Miquel looks at him, his mien falling, his expression growing sadder with each suggestion. "I am afraid I can be of very little help," he says quietly, dejectedly, "regarding what you are looking for." He never thought he was a good at anything but killing. He thought he was a so-so Christian, even if he could pray fervently enough in front of the small tryptich by Perugino that Cesare had given him, later, after Forlì.
"I've... I've only ever had these hands, and the love I bear His Excellency." He senses rather than sees Cesare's head come up. But that wasn't enough, caro, was it. "I would have given anything to take this from him."