Cesare calls him the Prowler.

It is not an unfitting name. The man is always ghosting through the hallways or leaning against the wall in a pocket of deep shadow, fiddling with his fang-like blades and popping out of nowhere to tell me he has completed his mission. He melts into the shadows and crowds with a fluid grace, and the only way I can spot him is by the bright blue of his eyes when his hood is down. Prowler indeed.

The Prowler calls himself Il Lupo, the wolf, and he has a bit of a wolf's charm and more than enough of a wolf's deadly instincts, but if he is a wolf then he has no pack. We – that is, Baltasar and I – trained him to mimic the Assassins, now my allies, and the Assassins work alone.

I called him trainee, then killer, and now… I do not know. A target, I suppose.

I need to eliminate him before my newfound allies discover his presence – and through him, my involvement in his creation – or there will be questions, ones I am not ready to answer. Killing is… distasteful, to say the least, but today it is necessary. So I leave a symbol on the statue Pasquino where I know he will see it. We meet at sunset.

I remind myself again that this is a necessity. In this harsh reality, there is no room for regret.

.

Sunset comes quickly – too quickly. The day's end snuck up on me, and I am not yet prepared; for all my manipulations, a few Assassin trainees yet remain at the hideout and they might see me leave. But there is no time to waste.

I slip out of the building through the window of my room. Luckily, it faces a little-used side street – I am not seen. I make my way to the docks carefully, taking a twisting, turning route and being sure to take advantage of the evening's tide of people returning from work. I reach the docks as the sun begins to slip into the ocean, turning the waves into molten gold. Beautiful. I take a moment to admire the view before I search for my target.

The crowds at the docks are fading with the light, so it is easy to pick out Il Lupo's hooded figure, but as I approach he melts into the dwindling crowds and my breath catches.

Does Cesare suspect me? I finger the spine of my fan nervously as the crowd continues to dissipate. I feel exposed, now. Open.

There is a sudden cry of pain and I stiffen, eyes sweeping the now-empty docks with adrenaline-fueled fervor. Then—a splash, and suddenly Il Lupo drops from the roof in front of me into a practiced crouch. I can't restrain a startled gasp and an involuntary step back.

The Prowler cuts an imposing figure, face half-hidden in shadow and the metal of his rapier and mock-hidden blade gleaming in the fading light. I can't help but notice how his switchblade, still extended, is stained red with blood. He follows my gaze and wipes it apologetically with a cloth he pulls from – somewhere – and folds it back, well-oiled gears spinning noiselessly. He watches me for a few moments, silently, those intensely blue eyes searching for… something. I wipe my expression carefully blank.

Then the deadly wolf is gone, leaving behind an awkward little puppy. Il Lupo smiles uncertainly as he lets his hood down. "I didn't mean to scare you."

No matter how many times I experience it, I will never become accustomed to how abruptly he changes in demeanor. From cold-blooded killer to awkward young man, just like… that. "It's alright."

"You were followed." His eyes seek mine and I meet them boldly, careful not to show anything. I force myself not to react, even as the faces of the young Assassins I had met with – which one was it? – flash through my mind. "No longer."

What can I say? I merely nod, and let Il Lupo interpret it however he wishes.

"You should be more careful," he says quietly, and I imagine his voice sounds almost tender. Perhaps it is. This lone wolf has never spoken to me for anything but work, but I have always felt his eyes on me. I had thought that maybe he suspected my betrayal, but now I think it is something else. Something more?

He has never been anything but a tool for me. But perhaps I am more than just a mentor to him.

How… useful.

"You're right. I was careless." I am not lying, not yet; I had meant to face Il Lupo alone, to hide my involvement in his creation. It's better that my new friends don't find out my part in the building of this particular weapon of Cesare's – the wolf's fangs have buried themselves deep in many an unsuspecting Assassin neck, and I doubt my allies would take kindly to the knowledge.

"It was an Assassin," he presses.

I play my part, faking a startled gasp and pressing a hand to my mouth. Acting has always been my forte; I slip under the façade of Fiora the loyal Templar and force worry into my expression.

"You should leave the city. If the Assassins find out whom you're working for…" There is concern in his eyes. It almost makes me sick.

"No…" My voice is a little shaky, but determined. Perfect. "Cesare sent me on a mission. I was told… told to give you your next assignment, as well."

Il Lupo hesitates for just a moment before he nods and pulls up his hood, all business again, but in the moment his eyes speak volumes – I will protect you, be careful, stay safe. In the light his eyes are bright azure, summer's-sky blue, but in shadow they are the dusty blue of his namesake.

"Tell me," he says, so I lie. Point at a ship far out from the wharf. Cesare has a target for you on that ship, I explain. He turns to look, studies it carefully, and frowns. As his attention shifts, I realize that this is my chance.

"How will I reach it?" I use the sound of his voice to mask the soft rasp of my fan unfolding, and take a careful step forward. The sharpened metal edges gleam unhealthily, liberally smeared with poison; I hold it gingerly, careful not to let any touch my skin.I keep talking, keep him concentrated on the "mission."

"A gondola, perhaps. Or maybe you could make a path from ship to ship?"

The Prowler falls silent, contemplating. I inch slowly forward, cursing my shoes – what possessed me to wear heels? They click so loudly on stone – and brandish my fan.

"Fiora…" He lips shape my name carefully, like it is a flower(or because it means 'flower') whose petals he might accidentally crush. Il Lupo starts to turn, a hand tugging on his hood, and I move.

My fan rakes a bloody line across his back.

He reacts instinctively, lashing out with a hand and catching me full in the face with a back-handed smack. I hear the crunch of my nose breaking. I fall to the ground awkwardly, one hand clutching my bleeding nose and the other my fan, and my reflexes alone save me from a swipe of his switchblade. I scramble away and stand, somewhat unsteadily, out of Il Lupo's reach. His eyes are invisible under his hood. I'm glad – I don't want to see the look of horror and fear when the poison at last overtakes him.

Like the look Malfatto must see, each time he strikes. Like how I must have looked, that fateful night.

I force those thoughts from my head; I cannot afford to be distracted right now. It is true, though, that I abhor poison. But it is necessary, just like how all of this is necessary…

Then there is no more time to think. Il Lupo charges, switchblade extended – a cheap imitation of the Assassins' hidden blade, but effective nevertheless – and moves in for the kill. I lunge forward, drop and lash out with my legs: a risky maneuver, but I need only buy time. He tumbles but lands in a flawless, practiced roll and is up in an instant.

His hood falls during the tumble. His eyes are cold, steely. The eyes of a killer.

Il Lupo pulls out his rapier and I raise my fan uselessly. I haven't a prayer of survival in an open fight.

Work, I beg the poison silently. Please, work… work already!

Then, suddenly, he folds in half and clutches his chest, rapier falling to the ground with a metallic clang, vomiting blood. I know the poison has finally taken root. He stares at me, those beautiful blue eyes already glazing over, and his expression is utterly heartbroken.

"Damn you! Poison…" he whispers, scarlet liquid staining his words. "You… why? You betrayed…"

I don't reply, don't try to justify myself. I'm not even sure if I can.

I watch as he falls to his knees. I watch as he gasps for breath, shivering violently. I watch silently as he says: why, why, why—Fiora…

I watch him die.

It is not an honorable death. It is not quick or painless or anything that could possibly make it a good death, if there is such a thing. And I do not grieve much – if at all – because I have long since decided that the saying love your enemy never deserved to be called wise, and though the two of us might have been allies once we were certainly not friends. I feel a bit of remorse, because really, the poor man didn't know the full story, wasn't sure what he was fighting for, and died for his ignorance, but not much else.

—Or that is what I should feel. But now, staggering back to the Assassin safehouse, there is a cold inside me almost akin to poison, itself.

I have never killed before. Oh, I have killed indirectly, delivering Cesare's orders to his many, many murderers—but that is a whole other creature compared to physically, personally ending a man's life. I've been through so much. It shouldn't haunt me like this, but it does.

It was necessary, I remind myself, and don the cold, indifferent mask that has served me so well all these years. I should not care about his death. I should not feel. Oh, yes, Fiora Cavazza, the mask assures me, you are a killer and you do not feel. You are made from stone, made from metal, you do not bend and you do not break.

The sense of detachment that has kept me sane all these years is returning, and at last I calm myself enough to return to the safehouse. I prepare to lie, concoct a story for the Assassins' missing man, and review the facts. The deed is done. Not well, not cleanly, but nonetheless… it is done.

During the long walk back to the Assassin hideout, I try to convince myself the wounds I bring back from that encounter are only those of the flesh.

It was necessary, I repeat, a mantra to ward away Il Lupo's hovering ghost. I can still hear his voice, strained and weak as he begs for an explanation; can still see his shaking hand raised in a wordless plea.

Forgive me.

Explanatory A/N: I always imagined Lupo to be kind of young, clueless, maybe even naïve outside of work. (what a cute li'l puppy.) But when he's on a mission… *shivers* NOT someone you want to meet in a dark alley. Or a well-lit, busy street, for that matter.

And Fiora… she never really struck me as a heartless killer. Sure, she is a conniving, manipulative, evillll woman but even she draws the line somewhere.
and EEE*fangirls* the more I write this pairing the more I love it! So deliciously angsty! The interaction is to die for! And best of all she ends up killing him! (I know, I know, I'm clearly insane and a sadist.)