His father leaned close, until his warm breath brushed against his face. “Tell her to get me the rest of the gemstones, Pietro.”
Pietro shrugged off his father’s arm and stomped out of the room.
And went back to his sister.
The Pope
He had a Nightflame gemstone. ANightflame.Everything was falling into place. The pope stared into the glowing Echostone, nerves dancing along the edge of his fingertips. His eyes blurred from excitement.
“What else?” he demanded. “What news of Ravenna?”
“She delivered Sforza,” came the courier’s cool reply. “Her brother shot him, along with the other two recruits.”
For a split second, the pope forgot how to speak. Then a rush of blood hit his head, making his head spin in a delirious turn. Surprise fluttered through him.
Galeazzo Sforza wasdead.
Taken care of by Ravenna’s brother, of all people.
Elation coursed through him. He was thankful he had taken pains to shape the young man’s fury, giving it purpose, direction, a sanctioned outlet. Early on, the pope had learned how to make use of fear and anger. A man consumed by rage was a man readily mastered. Anger was a leash no one felt around their throat. All it had taken was a little care, a little patience, a moment of feigned understanding and comradery, before Antonio belonged to him.
The orb glowed, impatient for a response. His courier was reliable, he’d give him that. It was a wonder how well a threat could wreak havoc over someone’s life, transforming them into a new being.
A strange, fascinating alchemy.
One might cross lines they thought they’d never cross. They might say words they’d never dreamed of claiming. An action they once thought deplorable became second nature.
People’s instinct to survive was a trait he’d harnessed over and over again. It was necessary, and he would be forgiven, he was sure of it. Only he had the divine ear of God. Only he had the people in the palm of his hands, promising deliverance for their wretched souls. Provided they behaved.
“Excellent progress,” the pope cooed.
Silence followed, and he had the brief impression he’d annoyed the courier. He didn’t care, he was on the cusp of winning this war against the Medici.
“There’s something else,” the courier said.
The courier had spoken in his familiar tone of voice, cool and dispassionate, but even so, the pope’s pulse spiked in his veins. He somehow managed to speak through the roaring in his ears. “Did you find her? Did you find Simonetta?”
“No.”
Disappointment flattened him. He stared ahead, unseeing, her name still on his tongue. He wished he knew how to rid himself of the obsession. He wished he knew how to forget what she’d done to him, how she tasted, the supple feel of her skin against his.
Dio, how hehatedher.
It consumed him, it ravished him, a fire he couldn’t smother—
“But we found what she stole from you.”
Blank astonishment rendered the pope speechless again. “The statues?” he whispered hoarsely. He recovered quickly, his voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion. “What has Simonetta done with them? Where are they?”
For the first time, the hint of an emotion bled into the courier’s voice. The pope could have sworn it was amusement. “All five are in Florence. She was very clever; she hid them in plain sight.”
“Tell me,” he demanded, his mind quickly making plans. He would do whatever it took to steal back what belonged to him. Who could he send? He thought of everyone who belonged to him, one way or another, countless men and women who were beholden to him.
“Your witch used Nightflames to turn them human,” the couriersaid with a hint of relish. “The famiglia who you know as the Luni were once your statues.”
The pope heard the words as if from a different plane. A different realm. They were too fantastic, too unexpected. He inhaled sharply. Rage turned his vision scarlet. Simonetta had not only left him, she’d played him for afool.
“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.
