Ravenna’s gaze lowered, landing on a cream-colored envelope placed on top of the linen napkin, her name written in thick black ink.
It was sealed in red wax, stamped with the imprint of a triple crown.
Imelda de’ Pazzi
FLORENCE, 1476
On Imelda’s nineteenth birthday her parents hosted a lavish banquet in her honor. All of Florence’s glittering society were invited: members of the Signoria, lower-ranking nobility, and the wealthiest of merchants. The Medici and Luni families were deliberately and notably excluded. Not that Imelda noticed.
She had other things on her mind that night.
Her parents had ordered the most beautiful gown Imelda had ever seen for the occasion, and as she brushed a finger against the rich velvet, she suddenly remembered the other reason behind the banquet.
This wasn’t just about her birthday.
Her parents wanted to marry her off. Tonight they would parade her in front of all the eligible bachelors they’d summoned, observing them carefully to see who showed promising interest in their daughter.
Like all daughters of wealthy families, Imelda had known her fate before her first bleeding. She would marry whomever her parents chose for her, and there was nothing else to say about the matter. Except she did have something to say.
She would not marry at all if she could not marry Alessandro.
As the banquet hall filled with her parents’ friends and none of her own, she crept outside to the palazzo’s stables. Her home rivaled that of the Luni family’s residence. It had the same limestone blocks, built up to three stories tall, immense loggia on the main floor, andmassive wooden doors at the entrance, intricately carved with her family’s coat of arms: a blue shield displaying golden crosses hovering above a pair of dolphins, the Latin motto at the bottom:Macte animo.
Be of good courage.
Imelda was living up to the words that had guided her family for years.
Even if her parents wouldn’t agree.
“Imelda,” a voice came from behind her.
She turned to meet her lover’s arms. He pulled her into an empty stall, the train of her gown dragging over stone, hay, and dirt. Everything faded to a hush: the arrival of the guests, her parents’ expectations, her older brother urging caution. None of it mattered. Imelda was where she wanted to be, held tight in Alessandro’s embrace, his lips on hers, kissing her urgently, his hands exploring her body, cupping her breasts. He whispered his devotion against her skin, sweet words she’d carry with her wherever she went.
Five minutes later, they were discovered by one of the biggest gossips in Florence. It took only a quarter of an hour for Imelda’s reputation to go up in flames.
Papà bid the guests to leave, her birthday banquet canceled. His wishes were respected, and now there was only the family in his study left to deal with her. Her mother was sitting in a chair, tucked in the corner of the room, her lavish gown a heap around her. She tugged at a string of pearls around her neck, nervously playing with the gemstones.
“You know our place in this city is precarious,” Papà seethed, pacing up and down the floor. “You know His Holiness looks tometo expel the Medici threat. Does any of that mean anything to you?”
It didn’t; it never did.
Imelda sat before him in an upholstered velvet chair, staring up at him with an expression she had learned from her own mother. Perfect disinterest. Her brother stood in the corner of the room, arms crossedtightly across his broad frame, his brows knitted. He met her eyes, inclined his head toward their father. His frustration at her stubbornness was all too clear.
Listen to him, he communicated with his glaring eyes.Ascoltare.
She set her jaw. Papà could yell whatever he wished to her. They could not force her to marry. Her mind raced with what she could say. If he knew she loved Alessandro, would her father possibly understand? Sentencing her to a life with a stranger would kill her. He could not—
“Pay attention,” Papà snapped. “You have been indulged in this family long enough. I will not let you tear us down, I will not let your ruined reputation destroy my plans. No daughter of mine will tarnish our name, our position in Florence, our good standing with the pope.”
“Padre,” Pietro murmured, uncrossing his arms.
“Do you think a convent is in store for you, Imelda?” Papà asked quietly. “Do you think I’ll send you to our home in the country where you can do whatever the hell you want, with whomever the hell you want? That won’t teach you to keep your fucking legs closed.”
“Padre,” Pietro said, this time louder, alarmed, stepping closer to him. “Enough.”
Papà sliced his hand through the air.
Her brother fell silent, shooting her a quick glance. It was brief, but Imelda saw the panic flaring in his expression. The sense of doom approaching. Perhaps she ought to apologize after all. She sat up straighter, opened her mouth to speak, but her father beat her to it.
