Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it…? Oops!

When in Rome

By: Ginny

"You have bags under your eyes," Ezio commented, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face.

It was a rare moment for the couple – alone in the hideout, neither had anything to do prior to bed and instead of having wild, passionate sex, they were engaging in pillow talk. Standard marriage behavior, Margherita supposed. She was curled up on her side, facing Ezio and he was mirroring her position. He still didn't know she had visited Leonardo and she fully intended to keep it that way.

"It's because I've been super busy," Margherita murmured, catching his hand and lacing his fingers with hers in between them.

"I didn't think you'd agree to organize the assassins," he commented. His thumb began stroking her fingers gingerly. "Machiavelli was under the impression that he could convince you pretty easily though."

"I almost didn't," she responded. Then a thought occurred to her and she laughed aloud – "He hit me right where he knew I couldn't say no."

"And where was that?" Ezio nuzzled his nose against hers.

"With you." Margherita laughed again and rolled onto her back. "He told me you needed all the help you could get and quite honestly, once I sat down at that desk and took a look over your stuff – I knew right then and there just how much help you truly required."

Sitting up slightly, Ezio loomed over his wife ominously. "It wasn't that bad," he contested.

"No darling," she reached up to stroke his beard. "It was worse."

Giving the kind of chuckle that only the assassin could give, he leaned down to kiss her. God, when things were good, they were good.

"Oh, if you have any opened wounds, let me know," Margherita said, passing Masina the bottle of poison and a mask.

"Is this safe for us to work with?"

"Maybe."

At Masina's look of horror, Margherita shot the girl a disarming smile. The poison was only dangerous if it was breathed in or ingested. Hence the masks. The day before Margherita had purchased little locket charms especially made by the local craftsmith. Then, she created her own brand of poison (with some advice from the apothecary) to put into the lockets. With a flick of their fingers, the girls could drug their victim and either make a quick escape or hit a target.

"It's only harmful if you breathe it in," she explained, coming to sit next to the girl. "Which is why we're on the balcony and have these sexy little masks."

"Got it," Masina picked up her mask and slid it on her face, then picked up the first locket. "How much in each?"

"Just fill it full," Margherita explained.

She put on her own mask and was just about to pick up the bottle when Masina's voice spoke up, "Margherita – you have an open wound."

"Hm?" she glanced down. Oh yes, her knuckles had taken a bit of a bruising the day before and she had forgotten that her skin had actually broken. "Right, I forgot about that," she muttered as she removed her mask. "I'll be right back," she said and disappeared into the brothel. When she returned, her hands were bandaged up to prevent any poison from getting into her bloodstream.

Then she slid into the seat and began her work. Considering that the previous project had required quite a few time consuming steps, it surprised both girls how quickly they were able to create the poisoned lockets.

"In the future, the girls should be able to refill them themselves," Margherita explained. They collected the lockets together in a basket and the blonde began to unravel the bandages around her hands.

"What's that?" Masina asked, leaning forward.

"Hm?" Margherita stuffed the bandages on top of the lockets in the basket, intending to just carry it all in together.

"Your hand – this," the younger girl flipped the elder's hand over and cradled it in her own.

And there, staring up at both girls was a subtle pink burn.

Margherita hadn't thought about it in ages.

"Oh, well," she struggled to explain. "Hm. You know I've known Ezio for a long time – right? We met…. Quite some time ago." She almost said the exact number of years until she remembered that she had made the same mistake with Caterina and then the poor countess had been so confused. "A few months after we had met, I got swept up – pretty unintentionally – in some pretty shitty stuff." Margherita clenched her fist. "I used to think of this mark as a symbol of my shame because of what happened. It took me a long time and a lot of healing, but now I know the truth. Scars remind us where we were and how far we've come," Margherita finished. She glanced up to find Masina smiling sadly at her.

Margherita busied herself with lifting the basket and heading into the brothel.

"Thank you," Masina spoke up as she followed the older woman.

"For what?" the blonde glanced back, placing the basket on the front counter. She was mentally cataloguing everything she had to do today.

"For everything," she simply said and then disappeared to her afternoon client.

Months later, Margherita was overworked. She had dispersed all of the poison between the courtesans, had moved on to weapons training with her teacher, and had completely organized the paperwork for the assassin trainees. But that was slowly weighing on her, as each mission proposal appeared on her desk and each mission completion had to be done. It was too much for one lady and Ezio was not helping.

"Ezio!" Margherita snapped. Her voice echoed out and about within the stony halls of Tiber Island.

"Yes, lovely wife of mine?" came the reply. But Margherita waited until he peeked his head around the wall, smart enough not to approach her head-on.

"Did you send Luigi to Athens?" she asked, shuffling some papers.

"I… believe so…"

"And you didn't bother to tell me, because…?"

Ezio at least at the presence of thought to appear sheepish. But he gave no excuse.

"Oh, Ezio!" she groaned. "I'm trying to help you! We have a system here – a good system and you just tromp around doing whatever you want! That can't happen anymore, okay?"

"Fine, fine, fine," he muttered, finally completely entering the room. He glided across the rough stone floor and slipped behind his wife. Tough hands coiled around her shoulders as he massaged the tension from her body. His lips dipped down and pressed into her hair, sniffing gently at the perfume she used near her pulse point. "You haven't had your Lace today," he noted. "Want me to grab you some seeds and maybe some tea?"

Birth control left a lot to be desired in the Renaissance, but since being in that time period, Margherita had had to make due. There was an herb that the courtesans used, Queen Anne's Lace, which prevented pregnancy. She had been using it for years now and had never feared that she was with child.

Margherita turned to glance out of the corner of her eye. "I've been thinking," she began. Instantly, Ezio's face fell. When his wife was thinking, a fight was brewing. But his hands stayed on her shoulders. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time I stop taking the Lace," she finally admitted.

"You want children?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Well – we know it's going to happen eventually…."

"Yes, when the Borgia are completely gone," Ezio argued. "When we are all safe."

"Ezio, my clock is ticking."

"Your… clock?"

"Yes, my biological clock. Women can't have children after a certain age."

Ezio paused for a moment. "Does this have something to do with… the game? You said that the children I have carry messages to my descendants, but only after all the memories have been made. Do you know something I don't? Am I supposed to sire a child now?"

"No," she sighed. "I know nothing at this point, you know that. We're in this together now. I just… I don't want to miss my chance to have a child with you."

"But, now?" Ezio groaned and pulled away. "Margherita, things had just started going right! We were getting along, we were happy. Can't we just enjoy this while it lasts?"

"Why not now, while everything is great?" she shot back.

"Oh, I don't know," he snapped. "Because you have been working overtime recently. You're stressed enough! Claudia and I rely on you and right now we need you and you can't do your jobs if you're nursing a babe."

Margherita didn't even realize she had been clutching Paolo's mission statement in her hands so tightly that it was crumpling. "Is that all I'm good for?" she asked with dangerous hushness.

"You know –"

"No, Ezio!" she shouted, pushing out of her chair. "I don't know. Because you literally never tell me anything! You didn't want me involved in this life – but here I am! And you rely on me, but you never, ever thank me. You know who thank me? The whores in the brothel. They adore the help I give them because they see nothing wrong with me being there. You want me in your life, but not really in your life. I'm overworked, yes, but I want a child."

"Where… is this coming from?" Ezio finally asked.

Margherita plopped down on her chair. "I… We don't have the Apple," she reminded him. "The people who kidnapped your descendent seem to think that he knows where the Apple is – meaning, one of his ancestors got their hands on the Apple and hid it somewhere. If that ancestor is you, then the Apple will need to be recovered before the child you sire can be of any use to Desmond. That child would need to be conceived after we have the Apple. I'm out of my best childbearing years, Ezio. I'm less fertile and less likely to carry the baby to term. And I… I had a dream last night that we couldn't have children but we – you- needed a child if Desmond had any chance of saving the Apple during his time. So, you picked one of the courtesans in the brothel and she gave you the son that I couldn't."

She didn't even realize that she was crying until Ezio brushed the tears from her cheeks.

"I'll make you a deal," he told her. "If we don't have the Apple within this next year, I will give you a horde of little Auditores."

"Deal," she giggled a little bit and swiped at her eyes one last time. "I love you, Ezio," she said, grasping his neck and pulling him down to her lips.

"Love you, too," he muttered against her mouth.

Two days later, things went to shit.

Margherita returned from training with Machiavelli to find Ezio leaning on the counter of the brothel. She smiled and greeted him with a kiss. His entire stance was relaxed and content. It was like everything was falling into place so perfectly and everything hesitation she had had earlier in their marriage was gone. He slid his hand around her waist and pulled her close.

"I have a surprise," he muttered into her ear. "You're going to be very, very happy."

She followed him out into the courtyard, into the main city, down a few passages and then around a corner. A cloaked man was sitting on a bench, watching the water silently. She watched as Ezio approached the man from behind and sat upon the bench next to the man. They embraced and then Ezio turned to Margherita, "Come here!"

The cloaked man turned to glance at her and she saw his face clearly: Leonardo!

Instantly, she was at his side, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. She remembered with crushing clarity when she had left his house, remembered him telling her she could not come back. And yet – here he was!

"Margherita," he greeted, pulling away and grasping her hands. But his grip was too tight and she let out a yelp. Instantly, he let her go and upturned her hands. "Margherita! What happened?"

She had advanced up to weapons a while ago and the sword Machiavelli let her use was resulting in blisters. He had told her it was perfectly normal to have calluses and blisters and should they pop open and bleed, she should simply bandage them up and keep going. A few had popped that day and she had had every intention of bandaging them up when she got home from training, but she had gotten intercepted by Ezio. She hadn't thought of that until now.

Ezio came to stand next to them, worrying over her hand. "Margherita, what happened?" he echoed his friend's words.

There wasn't much she could say, so she said nothing. Leonardo frowned at her, as he realized a few things: these were sword blisters, Ezio didn't know what they were, so she hadn't told her husband what she was up to.

But slowly, Ezio's brain clicked into place. He reached out and upturned his own hand right next to hers, still clutched in Leonardo's grasp. She watched as he compared the patterns on their hands and how they matched up near perfectly now.

"The bruises, the fatigue, and now this…" he muttered. "I… I had thought that Claudia and I were overworking you and that perhaps you were sick…" His voice was soft, like a child's. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, his hands reached up and roughly cupped her breasts. He squeezed experimentally and without any kind of gentleness. Then, he wheeled her around and wrapped an arm around her stomach, measuring the width.

"What are you doing?" Leonardo asked, abashed.

"Well, I told her that I didn't want her to fight and she went ahead and learned how to fight," he explained. "We recently had a discussion about kids and so I was just making sure she hadn't gone out and disobeyed me again." Then he turned to her. "Who?" he asked. She said nothing, still. "Not one of the trainees," he decided. "So, who?"

"Machiavelli," she finally admitted softly.

Ezio was gone before she could blink. But a flash of white around the corner told her which way he had gone. She took off, following him on legs, now strong. It surprised her a bit that she was better able to keep up than she thought was possible. Her husband ended up at Machiavelli's Villa.

"You ass!" he shouted. Machiavelli poked his head out from one of the upper windows. He glanced at the assassin and then caught sight of Margherita as she came stumbling around the corner. "She is my wife! How dare you go behind my back?!"

The philosopher sighed and disappeared indoors.

"Stop this!" she demanded. Ezio didn't even look at her.

The front door opened and Machiavelli stepped forward with a sword in hand.

"Good!" Ezio snapped. "At least now you're acting like a man! Let's settle this."

"Oh," Machiavelli breathed. "You misunderstand. This sword isn't for me. I have no intention of fighting you, Ezio." And then he tossed the sword in Margherita's direction. She caught it, the weigh shifting her halfway to the right but she steadied herself.

Ezio glanced at her: his wife with a sword in her hand.

"I'm not fighting my wife," he told Machiavelli. "Put that down," he told Margherita.

But she just tightened her grasp on the sword and positioned herself just the way he had taught her.

"You're angry, Ezio," the older man rationalized. "By all means, you have every right to be. But if you want to confront the person whose idea this was, you're looking at her." He gestured to Margherita. "See what she can do."

"I will not!" Ezio raised his voice. "Margherita – put that down now."

Slowly, she let the blade in her hand droop down. It hadn't occurred to her that she wanted to fight him. Not to hurt him, not to injure him but to prove to him that she could do things. He had been the one who claimed she couldn't protect herself and here she was, sword in hand, finally confident with the weapon. She wanted him to be proud.

But… he was treating her like a child.

The blade swung up, purposefully slower than she would have normally swung it and the effect was immediate. Ezio jumped back and the clang of connecting swords rang out in the courtyard of Machiavelli's villa. The metal grit against each other as she jumped back, preparing for another attack. She swung it around coming up this time. Ezio predicted it and jutted the sword downward and away from his body.

"Margherita," he warned with dangerous softness. "Stop."

"Don't treat me like a child," she demanded.

"I will treat you like a child when you act like one," he said. But already Margherita had side-stepped him and was preparing one final swing. This time, with her anger behind it, she was able to force him to step back slightly.

"Enough," Machiavelli called out to them.

It was probably in poor taste that Margherita followed his orders and not her husbands. She turned her back on Ezio and handed the sword back to her teacher.

"Are you satisfied?" Ezio yelled. When she glanced back, she was surprised to find his face beet-red. And his eyes… they were moist. Roughly, he forced his sword into its sheath. "Not only have you ignored my request – a request I thought I had authority to make as you are my wife and I…" He took a shaky breath. "You ignored my request and then continued to hide something from me. Both of you. You, my wife, the woman I loved, lied to me again and again. And for what? So that you can show me some sword tricks? Are you satisfied?"

A single tear managed to break free and for a moment Margherita felt her whole world break apart underneath her. What had she done?

"Ezio," she tried.

"Don't!" he shouted. "And don't come back to Tiber Island. You're not my wife anymore."

And then he stalked away. Margherita let him go.

The stony courtyard ground rose up to meet her as she collapsed to her knees. It had been for him, hadn't it? She had learned how to fight so that he didn't have to worry about her – that had been her excuse, right? That was what she had always told herself. She was doing this for her husband. But here, now, she realized she had done it for herself. To prove to herself that she could and to spite Ezio. And spite him, she had. And now she had lost him.

She barely heard Machiavelli in the background wonder aloud, "Well, the marriage is legal so he can't technically say you aren't his wife anymore."

"Machiavelli," she said softly.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

And then she cried.

"You're like a ghost," Claudia finally confessed to Margherita. It had been three weeks. She had gone to the brothel and not left it the entire time. Ezio had avoided the brothel like it was hell on Earth. Of course she was like a ghost. The two were rolling bed sheets together.

"Good to know," Margherita muttered.

"I know it's hard," Claudia tried to say.

"But what?" Margherita shot back. "I'm just supposed to get over it? I'm supposed to move on and do what…? Forget him? He's my husband! And I… I did the unthinkable to him."

"So, go apologize," she suggested, not for the first time.

"It's not that simple!" Margherita exclaimed. "He said I wasn't his wife anymore. I can't… I can't face him."

"Well, you can't stay here," a new voice interrupted.

The two girls turned to find Machiavelli leaning against the doorframe. He wagged a finger at Margherita. "You've been skipping training, young lady," he accused.

"I know," she admitted, returning her attention to the bed sheet. "It didn't seem right, after…"

"After Ezio had his hissy fit?" Machiavelli suggested.

"We both know there is more to that," Margherita snapped.

"Fine," Machiavelli shrugged. "True. But I meant what I said – you can't stay here. Look at you," he gestured. "You're wasting away and all that lean muscle I put on you is shrinking away. This isn't the kind of work you want to do," he pointed to the bed sheets. "You're no maid. You're an innovator. You have a creative mind like no one I've ever met, save Leonardo. And beyond that, you have a new skill set and with it, a new job opportunity."

"What do you mean?" She didn't mean to sound nearly that interested but her voice betrayed her and so did her hands as they let go of the bed sheet.

"You're an assassin," he clarified.

"Bullshit," she snarked, returning to her work.

"I gave you the same training I give the trainees," he explained. "According to the skill tests, you would be eligible to go on your first mission. A low-ranking one, of course. But an assassination nonetheless."

Margherita twisted this around in her head.

"Hey," Machiavelli finally got her attention. "Ezio has put me in charge of paper work. I can slip you in there unnoticed, under a new name. It would be a fresh start and break from this place."

But still she hesitated.

"Think about it," he suggested.

Three months later, Franca Recci pulled her white novice hood up to cover her blonde hair. The Turkish sun was playing gently at her freckled skin. And she clenched her scarred hand tight, preparing herself to face her first assassination.