run, so they had to play it safe. That's why she hadn't heard any news—and why Paula hadn't come back.

Still, despite her assurance she felt the unease. It was a cold prickle that threatened to consume her, but she kept strong. Paula could do this. She was a smart, brave woman. She could do it. She knew who Machiavelli was now. She had found him. They would get her out. The next person through the door would be her Ezio. Her handsome, loving, wonderful Ezio. He would get her out, and she could have her baby in a safe place, and he would hold the child in his arms, and they would all be together again.

Sighing deeply, Catherine rubbed at her face. She almost couldn't believe how pathetic she was being—since when did she, a highly trained Assassin—get so anxious? Oh, she knew why, but she wished it was easier to hold onto her training. Surely Mario would have been furious that she had become how she was. She should have escaped long ago, truthfully, even if she had been waylaid for good reasons. Now all she had was her wits, and those felt like strands ready to snap at any second. She wanted to blame her pregnancy, but nothing felt sure anymore. She just wished something—anything would finally change for the better.

A knock came from the door, causing her to jump. She forced herself to breathe in slowly, calming her racing heart, and waited as the lock clicked and turned. For a split second she held her breath, expecting—however foolishly—for it to be her husband. It was most likely a maid, but still, she hoped.

They were dashed at once, for in the doorway was not her husband, nor a maid, nor even the Doctor.

It was Cesare Borgia, and he was not alone; behind him was Micheletto, whom carried a tray in his hands. Her meal, she supposed, considering the hour. That, of course, wasn't nearly so strange as these two visiting her. The Borgia commander had not visited her for months, namely for the fact she was of no use beyond her child just yet, but also for his campaign. He had been slowly conquering all of Roma, but he must have been back for a respite perhaps. His face looked rather confident, to the point of being cocky, in the way he smiled at her. No doubt his army was doing well, so she figured he'd come to gloat.

"Good evening, my Lady. How is my son doing?" he hummed, bringing the vanity chair over to sit by her side of the bed. Micheletto remained behind him by the door, the tray still in his hands. She couldn't help noting he still smelled of blood and death.

"My child is fine," she replied curtly, narrowing her eyes. "How goes taking over the world?"

"Ah, just Italia for now. The world later," he smirked, hands on his knees as he leaned back. She watched him, warily, and expected him to go on; to talk of the Apple or something else, but he said nothing. She glanced to Micheletto, whom had a dark glimmer in his eyes. Her heart beat a little faster as her eyes moved between them, trying to figure out what was going on. She didn't like this. She didn't like it one bit.

"What do you want?" she finally asked, fingers clenching the edges of her dress. Cesare let out a short chuckle as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees now, while he rubbed his beard some. He met her gaze, and she felt the coldness in her veins drop a few degrees.

"Oh, nothing much. It is just… well, here I provide a warm, safe place for you to give birth to my son, and I like to think I have been a most generous host. I have given you plenty of food, maids, a Doctor, and more. I have even let you roam this room freely and live far better than any prisoner of mine should. And yet," he mused, leaning back again in the seat and gesturing with his hand, "I find it is not enough. Not for you, it seems, my Lady. No, oh no, no, you are quite selfish. So demanding. I almost see a bit of myself in you, but that is, perhaps, being too generous.

He paused, looking right at her, "Ah, playing coy I see. You Auditore do enjoy playing the fool, don't you? Well, I assure you, I am no fool."

A cold sweat formed on her brow, "What are you getting at?"

"Did you think I would not notice? That my guards would say nothing? That my eyes and ears in these walls would notice nothing? You think I would not note a petty little maid running around when and where she wasn't supposed to?" he went on, his voice becoming a low growl. He reached into his vest and procured a piece of parchment. She didn't need to read it to recognize her signature on it. Her blood turned to ice as her heart beat wildly. "Who was the note for, mm? Who did you write this to? What Assassin has dared infiltrate my home?"

Catherine bit her lip, body shaking. Her eyes never left Cesare, if only for fear he might do something if she did. She didn't dare try to make some excuse; she might say something she would regret. She didn't dare chance speaking Machiavelli's name and putting him at risk. Cesare, of course, did not like it.

"Tell me their name, wench!" he bellowed, standing up and nearly knocking his chair over. "Tell me so I can find them and do the same thing I did to that wretched little whore who dared betray me! Micheletto!"

The Borgia dog smiled as he came closer and pulled the cloth off the plate. Catherine almost vomited.

It was Paula.

It was her head.

It had been sawed off, like Mario's. Blood had pooled and dried on the plate, and her mouth was agape as if stuck mid-scream. Her eyes had been plucked out, leaving dark, empty holes. Her hair was matted and stained with blood, and her face was pale; lips blue. It was just her head.

She was dead.

And it was her fault.

"Well!? Answer me! Who was this letter for!?" Cesare bellowed, and when she still did not answer him, eyes fixated on the screaming face of her friend, he brought his hand back and struck her with the back of it. She yelped as she looked up into his gaze, so fierce and terrible that fear was all she could feel. "Who was it!?"

"I-it—no one—," she tried, but he slapped her again.

"It was not no one! Tell me, or do I need to kill another maid? How many will I have to kill and put their heads at your feet before you speak, hmm? How many will you bring death to!"

Her mind raced as she shrieked, "Ezio! It was to Ezio! The Assassins! She said she'd seen one! She told me she had so I wrote it to him! She was supposed to find him!"

"Ezio Auditore?" the man scoffed as he turned to his dog, grabbing the hair on the head, and tossed it onto the bed. Blood that hadn't dried splattered onto the bed. Catherine flinched, staring, wide eyed at it, but then looked away quickly. "This woman perished for nothing then. Ezio is dead."

The redhead's gaze shot up to the man, whom presented her yet another smirk. He laughed even, and once again rummaged through his vest. From it he pulled a piece of cloth that had belonged to the sleeve of a shirt. It was a bright shade of white with an elegant design. It was stained with blotches of red, too, and he tossed that into her lap.

"Here. A present from my guards. They encountered a hooded man in the countryside wearing white and wielded blades on his arm. They slew him some time ago, and brought this back as a souvenir. They did not know, but I did: that man was Ezio Auditore, come to meet my challenge, which he failed. Pathetically. Your precious Ezio is no more, my dear, and I only lament it was not by my hand. I admit, I am disappointed you Auditore did not measure up to all the talk. My father was simply just that weak it seems," he hummed as Catherine reached out, hesitated, but then picked it up. She didn't recognize the pattern—it wasn't the usual kind of garb he wore—but it was the same white Assassins wore.

"It… this isn't his. Ezio's alive," she whispered, knowing it couldn't be true. Ezio wouldn't die like that, and it was just a piece of cloth. Nothing more.

"Oh? Then why has he not come for you, hmm? Why has he not come barging in, slaying my men, and rescued you from your tower? Why has there been no word from your dear friend here? Why is the city still in my hands, and soon all of Italia? You think Ezio Auditore would let me go untested? He is dead, cut down like the dog he was, and the crows feast on his bones."

"You're lying!" she rasped, but the seeds had been planted and already grown. If it wasn't true, then surely he would have come by now. He wouldn't have left her here. And now this patch of white? Her captor's words? How could she keep denying it?

Catherine looked up as Cesare loomed over her, grabbing her chin too roughly. She didn't have the strength to pull away.

"Think what you will then, but Ezio Auditore is dead. The Assassins are gone, and you are alone."

He shoved her away then, turning and moving past his comrade. Micheletto's smirk had never left his face, and now it struck her to her core. It shook her fully, and it took everything she had not to burst into tears. He glanced to the head, still sat on her bed.

"Enjoy your company—although, she does not seem to talk much anymore. Her screams were quite wonderful, however," he hummed, almost like a purr, and then he, too, was gone. The door locked, and Catherine was alone. Her eyes fell the piece of cloth in her hands—this small, damming piece of the love of her life. Torn. Bloodied. Lifeless.

Ezio was gone. What other explanation was there?

She looked to the head of her friend, the face stuck in a silent scream that deafened her ears. She had killed her only friend here. She had done this to the poor girl and her family, and now there was no escape. She could not get out. There was no more hope.

With nothing left to hold them back, tears poured down Catherine's face, mixing with the blood that trickled down from her lip, and, after a moment, she, too, screamed.

10 – End

TMWolf: So.

Things.

Things are happening :'D

Not so great for 'Cat, but, hey, Ezio is getting the ball rolling. More family drama, and, yes, Micheletto IS that sick. Seriously. Read his profile on the acwiki and he's pretty dang brutal. He is not a nice guy, and he is A-okay with torturing and killing a maid.

How is 'Cat gonna survive!? :( Ezio you better hurry...

Act I concludes next chapter...