Niccolò struggles against the blade, but moving any sort of way only makes it dig deeper into the skin. There is already a sharp sting coming from his throat, and he knows he’ll have to hide the mark somehow when he goes out now. His attacker scowls at him and pins his other arm down by the wrist. “Do not make any rash moves, signor. I do not want to mar your handsome face more than I have to.”

And there’s something in that voice, something in the dark gaze of this man that makes Niccolò think of a boy. A boy who he hid with in dark alleys when they got into trouble with the merchants down at the dock or with the other thieves that had realized too late that someone had stolen from them (”I can’t help it, Niccolò. Bad habits die hard.) The attacker has a hood up, but this close Niccolò can see the dark hair cut to his chin, and a scar along the man’s jaw, creeping towards his ear.

(Niccolò remembers a knife thrown and hitting its mark. There was blood, too much blood, so much more than Niccolò had seen before. It had not healed well.)

“It can’t be,” Niccolò murmurs, forgetting for a moment that there is a knife at his throat. He sees his attacker narrowing his eyes, but the hand on Niccolò‘s wrist does not slacken. If anything it tightens, and Niccolò grimaces. “Gilberto?”

The man leaning on him pushes slightly against Niccolò’s throat. “How do you—” His mouth falls open as his eyes widen, canvasing every part of Niccolò’s face. He pushes off Niccolò as if their touch has burned him, but the knife stays in Gilberto’s hand. “Cazzo,” he breathes.

Niccolò lets out a laugh that scratches at his throat. “Good to see you too, amico mio.”

“Don’t fucking laugh, bastardo,” Gilberto spits, and Niccolò frowns. They both know who the bastard is, but this is neither the time nor place because suddenly he is being pulled into an embrace. He never was one for touch, for even the embrace of his family. It had always upset Niccolò’s mother, though she tried not to show her son that. But Gilberto was not family. 

It was only Ezio who got the satisfyingly dramatic conclusion to the saga of Cesare Borgia’s reign of terror. While he got to enjoy tossing Cesare off the walls of a fortress, Machiavelli got paperwork, and paperwork, and then an added helping of, yes, more paperwork. For nearly two weeks after the news of Cesare’s death made it to Rome, all Machiavelli did was write, fielding not only the startled inquiries of the brotherhood and their allies but also frantically penning dispatches back to the Signoria in Florence, advising about their next course of action. Paradoxically, Cesare’s death weakened the Templar Order and strengthened the position of the Papal States, whose newest pope, one Giuliano della Rovere, could sleep easy in his bed for the first time in over a decade. That meant that his sharp mind could turn from worrying about Cesare’s knife in his back to the knives he himself could put in the backs of others. Excellent news for della Rovere. Bad news for Florence.

While Ezio took his sweet time sauntering back from Vianna, savoring his victory—and even Machiavelli would begrudgingly admit that he’d earned it—Machiavelli found himself in the unenviable position of keeping the rest of Italy on course without compromising either Florence or the brotherhood’s interests.  He was tired beyond tired of those interests butting heads, tired of straddling Rome and Florence and simultaneously trying to keep Ezio from burning the whole country down and also trying to appease the Signoria and the Ten of War, whose expectations of him were fast outstripping what was commensurate of any single man’s abilities (to say nothing of his paycheck).

“Settle our relationship to the papacy, Machia,” he muttered to himself, scathingly. “Make gestures of friendship to France, Machia. Oh, and there is the matter of the Milanese and the Romagna and Venetians all slavering over our territories, and of course Pisa is in open rebellion, again, and while you’re at it, Florence still lacks a standing army, Machia!”

Machiavelli paused midway through a letter to his senior, Marcello Adriani, tapping his pen against the paper and leaving behind a great blot of ink over a particularly inventive curse he’d been using to describe a “collaborator who prefers to remain anonymous” (read: Ezio). It was time Florence had an armed citizenry. Long past time, in fact. That lack had nearly been the death of the republic when French arms swept through Florence in 1494, back when Machiavelli had been young and without office and powerless to affect any kind of meaningful change in the city he loved. But that was no longer the case. Cesare was gone, the Borgia court dismantled, which meant Rome was no longer any of his concern. And if the Signoria tried to send him back to the holy city, God help them all.

The hideout’s door suddenly banged open, and Machiavelli jumped, spilling a container of ink all over his dispatch. He was still swearing when la Volpe came charging down the stairs, his dark eyes wide and bright and his face split into a wide smile.

“Cesare Borgia is dead!” he announced, coming to a halt in front of Machiavelli’s desk, and threw his arms in the air.

Machiavelli stared at him. After a lengthy pause, he frowned and said, “Are you drunk?”

“Entirely sober! Borgia really is gone! Ezio killed him in Vianna—threw him off a bridge!”

“It was the wall of a fortress, actually. And it was two weeks ago.”

Volpe’s smile faltered. “What?”

“I said it was two weeks ago.” Machiavelli dropped his ruined dispatch into the bin beneath his desk and pulled a fresh sheaf of paper close. He rummaged in his desk for a fresh container of ink.

“That’s…” Volpe lowered himself into the chair across the desk, his mouth agape. “Two weeks ago? How am I just now learning of it, then?”

“I don’t know, Gilberto,” Machiavelli said, his tone sarcastic and biting, “perhaps you should attempt to report to the hideout more often, or, dare I say it, even stay in one place long enough that any of my previous twenty letters might have reached you.”

“Two weeks,” Volpe repeated again, his voice faint. “Christ. Where’s Ezio?”

“He hasn’t yet returned. I had a letter from him a few days ago assuring me that he is, in fact, returning.”

“Was that in doubt?”

“It’s Ezio,” Machiavelli said, as if that explained all, and really, it did. He uncapped the ink and saturated his pen, then began rewriting his letter to Marcello.

La Volpe pushed his hood back and ran a hand through his hair. It was beginning to grey at the roots, Machiavelli observed, and he found that surprised him a little. “What have you been doing?”

“Offering my custodial services to the whole of Italia,” Machiavelli muttered. When Volpe stared at him, puzzled, he sighed and waved a hand. “Cleaning up Ezio’s mess.”

“Mess? What mess? A tyrant who plagued all of Italy is finally slain! Why are people not celebrating in the streets?”

“Because as fast as one tyrant falls, five rise up to replace him.” Machiavelli flipped his page over and shook out his hand before taking up the pen again.

“Perhaps as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Will you stop writing for a minute?” Volpe demanded, and reached across the desk to grasp Machiavelli’s wrist. Machiavelli snapped his head up, glaring, and Volpe sighed. “We’ve finally killed the most powerful man in the Templar Order. They’re reeling. We’ve secured the Apple of Eden. We saved the world, Niccolò.”

“We ended the tyranny of an ex-cardinal who failed to mind his pen and pocketbook as well as he minded his sword,” Machiavelli said flatly. “And all manner of princes both just and cruel scramble over one another to occupy his petty throne. Shall we drunkenly celebrate our minor victory while those snakes slither in the dark?”

Volpe smiled, and it was a bitter thing, and sad. “You’ll drive yourself to madness, amico, if you don’t learn to savor even those minor victories.”

Machiavelli snorted and bent back over his dispatch. “I envy you the luxury of your time, Gilberto, but some of us have republics to defend.”

Volpe was quiet for a long moment—and then he lunged forward, seized the letter, and darted to the other side of the room with it held high over his head. Machiavelli stared at him, open-mouthed, pen still poised to jot the next word.

“What are you doing?”

Volpe took a step backward, toward the fireplace at the other side of the room. Machiavelli twitched. “Nothing.”

“Don’t you dare. You’ve already made me restart once.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Volpe said, and took another step toward the fire.

Machiavelli got to his feet. “Gilberto.”

“Niccolò?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I have neither the time nor the patience for your childishness. Give it back.”

Volpe was at the fireplace now. He held the letter toward its yawning stony mouth, his eyebrows arched. “Give what back?”

Machiavelli circled his desk, growling. “God damn it, Gilberto, stop teasing.”

“Come here then, and take it from me, if you want it so badly.”

Volpe’s hand threatened toward the fire, and Machiavelli lunged at him. He should have known better than to think he’d be successful in snatching it from the finest thief Italy had ever known, but Machiavelli was nothing if not ambitious. Volpe flicked it out of his reach as easily as a parent might deny a child a treat, and then the thief’s other arm was around his waist, pulling him in close, and Volpe’s mouth was on his. Machiavelli drew up short, startled both by the suddenness of the kiss and by its intensity. Volpe’s other hand—God only knew where he’d put down the missive, probably down the back of his hose, with Machiavelli’s luck—wound tight in his hair, cradled the nape of his neck.

Volpe drew back, smiling into Machiavelli’s stunned expression, and then leaned forward to kiss his slack mouth again. There was such heat in that kiss, so unapologetic, and Machiavelli felt it like a current that travelled from his lips to his toes. He surprised even himself when he leaned into it, seizing handfuls of Volpe’s cloak and pulling him closer, and when Volpe’s lips parted around a soft, pleased note of surprise, Machiavelli swept his tongue into the older man’s mouth.

Volpe grabbed him and turned him around, pressing him against the nearest wall, and Machiavelli let him, growling and tangling his hands in the thief’s hair to tug him down for a kiss that turned rough, almost brutal. Volpe’s mouth was slick and warm, and Machiavelli plundered it with a hunger that surprised even him. When they parted, breathless, panting wetly, Volpe’s eyes were wild and that mouth was grinning. Machiavelli groaned and leaned close, bit gently at the thief’s lower lip.

“Why now?” he murmured, and gathered Volpe’s hair in his hand, tipped the thief’s head back. Volpe let him, and Machiavelli leaned in to caress the older man’s racing pulse with his mouth. “After all this time?”

Volpe chucked, throat vibrating against Machiavelli’s tongue. “Would you have let me kiss you while Cesare Borgia still drew breath?”

“No,” Machiavelli admitted. “But God, the time he’s stolen from us.”

“We have time yet.” Volpe cupped Machiavelli’s face in his hands and tilted his chin up, brought him close for a kiss that was very nearly tender. “Perhaps all the time in the world—which we saved, by the way, in case you’d forgotten.”

“For a moment,” Machiavelli reminded him.