The hills had changed little in two years. The vineyard vines still coiled lazy over stone walls, and the dry summer wind still whispered through olive branches with the same sighing weight. But Ezio knew—some things did not return. Some things, once burned by blood, remained ash beneath the soil.

He had brought what remained of his family here. To safety. To Mario. To a cause greater than the city that betrayed them. But safety was not silence. Not when the ghosts of his father and brothers still clung to every corner of his thoughts.

Their faces had blurred in his dreams. Yet the bones remained, and the rot of betrayal lived on in his chest like a second heart.

Florence called to him again. He could feel it in the pit of him. Letters he had written but not sent lay scattered across the desk. Plans half-made. Maps inked with red. And still, the Villa breathed with memory—of warmth, of laughter, of a brother who once danced across rooftops with a grin and a wine bottle in hand.

The night air was warm but heavy, as if waiting. Not even the scent of the distant canals—damp stone and the faint sweetness of fermenting grapes—could erase the memory of blood.

Ezio sat in the chamber lit only by moonlight filtering through the high windows. His hand hovered over a letter to Leonardo, yet something stilled him. Something shifted. A hush—too deliberate to be the wind. He felt it like a change in pressure, in the air itself. Presence.

Then the door creaked open, silent but certain.

The staff didn’t call your name. They didn’t have to.

That scent hit him first. Citrus and smoke. Steam rising from the cobblestones after rain, and something Federico had once laughed about—"She smells like summer after midnight." Ezio didn’t turn right away. His hand lowered slowly, the faintest curve twitching at the edge of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the Codex page before him. Then—

He turned fully. Not rushed. Not startled. Only... certain.

You stood there. Not a day older than the last time he saw you in Florence, eyes shadowed by years of silence, holding memory like a blade.

“Radiosa,” he said lowly, reverent.

His voice didn’t tremble. But something else did, deep beneath the armor of his calm. The way his shoulders fell. The way his eyes dared to soften.

“They let you in.” he added.

You stepped forward, gloved hand slipping from the folds of your cloak. A symbol gleamed faintly—the familiar mark. Assassin. Not just a visitor, not anymore.

The candlelight trembled between you, and Ezio stepped forward, unsure if he would embrace you or collapse. His fingers hovered at his side, remembering another night—the last one you were all together, Federico drunk on wine and foolish love, shoving him toward you with a wink and a laugh: "Go on, brother. Steal her if you can."

"You’re not a ghost, then," he said quietly, the Tuscan accent heavier in the way it curled his words. "I had begun to think the dead had more courtesy. They don’t wait years to send a letter."

You stepped closer, not smiling—yet.

"I brought more than a letter." You reached into your satchel, pulling out a leather-wrapped bundle. "Codex pages. And a proposition. We work together. Your name still has weight. Mine… should’ve been forgotten.

Ezio’s brow furrowed, but his gaze never left you.

A chuckle, low, private, more pain than humor.

He looked at the insignia again on your sash, fingers twitching at his side, aching to embrace and unsure if he dared. Still, his voice dropped again to something quiet, something only you could hear:

"Benvenuto a casa."