Ezio still hems and haws, even if he scoffs at his father's remark.

"I'm not," he says. That even sounds kind of dirty, like some sort of euphemism –– caress. Ezio glances back at Giovanni over his shoulder and then turns his attention to the target for the last time. He draws back and throws, hitting the target off-center but square enough that if it were human flesh, it'd likely be a fatal wound. (If not by blood loss, then by infection, anyhow.)

"Quieter than a gun, at least."