“Meanwhile, I had to suffer through a servant’s meal.”
I shrugged, adjusting the saddle straps. “And yet, you were fed.”
Tristan planted his hands on his hips, scanning the stable. “Where’s my horse?”
I smirked and gestured. “See that mule? That’s yours.”
His face fell. “Fuck. Why don’t I get a horse like yours?”
“This is a stallion. Can you even ride a stallion?” I ran my hand along the horse’s glistening coat, feeling the horse’s muscles tense beneath my touch.
Tristan puffed out his chest. “Sure. It can’t be any different from riding any other horse.”
I arched a brow. “Tell you what—if you can ride this horse, we’ll switch.”
A cocky grin spread across his face. “Easy peasy. Watch me.”
Swaggering forward, he reached for the horse’s reins. The stallion immediately backed away, nostrils flaring.
Tristan faltered. “Hold him still for me.” His bravado wavered, betrayed by a hint of fear in his wide eyes.
I held the reins lightly. “I’m trying.”
“Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you want him to buck. You need to hold the reins tighter,” Tristan snapped.
I let out a breath, shaking my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Riding a horse is a partnership, not a means of control.” A grim smile tugged at my lips.
“Whatever.” Tristan lifted his foot into the stirrup.
The stallion reared with a piercing squeal, flinging Tristan straight to the ground.
“Fuck!” He groaned, sitting up and brushing the dust from his clothes. Then, with a scowl, he said, “Show me how it’s done, Lone Ranger.”
I frowned. “Lone Ranger?”
He waved a hand. “Forget it. Just get on your damn horse and let’s go.”
Shaking my head, I mounted my stallion in one fluid motion. Grumbling under his breath, Tristan climbed onto the back of his mule with considerably less grace.
As we trotted down the road toward Giovanni’s house, I tuned out Tristan’s incessant whining, far too absorbed in the beauty of the Italian countryside. Florence was unlike the Rome I once knew—rolling green hillsstretched into the horizon, magnolia and olive trees dotted the land, and herds of goats and sheep grazed peacefully in the fields.
Before long, we arrived at a modest, white-washed house, its yard alive with clucking hens pecking at the dirt and grass. A few goats meandered beneath the shade of olive trees in the distance.
As we approached, a hound dog bolted toward us, barking to announce our arrival.
“Hello, pup,” I said, dismounting with ease. I gave the dog a pat on the head, earning a wag of his tail.
Looping the horse’s reins over a sturdy tree branch, I glanced back at Tristan. “You stay here.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go do your important things while I sit outside doing absolutely nothing.”
Ignoring his theatrics, I strode up the dirt path and knocked on the wooden door.
A young maid answered the door, her eyes darting left and right before settling on me.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked, her voice low and wary.
I straightened instinctively. “I hope so. I’m looking for Giovanni Zampa. Is he here?”
