Templar's Creed

Chapter 33

Cesare's smile was as sharp as his sword. "You have my word," he said, "as the rightful leader of the Templar Order." He paused, his eyes gleaming with a malicious light. "But if you refuse, I shall leave you to the mercy of my 'brothers'." His gesture encompassed the surrounding Templars, who sneered in anticipation. "And as for your son..." His voice trailed off, leaving the fate of Petruccio hanging in the air.

Giovanni's thoughts raced. Could he trust this snake? Could he betray everything he had ever stood for, for the hope of saving his son? Yet, the desperation in his heart grew stronger with each passing moment. He knew he had to act, to find a way out of this trap, to turn the tables on his captors.

"Very well," he said through gritted teeth, the words feeling like acid on his tongue. "I will come with you."

Cesare's smile grew wider, a victory he had not truly earned, yet claimed all the same. He stepped back, lowering his sword and gesturing for his men to stand down. "Excellent," he purred. "Let us depart."

Giovanni's eyes remained narrowed, his distrust evident. He knew this could be a trick, a ploy to lure him into a trap from which there would be no escape. Yet the hope for Petruccio's safety was a lifeline he could not ignore. With a stiff nod, he allowed the Templars to lead him out of the chamber, his hand still cradling his injured wrist.

The journey through the dimly lit corridors of the palazzo was fraught with tension. The air was thick with the scent of mistrust and the coppery tang of recent bloodshed. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound that filled the emptiness, each step a silent question of what awaited him outside.

Giovanni's mind raced with possibilities, each more dire than the last. Was this truly a chance to save Petruccio, or was it a final, twisted game played by the Borgia? The weight of his decision bore down on him, a crushing burden that seemed to grow heavier with each breath.

The procession of Templars and their new 'ally' reached the palazzo's courtyard. The moon cast long shadows across the cobblestones, revealing a grim tableau: a gallows, its wooden beams stark against the night sky, and a lone figure standing at its base—a boy with a noose around his neck.

Giovanni's heart clenched in his chest as recognition dawned. The figure was too small, too vulnerable, but the tilt of the chin, the proud set of the shoulders—it was unmistakably Petruccio. His son, his hope, the reason behind his vendetta, now a pawn in this twisted game of power.

Cesare watched him with a twisted smile, savoring the moment of revelation. "Welcome to your new reality," he said, his voice a taunting whisper. "Where every move you make, every decision you take, will be to serve me. For the sake of your precious son."

Giovanni's eyes never left the boy standing at the base of the gallows, the noose around his neck a stark reminder of the stakes. The anger and despair within him coalesced into something colder, something more dangerous than mere rage. His hand tightened around the dagger at his side, the only weapon he had left.

Cesare's smile grew, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Ah, I see the understanding dawn," he said, his voice a serpent's hiss. "Your son's life is in my hands, and you shall dance to whatever tune I play."

Giovanni's gaze remained locked on Petruccio, the rage within him now a glacial coldness. He knew he had to keep his composure, to find a way out of this. He forced his eyes to meet the young Borgia's, the depth of his hatred a silent promise of vengeance. "You will pay for this," he murmured, his voice low and deadly.

Cesare's smile grew, the maliciousness in his eyes as clear as the stars above them. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But for now, your son's life rests in my hands. And if you wish to see him breathe another day, you will serve me without question."

Giovanni's gaze never wavered from Petruccio. The hope in his son's eyes was almost too much to bear. Yet, as he searched for any sign of weakness in his captor's stance, he saw it—a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. His heart pounded as he realized what was happening.

With a swiftness that belied his injuries, he lunged forward, his hand snatching the dagger from his side. The blade glinted in the moonlight as he threw himself at the unseen threat, desperation lending him strength. But it was too late. The lever had been pulled, the trapdoor had opened, and Petruccio's body swung into the air, a silent scream of despair echoing through the courtyard.

The world around him seemed to slow as he watched his son hang, the noose tightening around his neck. The Templars looked on, their expressions a mix of shock and amusement, while the cold grip of betrayal squeezed his heart. The boy's eyes bulged, his tongue protruded, and his face grew purple as the life drained from him.

Giovanni's rage exploded. He threw himself at the nearest Templar, his dagger flashing in the moonlight. The man fell with a gurgling scream, but it was not enough. Not nearly enough to quench the inferno that now consumed him. He tore through the stunned guards like a whirlwind of vengeance, his blade leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

But even as he fought, his eyes never left the dangling form of his son. The hope that had fueled him was now a twisted, burning ember of anger. He knew it was a trap, but the pain of watching Petruccio hang there was unbearable.

Cesare's eyes widened in fury, his control over the situation slipping. "What have you done?" he roared, his voice echoing through the courtyard. "You fool, you've played right into his hands!"

Giovanni ignored the screams of the dying men around him, his eyes fixed on the lifeless form of his son. The world narrowed to a single point, and all he could see was the injustice that had been dealt to him. The rage that had fueled his vendetta now crystallized into a cold, focused hatred.

As the last of the Templars fell, the courtyard grew silent. Only the mournful toll of a distant bell pierced the stillness, a macabre counterpoint to the battle that had unfolded. The Borgia's smile had vanished, replaced by a snarl of fury as he stared down at the Assassin who had just decimated his men.

Giovanni stood panting, his dagger dripping with the blood of his enemies, his eyes never leaving the lifeless body of his son. The pain was a knife in his heart, twisting with every beat. He knew that the only way to end this nightmare was to bring the head of the snake to justice.

Before he could take another step, a searing pain shot through his back, and he felt the cold kiss of steel against his spine. He stumbled forward, his legs giving out beneath him. He hadn't seen the blow coming—his focus had been solely on the gallows.

Giovanni's world spun as he crumpled to the ground, his eyes still fixed on Petruccio's lifeless body. He had failed his son, had allowed the very man who had taken everything from him to best him once more. The rage that had fueled his vendetta now twisted into something darker, a black void that threatened to consume him.

Cesare's laughter was a distant echo as he stepped over the bodies of his fallen men, his boots squelching in the spreading pool of blood. "Your son's death is on your hands," he sneered, his sword still lodged in Giovanni's back. "You brought this upon yourself with your stubbornness and your refusal to see reason."