Short Chapter (Sorry😅)
***
Florence smelled different at dawn.
Not the kind of fresh, hopeful scent people wax poetic about. No, this was the grim, metallic stench of blood waiting in the wings. The streets were unusually quiet, like the city itself was holding its breath, too afraid to see what the sun would reveal.
I moved across the rooftops like a shadow wearing a hoodie of paranoia, eyes flicking from one chimney to another. Below, in the labyrinthine alleys of Santa Croce, guards were mobilizing. No alarms. No trumpets. Just the slow tightening of a noose.
It was time to disappear.
Ezio hadn't come home. Federico had likely been caught already. I had stayed behind only long enough to confirm it. Father was gone—taken quietly, efficiently, and cruelly.
And now I had a city full of Templars who either wanted me dead or extra dead, which is a status somewhere between "killed by sword" and "public execution while someone reads your bank account aloud."
So, naturally, I did what any sensible reincarnated Assassin fan would do: I made my way to a brothel.
Yes. That brothel.
Because I wasn't looking for comfort—I was looking for the Guildmistress of the Thieves, the Queen of Shadows herself.
Paola.
And no, this wasn't just fanboy indulgence. Okay, maybe 20 percent. But mostly, it was strategy.
The sun was barely cresting over the rooftops as I landed silently in a courtyard tucked between two narrow streets. Ivy curled around the arches, flowers spilled over balconies, and laughter echoed faintly within.
I knocked.
Twice—short, sharp, deliberate.
The door cracked open. A woman's eyes peered out. Sharp. Measured.
"Not taking clients today, ragazzo," she said flatly, starting to close the door.
"Good. I didn't bring coin. Only drama," I replied with a small smirk. "Also, a strong desire not to die horribly before lunch."
A pause.
The door opened wider.
"...Dante Auditore?" she asked, voice cautious.
"In the flesh," I said, stepping inside. "Well, mostly in the flesh. My spirit's been pacing nervously for the last two hours."
She shut the door behind me and turned. The interior was a swirl of perfume, velvet, and warm lanternlight. Women moved like ghosts through silk curtains, some casting curious glances my way.
But she was unmistakable.
Paola.
Mid-thirties, regal in posture, dagger-eyed, with a presence like a dagger wrapped in lace. She wasn't beautiful in a traditional sense—she was dangerous in one. The kind of woman who could teach a man to kiss with one hand and slit his throat with the other.
"Follow me," she said, not waiting to see if I would.
She led me through the inner chambers into a quieter back room, lit only by a single oil lamp. Maps. Notes. A short sword leaning against a desk.
"You're early," she said, finally turning to face me fully.
I raised an eyebrow. "I was unaware you had a calendar marked 'Meet traumatized teenager with tragic backstory'."
A twitch of a smile ghosted across her lips. "No. But your father told me to expect one of you. I assumed Ezio."
I exhaled slowly, removing my hood. "Ezio's… indisposed. Probably mid-chase or mid-makeout. I'm the other one. The 'responsible disappointment.'"
Paola crossed her arms. "Giovanni's arrest happened hours ago. Rumors are already spreading. And you're here now. Which means you didn't just survive… you planned for this."
I met her gaze. "Petruccio, Claudia, and my mother were sent to Monteriggioni last night. Federico was the last to leave… I fear he didn't make it."
Paola's expression hardened. "And your father?"
"Taken. Alive… for now. But they're staging a public execution. I heard it with my own ears."
That silence returned—the heavy kind. The kind that only ever comes before someone says something permanent.
"You want to rescue them," she stated.
"No," I replied.
She blinked. "No?"
"I want to outmaneuver the bastards. Rescue, yes, eventually. But if I try to storm the Palazzo della Signoria alone, I'd die faster than a redshirt in the first five minutes of a sci-fi movie."
She tilted her head. "Redshirt?"
"Never mind. Lost reference."
She circled me now, her eyes inspecting everything—my stance, my breathing, my fear I tried not to show. She was testing.
"I need to learn how to move among the people," I said. "Blend. Disappear. If Uberto thinks I'm just another thread to clip, I need to become the ghost that unravels the whole damn tapestry."
Paola nodded slowly. "You've done your homework."
I chuckled darkly. "You could say I cheated on the test. With a future walkthrough."
Another confused glance.
She walked to the wall and pulled down a cloak of faded grey. Not ornate, but practical. A hood. Layers. Hidden pockets.
She tossed it to me.
"Put this on. Let's begin."
Training with Paola was not glamorous.
It was exhausting, humiliating, and weirdly empowering. We walked the markets—me dressed like a novice monk, trying to blend into crowds. Paola watched from rooftops, correcting every twitch, every misplaced glance.
"No eye contact," she snapped. "You're not here. You're a rumor in the wind."
"Got it. Be boring. Channel my inner tax accountant," I mumbled.
"Your what?"
"Again. Just me being me. You'll get used to it. Or commit murder."
By mid-morning, I had learned how to blend into moving groups, how to sit still for long stretches, and how to walk like I didn't have a vengeance-fueled checklist waiting in my soul.
I made a few jokes—mostly dark ones.
When we passed a butcher's stall, I muttered, "That's going to be me if I screw up. One chop, and boom, medieval kebab."
Paola didn't respond. The lady next to me slowly inched away.
When I mentioned hiding bodies in haystacks, a group of nuns gave me the side-eye.
Note to self: Renaissance Italy doesn't do gallows humor.
We returned to the brothel as the sun reached its peak. My legs ached, my back throbbed, and I smelled like anxiety and Florence's worst alley.
Paola offered a glass of wine. I downed it in one gulp.
"You've got potential," she said finally.
"I'm touched," I replied. "That was almost a compliment."
"It was."
"Oh no, I feel warmth in my chest. Am I… experiencing validation? Kill it. Kill it quickly."
She didn't laugh. But her lips twitched again.
That was a win.
Before I left, she handed me a ring. Simple. Silver. Engraved with a symbol I recognized from the Assassin Brotherhood.
"It's not time yet," she said. "But when it is—when the city turns on its own, and the bells toll for the innocent—wear this. You'll be family."
I accepted it solemnly.
[System Notification: Quest Item Obtained – Paola's Token of Trust]
[New Passive Skill Unlocked – Blending Arts]
You blend faster into crowds. Detection range reduced when surrounded by civilians.
As I stepped out into the alley once more, the weight of my path pressed heavier against my shoulders. But now, I wasn't just running.
I was preparing.
Let the city burn its illusions.
Let Uberto plan his betrayal.
Let the people watch the executions.
Because when the ashes settle, and the shadows rise…
They'll whisper my name.
And this time, the story won't be theirs to tell.