He kissed her hand, smiling at her charming expression of outrage.
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean that,” Ezio said mildly. He sympathized, however, with Cesare’s hesitance. It had pained Ezio considerably when Maria married, a bizarre possessiveness making him irritable all through the proceedings. The arrival of adorable grandchildren softened the loss.
“We should go,” Cesare said. Lizzy helped him stand, handing him his cane with the carved wolf’s head. “I should like to show Liza more of Rome before we leave.”
Desmond watched them go. Ezio sighed, finding his wine cup mysteriously empty. He followed the Bertrams into his home, feeling an uncharacteristic jolt of delight to see young Kit and Enzo in deep conversation. They were both solemn and committed young men, and Ezio would wager his fortune that it wouldn’t be long before Enzo named the boy his apprentice. It was all, he decided confidently, as it should be.
Ezio escorted their visitors to the front door and the sloping path that led down to the street. Lizzy hugged her brother tightly, crying softly into his shoulder before touching his cheek and stepping back to let him go. Father and son held each other for much longer. Perhaps Cesare sensed, as Ezio did, that their passing would come soon, and that Kit was unlikely to see his father again. He coughed, hiding his despair, knowing that feeling and wanting desperately to reach out to Cesare. He could not. They would go and Kit would write his father. That was how it was done.
“Make me proud,” Ezio heard Cesare whisper into his son’s neck. Kit nodded, squeezing his father tightly. “Make us both proud.”
When they at last disengaged, Kit turned and looked into Ezio’s eye, his gaze as steady and unswerving as his infamous father’s. “I know what I want to be called,” the boy declared, lifting his chin yet higher as he said. “La Vespa.”
Ezio nodded, clapping him on the shoulder, “Amen. And may many an enemy know your sting.”
Desmond bolted upright, awake, nauseous, the vision crackling and splitting apart like a burning page. Sunlight cracked through the blinds, bright stripes growing along the bedspread as he groaned and rolled onto his side. Nothing like a bizarre reunion with Cesare Borgia and his lovely spawn to leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
He lay flat on his back, willing sleep to come back – without the teary goodbyes, thanks very much – and ended up staring at the ceiling for an hour. Finally, he grunted and crawled out of bed, pulling on a pair of loose gray pajama pants and wandering into the common room. It was a small apartment, “adorable” as Rebecca called. Nothing much was adorable these days, least of all their crappy accommodations. Holed up in a matchbox with Princess Emo and the inventor of the arrogant sneer, everyone frightened and despondent and missing… her. Fuck. That was a one-way ticket to Sulkville. He had to stop thinking about her. It wouldn’t bring her back.
Desmond glanced at the cheesy Transformers clock Rebecca had picked out at the corner store. The digital numbers read four in the morning, which didn’t explain his inexplicable jones for a stiff drink or the voices coming from the living room. Or sitting room, as His Royal Britishness liked to say.
Exhausted, miserable, Desmond endured the cold sting of the kitchen tiles as he bee-lined for the fridge and whatever meager goodies waited inside. Ramen. Who put fucking ramen in the fridge? Oh, right, Shaun. Snorting, Desmond pushed the noodles aside, grinning when he discovered a rogue pack of Guinness huddled behind the spoiled milk. He checked the box, no label. Funny. He didn’t remember those being there at dinner time. And he would remember unlabeled Guinness free for the taking.
In Name Alone 113/?
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean that,” Ezio said mildly. He sympathized, however, with Cesare’s hesitance. It had pained Ezio considerably when Maria married, a bizarre possessiveness making him irritable all through the proceedings. The arrival of adorable grandchildren softened the loss.
“We should go,” Cesare said. Lizzy helped him stand, handing him his cane with the carved wolf’s head. “I should like to show Liza more of Rome before we leave.”
Desmond watched them go. Ezio sighed, finding his wine cup mysteriously empty. He followed the Bertrams into his home, feeling an uncharacteristic jolt of delight to see young Kit and Enzo in deep conversation. They were both solemn and committed young men, and Ezio would wager his fortune that it wouldn’t be long before Enzo named the boy his apprentice. It was all, he decided confidently, as it should be.
Ezio escorted their visitors to the front door and the sloping path that led down to the street. Lizzy hugged her brother tightly, crying softly into his shoulder before touching his cheek and stepping back to let him go. Father and son held each other for much longer. Perhaps Cesare sensed, as Ezio did, that their passing would come soon, and that Kit was unlikely to see his father again. He coughed, hiding his despair, knowing that feeling and wanting desperately to reach out to Cesare. He could not. They would go and Kit would write his father. That was how it was done.
“Make me proud,” Ezio heard Cesare whisper into his son’s neck. Kit nodded, squeezing his father tightly. “Make us both proud.”
When they at last disengaged, Kit turned and looked into Ezio’s eye, his gaze as steady and unswerving as his infamous father’s. “I know what I want to be called,” the boy declared, lifting his chin yet higher as he said. “La Vespa.”
Ezio nodded, clapping him on the shoulder, “Amen. And may many an enemy know your sting.”
Desmond bolted upright, awake, nauseous, the vision crackling and splitting apart like a burning page. Sunlight cracked through the blinds, bright stripes growing along the bedspread as he groaned and rolled onto his side. Nothing like a bizarre reunion with Cesare Borgia and his lovely spawn to leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
He lay flat on his back, willing sleep to come back – without the teary goodbyes, thanks very much – and ended up staring at the ceiling for an hour. Finally, he grunted and crawled out of bed, pulling on a pair of loose gray pajama pants and wandering into the common room. It was a small apartment, “adorable” as Rebecca called. Nothing much was adorable these days, least of all their crappy accommodations. Holed up in a matchbox with Princess Emo and the inventor of the arrogant sneer, everyone frightened and despondent and missing… her. Fuck. That was a one-way ticket to Sulkville. He had to stop thinking about her. It wouldn’t bring her back.
Desmond glanced at the cheesy Transformers clock Rebecca had picked out at the corner store. The digital numbers read four in the morning, which didn’t explain his inexplicable jones for a stiff drink or the voices coming from the living room. Or sitting room, as His Royal Britishness liked to say.
Exhausted, miserable, Desmond endured the cold sting of the kitchen tiles as he bee-lined for the fridge and whatever meager goodies waited inside. Ramen. Who put fucking ramen in the fridge? Oh, right, Shaun. Snorting, Desmond pushed the noodles aside, grinning when he discovered a rogue pack of Guinness huddled behind the spoiled milk. He checked the box, no label. Funny. He didn’t remember those being there at dinner time. And he would remember unlabeled Guinness free for the taking.