"This is your son?" Bella's Eagle Vision swept over Desmond in a quick assessment. The specifics were hard to nail down, but her rough estimate put his Isu genetic concentration well above one percent.
That was nearly a third of her own concentration—five times his father's, seven times Gavin's.
The kid's potential was exceptional, which made it all the more frustrating that this sixteen-year-old was currently going through a phase, sitting there radiating barely contained resentment at his own father.
Bella turned to William. "Do you remember the mission the Templars sent Daniel Cross on? The one to Russia?"
Daniel Cross—the man responsible for the Brotherhood's current decimated state. William's jaw tightened. "I remember. He was heading to the Bolshoi Theatre, wasn't he?"
"That's right." Bella snapped her fingers.
Galina Voronina—the Russian operative Bella thought of as her Russian agent—stepped through the door. She carried a sealed box, which she set on the table. She turned to leave, and Bella stopped her.
"Stay. Hear this too."
Bella was preparing to elevate Galina to the Brotherhood's third Elder. The reasons were straightforward: she represented the Russian chapter, her combat skills were exceptional, and—frankly—Bella was tired of being flanked exclusively by two older men. Having Galina in the room was its own kind of relief.
William was perceptive enough to see most of what was happening. He said nothing.
Galina took her seat. Bella opened the metal case engraved with the Brotherhood's eagle emblem.
Inside was something left behind by Ezio Auditore—Mentor during the Brotherhood's Renaissance era—for whoever came after him.
Bella had already reviewed the contents once. Now she slid a handwritten journal across to William Miles.
He took it and read carefully. His expression shifted—a flicker of alarm crossing his features.
He looked up at her. "This is real?"
"The journal itself is certainly real. Ezio left us a message from more than five hundred years ago."
Bella didn't make him guess. "Mr. Desmond Miles—unless there's another Desmond in the Brotherhood with a high Isu genetic concentration, there is work that falls specifically to you."
She gestured for William to pass the journal to his son.
William's expression darkened. His son's name, written in a five-hundred-year-old letter from a dead Mentor. Was that good news? He didn't want his son bearing the weight of some world-shaking destiny. He wanted him to live an ordinary, peaceful life.
He chose his words carefully. "How serious is it?"
Bella didn't answer directly. "Honestly, I've always thought that as human technology advances, problems that seemed insurmountable in Ezio's era don't necessarily have to be solved the same way today. Most problems have more than one solution—it's just that our own limitations tend to narrow our thinking."
William nodded slowly. "I hope you're right."
Across the table, Desmond was struggling. Ezio's Renaissance Italian was rough going, and it took him a while to piece together the meaning—partly from the text, partly from catching fragments of Bella and his father's conversation. Then it clicked.
"You're joking." His voice climbed. "A man who's been dead for five hundred years knows my name? How does he know? I didn't even know I was important. What am I even supposed to do?" By the end he was nearly shouting.
Bella studied him for a moment. Desmond instinctively looked away.
"I spoke too soon," she said evenly. "You're clearly not ready. Go back to your bartending—it has a bright future."
She walked past him and reached out with her left hand, sliding the journal back out of his grip. Galina was already beside her, box open, ready to receive it.
They left together.
William Miles stood there, not quite sure what to do with himself. Should he try to push his son toward accepting his fate? Or fight it alongside him? As an assassin, he knew which answer was right. As a father, he wasn't sure he could live with it.
Outside the bar, Bella gave Galina her next assignment. The Brotherhood was currently running on fumes—women doing the work of men, men working like pack animals, everyone stretched thin from top to bottom.
She'd meant to give Desmond an easy early contribution to his legacy. Since he'd declined, she moved on. The world didn't stop turning because one person wasn't ready.
A solar flare. That was the whole threat. How big a deal is that, really? Jean could probably stop it single-handedly—and would have to hold back to avoid accidentally blowing out the sun entirely. Besides, 2012 was still nine years away. By the time it arrived, Bella herself might be able to handle it without breaking a sweat.
She unfolded an Italian map and circled the Colosseum in Rome.
"Ezio's journal records that he once sealed a Golden Apple in the underground shrine beneath the Colosseum. My divination shows the site is currently secure. Go retrieve it."
"On it. I'll leave immediately." Galina answered without hesitation.
Her Isu genetic concentration wasn't as high as Desmond's—only around 0.6% — but she more than made up for it in skill, decisiveness, and composure. Bella trusted her completely.
With the Animus project lead now in place and a soldier trainer lined up, the Brotherhood would have two Golden Apples once Galina returned: No. 3, which Bella had delivered, and No. 6, which Ezio had left in Rome. That left only one major problem: funding.
The situation with Ethan Hunt had put an idea in her head.
British MI6 had quietly set aside 2.5 billion pounds in untraceable funds for the Syndicate—a black-budget reserve so clean it couldn't be traced.
Bella thought it over, then shook her head.
Two and a half billion pounds was tempting, but getting her hands on it would require kidnapping the British Prime Minister.
She had no particular feelings toward the so-called British Empire—or its Prime Minister, for that matter. What actually gave her pause was the legendary British Captain, who made the American Captain look tame by comparison. From what she recalled, the British Captain had gone to university with Spider-Man, though given how chaotic this world's timeline had become, she wasn't entirely sure how old he was now.
In the films, Ethan Hunt had done the impossible—grabbed the Prime Minister, taken down MI6's top brass, seemingly immune to the concept of the Anglo-American Special Relationship. Ethan could afford to ignore that. Bella couldn't.
More to the point, Ethan Hunt had never actually touched the money. He'd given it back. Their motivations were entirely different—she intended to keep it—which made the optics considerably worse. Even if she got away with the funds, staying off Britain's radar would be nearly impossible. The accounts were supposedly untraceable, but there were always threads to pull. Sending an organization of fewer than three hundred people up against a nuclear-armed former empire? Not worth the risk.
She redirected her attention to the Templar treasure caches—scattered, forgotten stockpiles accumulated over centuries. Morally clean, as far as she was concerned. After two thousand years of open warfare, what exactly was there left to feel guilty about?