they broke more than his ribs. volante

A collection of never-beens and never-wills, Francesco's gut drops; he's never been a soldier. Never wore silver on his back, kissing a prince's fingertips before leaving to war. Never wore gold on his tongue, charisma placed in his veins, veins he never asked for and never would. 

"What, not gonna say anything?"

Francesco bit his cheek. 

What was the point, he thought over food -- this woman in front of him had no idea of business, of compliance. There was no marriage for her, good. A two sided coin, he questioned how to avoid spending; "what, you want to actually talk?" They had never liked each other, they weren't friends nor lovers, barely even two merchants, sparking up a trade. 

"Why?"

This had to succeed, and in every way it had to fail. 

He knew the only way out for him was through her, through Volante either dying or refusing, two of the same but it was not his fate, so he cared less. Over dinner she could choke him out, kill and stab him with a steak knife and he flinched thinking about it, because she's always been a knight with two swords and he's nothing but Francesco. Never been, never will; anything different.