Marco was watching Aldanto's eyes, the only things in his face that were showing any change. They were growing harder; and Marco's blood acquired ice crystals.
Item: they were quite likely to be dead very soon. Benito, with the panache of a fourteen-year-old unable to believe in his own mortality, had led them into dangerous and unfriendly hands--and with no way to escape. Aldanto was between them and the door, in a room barely big enough to hold all of them and the table and chairs.
Looking at those calculating eyes, Marco knew exactly what their fate was going to be. They had, at most, a few more minutes.
He forced himself to smile at his brother; he couldn't protect him from what was coming. "Nothing--just--you're right. About all of it. I've been plain stupid."
Benito shrugged. "No big deal. Everybody makes mistakes, and hell, I probably wouldn't believe anything bad anybody said about you, either."
"And I never told you how much I missed you, half." The old nickname made Benito grin. "That was even stupider. We're the team, right? So, from now on it's going be you and me--aye? All the way."
Benito dropped his pretense of adulthood and threw both arms around his brother in an affection-starved hug. Marco tightened his own arms around Benito's shoulder and stared at Aldanto, trying to beg with his eyes, and figuring that it was a lost cause before he started.
But to Marco's surprise, Caesare suddenly cleared his throat. A little sound, but the older boy started as violently as if a gun had gone off in his ear.
"You say your mother had connections with Ventuccio?"
Marco stared, unable to get his mouth to work. It was too much to comprehend--he'd expected the knife, and he'd only hoped Aldanto was good enough to make it fast and relatively painless. And then--this--
His ears roared, and little black spots danced in the air between his eyes and Aldanto's face.
"Ventuccio?" he heard himself say stupidly, as his knees suddenly liquefied on him.
* * *
Benito felt Marco start to collapse, and held him up by main force. Oh, God, please--no!
The last time Marco had done this, he'd missed the meetings for the next month; and when he finally showed up, he was pounds thinner, with eyes gone all hollow, and a rasping cough that lasted for weeks. Please, God--he begged, struggling to keep Marco on his feet long enough to pull a chair under him, don't let it be fever, he might not make it this time--and we're almost home free--
* * *
"Milord, just let me get him sat--milord, he's all right!" Marco heard Benito over the roaring in his ears, over the scrape of a chair on the floor "You don't--milord, you don't need--"
Something shoved up against the back of his legs; hands were under his armpits letting him down easy, the same strong hands then pushing his head down between his legs.
"Stay that way for a bit--" Aldanto's voice. And the roaring went away, his eyes cleared. When his head stopped spinning he looked up. Aldanto sat on his heels beside him, Benito looking frantic, trying to get between them without touching the man. "Better?"
"I--" Marco managed. "I--"
Aldanto took his chin in one hand, tilted his eyes into the light, scrutinizing them closely.
"I'm sorry, milord, I'm all right," Marco whispered, thinking, Daren't, daren't show weakness in front of this man! "Honest, I'm all right."
"You're not--but you will be."
Ignoring Benito's worried protests (Great, thought Marco dizzily, now he realizes we could be in trouble), Aldanto went to the table and brought his glass of wine to Marco, who took it with hands that shook so hard the wine slopped. Poison? No--not likely. Not when he'd had the chance to kill them easily and hadn't. An assassin as physically capable as Aldanto so obviously was, wouldn't bother with anything other than a blade. Not, at least, dealing with two poor boys in a place like this.
"Get yourself on the outside of that."