The map took up most of Lorenzo's desk — red ink for banking routes, blue for shipping lanes, three names circled in a hand Trent had spent two weeks studying.
"Emilio." Lorenzo touched the eldest circle. "Marco. Carlo." He moved to the window. Afternoon light caught the black of his mourning sleeve — four months since Easter and the color hadn't changed. "The Barbarigos are not merely business partners of the Pazzi. They are what the Pazzi aspired to be."
Two banking advisors flanked the desk in careful silence. Trent had catalogued them on arrival: mid-level men, chosen for discretion over rank. Whatever Lorenzo said here wouldn't leave the room through their mouths.
He studied the map. Venice spread across it in precise detail — canals instead of streets, the lagoon making moat and highway both. Barbarigo trading posts marked in five districts. Doge Mocenigo's palazzo circled separately, connected to Emilio's name by a thin dotted line.
"The Doge's council," Trent said.
"Three members. Perhaps four." Lorenzo turned from the window. Grief worked differently on him now than it had at Easter — less visible, more structural, embedded into decisions rather than displayed in them. "The Barbarigos have spent twenty years purchasing influence in the Republic. Trade concessions. Favorable rulings. Debt relief distributed strategically." A pause. "They control Venice's eastern trade routes. Which means they control much of what flows west into Florentine commerce."
"And they're Templar."
"Their correspondence with the Borgia network was in your father's ledger." Said flatly, without ceremony. "You know this."
He did. He also knew that Lorenzo saying it aloud — formally, in this room, with witnesses — changed its political weight. This was the transition from intelligence to authorization.
"What do you need?" Trent said.
Lorenzo returned to the desk. The map between them felt like a contract. "The Barbarigo brothers eliminated. Their Doge connections isolated. The financial infrastructure dismantled in a manner that appears—" He chose the word with care. "—internal. Venice quarrels with itself constantly. One more family falling to rivals will draw little attention."
"Three brothers isn't surgical. It's systematic."
"Yes." No apology in it. "Giuliano received one blade. I want three." He looked at Trent steadily. "The Medici have interests in Venice that cannot survive continued Barbarigo interference. The Assassins have interests in Rome that require the Borgia network weakened. These objectives align."
Trent let that sit. Behind the grief, behind the patron's careful neutrality, Lorenzo de' Medici wanted vengeance distributed across a wider geography. That was worth understanding.
"Resources," Trent said.
The negotiation took twenty minutes. Medici trade contacts would provide cover identities — Florentine merchants with legitimate business in Venice, unremarkable faces in a city full of them. Auditore banking connections, restored and operational since April, would fund field expenses through channels that left no Medici fingerprints. Leonardo would accompany: his reputation as an artist gave them a legitimate reason for the journey, and a workshop could serve as a base that attracted no suspicion. Trent pushed for the full Medici allocation upfront rather than in disbursements; Lorenzo agreed after a pause that suggested he'd expected to be asked.
In return: any Templar financial records recovered went to Medici review first. Intelligence on Barbarigo operations — not just the targets but the infrastructure around them — forwarded through a courier chain Lorenzo would designate.
"And regular reports," Lorenzo added. "Through Medici channels. I want to know the operation is progressing."
The implications of that were clear enough. Regular reports meant regular oversight. It was a reasonable condition for a patron funding an operation in another republic. Refusing it changed everything politically.
"Agreed," Trent said.
Lorenzo produced a document — one page, dense with careful language that amounted to: this happened with my knowledge, the resources are sanctioned, the Medici bear no visible responsibility for outcomes. He signed it with a hand that held steady through most of the motion, then trembled on the final stroke.
Giuliano. Still.
He said nothing. The trembling stopped. Lorenzo set the pen down.
"One condition not in writing," Lorenzo said. "The operation must not be traceable to Florence. Not to the Medici. Not to the Auditores." He didn't finish the implication. The diplomatic consequences of one republic's hired knives operating inside another weren't subtle. "If Venice investigates—"
"They won't find us." Trent rolled the intelligence packet. "We'll need four to six weeks minimum before the first target."
"You have as long as necessary. Within reason." Lorenzo's tone returned to banker's pragmatism. The trembling hand was already filed away, or at least invisible. "Giuliano would not want policy driven by grief. He would tell me so himself." A ghost of something crossed his face. "Loudly. He was louder than necessary, most of the time."
The advisors remained expressionless. Trent said nothing, because Lorenzo hadn't asked.
"Go," Lorenzo said. Not unfriendly. "Bring me results."
The corridor outside was cooler. Trent stood at a window overlooking the Medici gardens — thinking through timelines, team composition, the logistics of moving people from Florence to Venice without marking the journey.
The last time he'd been in a Medici room, Lorenzo had poured wine to seal the compact and called it done. That had been six weeks ago. The wine had meant something then — a weight of obligation acknowledged on both sides. This felt different. More transactional. The compact had been personal; this was operational.
That's not a problem, he told himself. That's clarity.
Footsteps behind him. He knew them before he turned.
Federico looked better than he had in April. The arm that had given him trouble since the Duomo moved normally — no careful tuck, no unconscious favoring. Two weeks of training at Monteriggioni had done its work.
"How long?" Federico said.
"Four to six before the first target. Longer for the full operation."
Federico absorbed this. "And the team?"
"Still assembling."
"You're not assembling it. You're deciding whether to include me." Without heat — observational, not challenging. "The arm is functional."
"I know."
"Then I'm requesting assignment to Venice." A beat. "Formally, if that's what it takes."
Trent studied him. The jaw that used to clench when he was about to be overruled held steady now. Four months ago he would have made this argument with his teeth.
"I'll have an answer by morning," Trent said.
Federico nodded. Started to leave, then turned back. "He wanted three."
"He wanted three."
Federico looked at the garden — Medici stone, Medici hedges, Medici grief running under everything like canal water. "Good," he said, and left.
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