include, and he wasn’t altogether sure he could stomach the job. Better that, though, than dead. No such thing as a “fate worse than death” in Marco’s book—except maybe a fate involving a lengthy interrogation at the hands of Montagnards, the Servants of the Holy Trinity, or Ricardo Brunelli—or Caesare Aldanto.
But Benito—if he left Venice, he’d have to leave Benito. No good could come to a fourteen-year-old kid in a strange place like Acre or Ascalon, or more-or-less trapped on an eastbound ship.
That would leave him more alone than he’d ever been.
He swallowed hard, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. So be it. For Benito’s sake, he’d do just about anything. Including take on that lengthy interrogation.
But figure Caesare wanted him back in; in a lot of ways that was the worst case. Si, I’ll go in, I take my licks. God knows what he’ll do. Probably beat the liver out of me. Be worse if he didn’t, in some ways. He won’t be trusting me with much, anyway, not after the way I’ve messed up. Don’t blame him. I wouldn’t trust me, either.
So. Be humble; be respectful. Take orders, follow ’em to the letter, and earn the respect back. Even if it takes years.
Thank God he’d