August 17, 1503

Roma, Italy

"You are looking well."

Catherine looked up from her desk, ever flooded with papers and maps and books, to regard her companion. It had been many years now that she'd known Niccolò Machiavelli, and it was only now that he seemed to finally be showing even the tiniest bit of his age. Granted, he wasn't yet forty—she mentally sent a bit of empathy for her husband, who hated he'd hit such a number—but he had begun to show a few wrinkles in his brow, and she swore she could see a bit of gray in his short hair. To be fair, he had a rather stressful life, courting the Borgia while being aligned with the Assassins. He kept them safe from the court's eyes, all while risking his own—and his family. His first—a daughter—wasn't even a year, and it seemed his wife was with child again already. She knew the pain, though, and yet not at all. He led a far different role than she did in the Order, and never wished to take his.

"You look tired," she chuckled, standing up to greet him with a warm clasp of their arms.

He chuckled, "It seems even my servants are stretched thin between the house and the needs of my wife—I have decided to take it upon myself to care for my little Primerana in their stead. It is... more difficult than I realized. Certainly, you mothers are indominable creatures."

"How else do you think we stand you incorrigible men?" she snickered back, earning a laugh.

"Ah, that does indeed explain it. Are you sure you would not rather be a politician of the court than an Assassin of the Order? You would do well."

She waved him off with a laugh, "God, no. I have no taste for the courts. It's too pompous and back-stabbing. Okay, so being an Assassin means a lot of that, but it's physical. Politics involves too much deceit for my taste. I prefer to be honest. Bluntly so."

"As you have proven time and time again. Ah, but you are right. You are better suited as a Mentor of the Order. You and Ezio both had made it more than I could have ever hoped. You two are, perhaps, some of the best Assassins to come from our Brotherhood."

"Well, Ezio is. I'm still not back in it—just the trainer and, uh, 'information master'. I'd say spymaster, but that's not right," she chuckled, motioning to her cluttered desk.

"Come now, you truly believe you were ever not an Assassin?" he mused, almost wryly.

She raised a brow, "I did tell Ezio I couldn't be one—not until I'd proven myself again."

"Of course, and yet you did great work with the Banker, the French general, and Micheletto."

"Ezio needed my help—I told him he could ask if need be, since I have more experience than my students."

"So, you have said, but did you truly think you were not one of us?" the man pressed, and this time there was a certain look to his eyes. She opened her mouth to retort but bit her lip for a moment.

"I was unworthy of it. I broke the tenants."

"Oh? And which of them did you break? Have you killed innocents? Have you exposed the Brotherhood? Did you bring harm?"

"Yes—I got my students hurt last year."

"Micheletto had already planned to destroy you, and it was a spy you and Ezio rooted out that threatened our Brotherhood. By all means, you broke no tenants. And there have plenty of great Assassins before you that broke all three and yet remain. Altair himself was such a man, and yet we revere him."

She wanted to reply, but bit her lip again instead, ".... Dammit. You're right. Can't I at least believe I was able to do so?"

"What good would that do, my friend?" he smiled, wryly this time.

"Touché. Okay, but now: what brings you here? You don't normally just visit, what with politics and your busy family life now."

"No, it is not just a visit, although I do miss the company of you and your family. I have come because it is time we truly made the Order complete."

"What do you mean?"

"Every Brotherhood has a Mentor—a leader."

She raised a brow, "Aren't Ezio and I already that?"

"In a way, yes—but not in the same sense. Truthfully, only the leader of the Order should be called 'Mentor', but you were also their teacher, so it was not wrong to do so... but now we must have someone at the head—someone to not just teach and lead us, but also to represent us. To guide us—and those of us to come. Someone that any and all with look to when the time comes. Someone who has proven worthy above all others."

"Sounds almost like you have someone in mind already," the redhead chuckled, leaning back against the table.

"I do... but I felt it wise to council with you first."

"Ezio," she smiled, nodding. "He's been the leader since the beginning anyways."

"You have been as well."

She shook her head, "No, I've never been the leader. I was a teacher, but not a leader. I only taught them to survive, not how to become great. Ezio did that, and he helped make the Brotherhood in the first place. Because of him, we're as strong as we are."

"Then we are in agreement—no offense to you, of course," the man hummed, but she waved off his concern.

"None taken. Although, I admit... I'm a bit surprised you think so highly of him. You always act a bit at odds."

"I suppose I do," he chuckled, pausing in his thoughts for a moment before he continued, "We did not part from Monteriggioni on good terms, but I have always stood by him—and you of course. But it was I who brought him to Roma when I found him on the road. It was I who caused the explosion as he Castello to allow your Assassins to escape—"

"Wait, you caused that explosion? I heard vague mentions, but..."

He chuckled, "Yes, it was I, and it allowed time for all of us to get away. And the extra mercenaries at the Colosseo? They were my own, too. You both just... did not know it."

"You're quite the sneaky one, Niccolò. I guess you are a politician after all. Not that I'm complaining. Don't suppose you'll have more tricks up your sleeve?"

"I might," he hummed nonchalantly.

Catherine smirked, "So... when will you make it happen?"

"I will bestow the rank upon him during Claudia's induction tonight."

"Ah, that's a perfect time. So, he doesn't know then?"

"No, I felt it best to keep it secret for now. I wished to seek your approval first."

"You didn't need to," Catherine chuckled, but Niccolò shook his head with a smile.

"No, it was necessary. It would have been an insult to you if I did not."

She smiled, "You are too kind, Niccolò. I am honored to call you my friend."

"As am I. Now, I shall interrupt you no longer," he chuckled, bowing his head respectfully before turning to go. He paused, though, to glance back, "Oh, and if you could perhaps let this conversation remain between us?"

Catherine blinked, surprised, then laughed, "Don't worry, I won't let him know you've saved his ass. And, of course, I won't mention his promotion. I do love surprising that big oaf."

"And I will keep that between us as well," Niccolò hummed, his lip twitching upward, and the redhead laughed again.

-O-

Catherine stood beside Ezio, watching as Niccolò Machiavelli spoke the words of their creed, addressing the crowd of Assassins—some full-fledged, others in training. She glanced up at her husband, saw his gaze was ahead at the young woman standing next to the nobleman. Claudia, adorned, not in a dress, but her own Assassin gear. A dark-red tunic etched with gold and mixed with a white-sleeved shirt beneath. Her hair was pulled back in a way the redhead had not seen before, and her usually ornaments were gone, replaced with her favorite dagger and a short cloak. It was like an entirely different woman, and Catherine thought it suited her. She looked so proud, too—though, not so much as her brother or her mother, who stood on the other side of Niccolò, both present and not. This was her daughter's moment, and a greater one for her family. The smile on her face—more wrinkled than Catherine remembered, and her hair a little more gray, yet still pristine—was bright and reached her tired, but still strong eyes. At her side, Federico and Giovanni grinned almost impishly, no doubt enjoying the sight of their mother so fierce and strong. Ottavio, Catherine imagined, would have grinned just the same, and been infinitely prouder of his wife.

The redhead looked to Claudia as Niccolò finished his words, the nobleman also turning his gaze upon the young woman. In the crowd, La Volpe and Bartolomeo stood with the others, and they, too, looked to the young woman.

"Claudia," Ezio began, meeting her eyes firmly, "We here dedicate our lives to protecting the freedom of humanity. Mario, our father, and brother once stood around this fire, fighting off the darkness. Now, I offer the choice to you. Join us."

He held out his hand, which she didn't hesitate to take. Her brother led her to the fire where a pair of tongs had been left to heat. The metal glowed now as Niccolò lifted it, reaching towards the hand Claudia had given. To her credit—Catherine beamed with pride—she only winced. Some of the men had cried out during this part, but she was strong. She always had been, and now the others could see it in full. She'd want ointment for the burn later, but she would wear it with pride. Catherine knew she herself did, although a glove covered her hand most of the time. The redhead grinned as she came up as Claudia moved back and nudged her gently. Her sister-in-law raised a brow, but then smiled right back.

"You and I have not seen eye-to-eye on many things," Niccolò's voice echoed, and the redhead looked over just in time to see the nobleman jabbed a finger at her husband. She held her grin back, having a good idea what was coming.

Ezio half-sighed, "Niccolò..."

"But you were exactly what the Order needed. You have led the charge against the Templars and both you and Catherine rebuilt this Brotherhood," he spoke up, pausing to turn and address the crowd. He gestured to the Assassin, "Now, we must put Ezio where he belongs: at the head of the Assassins."

"I second that," Catherine spoke up, stepping forward. She faced the crowd, "Are their any who would oppose?"

Silence was her answer, and she couldn't help her grin as she gave the floor back to the nobleman.

He stood proper, arms clasped behind his back, "Ezio Auditore da Firenze. You will now be known formally as The Mentor, the guardian of our order and our secrets."

Niccolò bowed to his friend, bringing a small smile to the Assassin's face. He looked to his wife, whom smiled more wryly. A knowing look passed his face as he turned to face his comrades and fellow Assassins. It was both strange and yet right to stand before them all as he was. He couldn't help chuckling at the thought of what his father might think, to see his son a leader.

"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember..."

Nothing is true, their voices echoed as one.

"Where other men are limited by morality and law, remember..."

Everything is permitted.

It was done, and a round of cheer went up. Ezio chuckled, almost shyly—not that he knew the word—and Catherine felt only overwhelming pride as she came up beside him to take his hand. He turned towards her, grinning.

"Don't worry, you can still call me Ezio."

"Oh? Really? You're too kind," she snorted with a laugh. "But, really... congrats. You earned it. I'm proud of you, and proud to be by your side."

"As am I of you... and with you back to being a proper Assassin—Machiavelli told me—I don't doubt we can take on anything. Even Cesare."

"Damn straight. But for now... we need to celebrate Claudia's big day—after her Leap, of course," Catherine grinned, glancing over where Claudia was caught in the midst of her sons' arms, trapped in a fierce bear hug.

"Yes, this is a grand day to celebrate, and nothing is going to get into the way of it," Ezio chuckled, bringing his wife's hand up to plant a kiss. "Now, shall we?"

-O-

August 18, 1503

Roma, Italy

"You're lucky we were prepared and had everyone gathered last night."

Ezio glanced at his wife, but only for the moment before returning his eyes to the courtyard below. They'd just finished scaling the ramparts to the main fortress walls, but their attention had been pulled back to the main gate when a man in red came billowing through, his horse going as fast as it could. They knew the man anywhere, and so kept a close eye as he shoved his way past his guards through the main gate.

Cesare Borgia.

As their thief informant had told them last night—right before celebrations, too—the Borgia was on his way back to Roma. He came alone, for some reason, but they had a good idea as to why he'd made the journey. They'd taken away his money, destroyed his French allies, and silenced his dog. He had lost a good chunk of power, and now he had to come back to try and scavenge more. Whatever the case, it was the perfect opportunity for the two Assassins to take him out.

They thankfully had time to rest their bodies before the sun rose, lest Catherine was sure she might be yawning right about now. Any celebration was cut short with promise to continue another night as they began to make quick plans: Catherine and Ezio would infiltrate the walls by themselves, thankfully less guarded and secured than before thanks to the lack of funds. Outside, their Assassins would be at the ready to come flying in to help in case it was needed. Courtesans and mercenaries were in the know-how, and thieves were couriering messages between everyone. It would probably be their only shot in a long while to kill the bastard, so they were keen to take it.

"Hmm looks like he's heading for the top of the Castel. Thankfully, we don't need to climb this time—the keys the actor gave us will let us in through the side door," Ezio hummed, scanning around the corner for guards.

"Good, that climb was awful the first time. Let's hurry then—we don't know how long we'll have. We have to take down Cesare now," Catherine replied, touching her husband's arm. He only nodded and motioned her forward.

More guards awaited them on their new path, but it involved far less climbing, which was a relief. Luck was on their side, though; the loss of funds had left the fortress not nearly as heavily guarded as before. Cesare possibly pulled some away to the war effort as well, making their journey to the door much easier than she expected. It was almost unprecedented they weren't waylaid greatly in some way or attacked the moment they opened the towering, wooden door.

It was then Catherine understood why—they had a far more rigorous climb within the Castel. The doors, unfortunately, led to what made her think of a basement and had plenty of weapons and other items set into storage. None of the doors in the room were open, locked tight. Indeed, the only way to go anywhere was up.

"God, I hate our job sometimes," the redhead sighed, prepping herself for scaling the walls. They both paused, though, when an echo reached their ears—that of a voice. A feminine one.

"I do not understand. I ordered a fresh batch of la cantarella last night."

Another one, male, spoke up, "I am terribly sorry, My Lady, but the Pope has taken it."

"Let's hurry," Ezio rumbled, taking a running start. Catherine soon followed, but kept her ears focused on the voices as they continued.

"Where is the Pope?"

"He meets with Cesare."

"Strange. He did not tell me Cesare had returned," the woman—Lucrezia, Catherine realized, hummed, and then she was not heard again. It was only the soldier complaining.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

So many questions now. Cantarella was a poison as far as the redhead knew, and the Pope—Rodrigo—had taken it? He was meeting with Cesare, too, and had told no one. What was going on?

There was no time to ponder as they hoisted up to the floor above and had to contend with the soldiers there. It wasn't too terribly difficult to surprise them with Blades to their throats and chests, and from there their path continued, ascending up to upper levels. Catherine vaguely recalled where to go, but her husband's memory proved better, having scoured it thoroughly over his two infiltrations. It wasn't easy, of course, and many locked doors stood in their way. Ultimately, they had to breach the courtyard that Catherine had nearly killed Lucrezia to find any sort of passage above. It was there that they heard her voice yet again—and Cesare's.

"Give me the Apple! It is mine, not yours!" he bellowed, almost like a beast. His sister let out a shriek as she began to sob. Pleas and cries of pain came from her, her brother doing something seemingly terrible. Despite her hate for the woman, Catherine felt a pang of sympathy—and worry. Cesare had to be mad.

"Alright—I will tell you! Please stop, Cesare!" she yelped, and it became quiet.

"Smart decision, little sister."

Catherine looked to her husband, "Hurry."

They scaled the walls as quick as they could, making a beeline for the only open window where the voices had come from. It had gone dangerously quiet in the room, and as they hoisted themselves over, the reason became quite clear: Cesare was gone, Rodrigo Borgia was dead, and Lucrezia had collapsed against the wall, a sobbing mess with bruises already forming around her throat.

Catherine hated her. She did. But even she felt pity at the sight of the woman. She'd truly loved her brother, regardless of how vile a love it was, and he had hurt her in all ways. He did not love her, just as she had burned into the woman's mind all those years ago. Worse still, her father was dead. Oh, he no doubt only used her as a tool, but he had been family, and now he, too, was lost to her. She was alone.

"Rest in peace," Ezio spoke softly, kneeling beside the Pope. He closed the man's eyes gently, giving a kind of respect many might not expect of him. In some ways, Catherine almost didn't and a part of herself still hated him, too, but she remembered he had pitied her during her imprisonment. He was not the same man they'd fought, even if it was only because he was too tired. Too old. Still, the hatred felt deflated in the face of his death, brought on by his own blood. In a way, it was fitting. Evil beget evil, and he reaped what he had sown.

So why was it this "victory" felt so hollow?

"Are you alright?" she finally spoke, looking to Lucrezia, whom regarded her sharply. Shock was there, in her eyes, but so much more was pain.

"Do not patronize me. Do not dare. I don't want your fucking pity! Besides, I know you only came for Cesare...," she rasped and coughed, tears pooling into her eyes before her expression became dark—vindictive. "I know where that bastard is going. San Pietro... the pavilion in the courtyard."

"Thank-you," her husband spoked gently and moved towards the open doors. Catherine turned to follow, but paused and looked back to the blonde-haired woman. With the wolf gone, it was hard to see her as she once had. The woman before her was a pitiful creature, used and abused and thrown aside. That was not a fate for someone like her, even if she could be