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Roma, 1502
"A toast," Ezio says. He raises his glass.
Around the table, chatter dies down, as it tends to when he raises his voice to speak. All eyes are on him, and all around him are friendly faces. Machiavelli wears that placid-but-not-displeased expression he always does, La Volpe smiles craftily, Bartolomeo and his wife share a smile. His mother looks more tranquil than ever, and Claudia rests her chin on her hands, watching him expectantly. Anneta and Bianca, two of the recruits, still have the laughter of a few seconds ago on their faces.
Despite the chaos of their lives, there are happy moments like these.
"To family."
"A toast," Ezio says. He raises his glass.
Around the table, chatter dies down, as it tends to when he raises his voice to speak. All eyes are on him, and all around him are friendly faces. Machiavelli wears that placid-but-not-displeased expression he always does, La Volpe smiles craftily, Bartolomeo and his wife share a smile. His mother looks more tranquil than ever, and Claudia rests her chin on her hands, watching him expectantly. Anneta and Bianca, two of the recruits, still have the laughter of a few seconds ago on their faces.
Despite the chaos of their lives, there are happy moments like these.
"To family."