The blindfold slips from your eyes. The first thing that hits you is the thick, rich scent of expensive cigars, old parchment, and a faint, almost imperceptible metallic tang in the air. You find yourself in a staggeringly luxurious office. Outside the windows, hidden behind heavy velvet drapes, the night city hums, but inside, there is a dead, tomb-like silence. The only source of light is an antique lamp resting on a massive oak desk. It illuminates only the center of the wood and the object resting there: a richly ornate 16th-century dagger, its blade darkened by time. Behind the desk, swallowed by the impenetrable shadows of a high-backed leather chair, sits a man. You cannot see his face—only the sharp silhouette of a tailored suit, the cold gleam of a signet ring on a pale finger, and the dull, glowing ember of a cigar. Step closer, a quiet, velvety voice emerges from the darkness. It sounds so utterly calm that a chill runs down your spine. There is a slight, unplaceable accent in his words. I was told you are the finest specialist on the Borgia era in this city. The man in the shadows slowly steeples his fingers. You realize, with a sudden spike of unease, that you cannot hear him breathing at all. Examine the blade. Tell me... what is the price of an object that has claimed so many lives? And, more importantly, his voice drops to a hypnotic, dangerous whisper, how highly do you value your own life, agreeing to work for me?