The sun hung low in the sky, painting the streets of Florence in a warm, honeyed glow as Ezio made his way to the Palazzo. His steps were light, almost jaunty, buoyed by the anticipation of seeing you again. It had been too long since your last meeting — nearly a fortnight. An eternity, it seemed, when one's heart was so full of longing.

He rounded the corner, the Palazzo coming into view at last. But as he drew nearer, his stride faltered, a frown tugging at his lips. There, descending the front steps with an air of smug satisfaction, was none other than Rodrigo Borgia. The Templar bastardo himself. The afternoon breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine from a nearby garden, but it did nothing to sweeten the bitter taste in Ezio's mouth at the sight of the man.

Ezio's fists clenched at his sides, jaw tightening until it ached. What business could Borgia possibly have here? At your family home? A dozen scenarios flashed through his mind, each more unsettling than the last. The heavy wooden door of the Palazzo creaked softly on its hinges as Borgia departed, his expensive velvet cloak swishing loudly against the stone steps.

Ezio forced himself to take a deep breath, uncurling his fingers one by one. He couldn't let Borgia rattle him. With effort, he schooled his features into a mask of calm indifference, resuming his approach to the Palazzo at a more sedate pace. Borgia seemed not to notice him, too caught up in his own self-importance to pay any mind to the world around him.

Ezio waited until the Templar had disappeared around the corner before mounting the steps himself, rapping his knuckles against the heavy oak door. His heart hammered against his ribs, a staccato beat of anxiety and anticipation. The door swung open to reveal Agnolo, your most trusted servant.

"Messer Ezio," the older man greeted with a bow. "Welcome. I'm afraid you've just missed our other guest."

"Yes, I saw," Ezio managed, hoping his voice sounded warmer than he felt. "Rodrigo Borgia, was it not? I didn't realize he and your family were so well acquainted."

Agnolo's expression remained carefully neutral. "The Borgia are an influential family, Messer. It is not uncommon for them to pay social calls on the nobility of Firenze."

Ezio murmured his agreement, feeling foolish. He was overreacting, seeing shadows where there were none. Borgia's presence here meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. Because the alternative...

"You are in the salon," Agnolo said, gesturing down the hall. Ezio nodded, needing a moment to compose himself before facing you. The familiar scent of the Palazzo washed over him — beeswax candles and aged parchment, underscored by the faint perfume of your favorite flowers. Usually comforting, today it only heightened his unease.

Squaring his shoulders, Ezio strode down the hall toward the salon. The door stood ajar, spilling warm light into the corridor. He paused on the threshold, steeling himself before pushing it open.

You stood by the window, your back to him, silhouetted against the dying light. Ezio's heart clenched at the sight of you, love and fear warring in his chest.

"Buonasera," he said, hating the coldness in his voice.