“Do the honors, Saturnino,” Juno intoned.
She expected him to comply; he usually did. But instead of reaching for the slim dagger she knew he always kept on him, Saturnino stared back at her, hesitating, still clutching the ridiculous creature in his arms.
“Take him outside and do it,” Juno said. “Now, son.”
His eyes darkened in stubborn refusal. “None of the servants will tell the truth after this. They will be too afraid.”
“You’re wrong,” Fortuna said. “You’ve said it yourself: fear is a great motivator.”
“What’s the matter, Saturnino? Are you going soft?” Marco jeered. “Have you forgotten what you are?” He stepped forward, his hand already gripping his sword. With one thrust he slammed the blade into the man’s gut. The servant slumped forward, bloodpouring out of him in long spurts. It spread across the stone, staining it horribly.
Saturnino clenched his jaw and turned his back on them, walking out of the room and taking his pet with him.
“Marco.” Juno rubbed her temple and sighed. “Couldn’t you have taken him outside first?”
Pietro de’ Pazzi
It was late, but he didn’t care. He finally had something his father would want, something useful in this war against the Medici. His father’s office was locked, but he could see a thin line of illumination glowing underneath the door. He shifted the bundle in his arms to one side, and used the flat of his palm to bang against the wood.
“I’m busy,” his father called from within.
“You’ll want to see what I’ve brought you.”
The door was opened and one of the servant girls scuttled out of the room, rearranging the straps of her tunic. She darted past him, her gaze downcast, and disappeared down the corridor.
Pietro stepped inside as his father finished lacing his trousers.
“What is it, Pietro?” he growled. “It’s late. I told you to bring your report in the morning.”
“I know,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “This couldn’t wait.” He placed the bundle onto his father’s desk with a loud thud.
His father’s gaze snagged on to it, sharp interest gleaming in his eyes. “What do you have under that sheet?”
All along, the plan was for Pietro to observe the banquet in disguise, not interfere, but watch carefully for who was in attendance and listen in on conversations happening around him as he waited on the guests.
But then he had seen the statue.
Without fanfare, he plucked the sheet off, letting it rustle to the stone floor. His father looked at the statue narrowly, shifting to better inspect it from a different angle. Pietro inhaled sharply, waiting forthe moment his father would see the reason why he stole the marble in the first place.
Jacopo stilled, his lips parting. His skin flushed, twin spots of red blooming on his cheeks. “A Nightflame.”
“Yes,” Pietro said quietly. “I brought this especially for you, Padre—but for one reason only.”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” His father said in a hushed voice. “This changes everything. I have to get this to the courier. He’ll know how to send it on quickly.” Then his father turned to face him. “His Holiness will honor you, son. You have done good work, much better than your fool of a sister.”
Anger lit into him. “She’swhyI’m here. Let her come home. For a year, I’ve had to watch her live as a servant, cleaning and dressing the immortals as if she lost her name, but she’sours, Father. Please, I’m begging you. Let her come home.”
“If she wanted to impress me, she would have brought the statue herself,” his father snapped.
“Imelda is forbidden from coming here,” Pietro said, fighting to keep his voice moderate. Only his father was allowed to yell in his palazzo. “And the statue is too heavy for her to cart around all of Florence.”
His father dropped a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed. Pietro tried not to flinch; he knew he wouldn’t like what his father said next.
“You have always carried her burdens, Pietro,” he said gravely. “It’s time you let her fight her own battles. Why don’t you stop wasting your time in the Palazzo dei Luni and come home to me?” He squeezed Pietro’s shoulder again. “You have great potential, son.”
Pietro locked his jaw, and somehow bore his father’s touch. He supposed it was meant to be consoling, but all he felt was disgust. His sister needed him, and deep down, he feared she would not survive without him.
“How long will Imelda have to remain there before you’re satisfied?”
