Portrait Of A Conspiracy E-Book

Donna Russo Morin

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In 15th century Florence, five women and a legendary artist weave together a dangerous plot that could bring peace - or get them all killed.

Seeking to wrest power from the Medici, members of the Pazzi family slay the beloved Giuliano. But Lorenzo de' Medici survives the attack and seeks revenge on everyone involved, plunging the city into murderous chaos. Bodies are dragged through the streets, and no one is safe.

Five women steal away to a church to ply their craft in secret. Viviana, Fiammetta, Isabetta, Natasia and Mattea are painters, not allowed to be public with their skill but freed from the restrictions in their lives by their art. When a sixth member of their group, Lapaccia, goes missing and is rumored to have stolen a much sought-after painting before she vanished, the women must venture out into the dangerous streets to find their friend.

They will have help from one of the most renowned painters of their era: the peaceful and kind Leonardo da Vinci. It is under his tutelage that they flourish as artists and with his access that they infiltrate some of the highest, most secretive places in Florence, unraveling one conspiracy as they build another in its place.

Vibrant and absorbing, Portrait Of A Conspiracy is the first novel in Donna Russo Morin's Da Vinci's Disciples series.

Leseprobe

PORTRAIT OF A CONSPIRACY

DA VINCI'S DISCIPLES BOOK 1

DONNA RUSSO MORIN

EXTENDED EDITION

CONTENTS

Praise for Portrait of a Conspiracy

Other Works by Bestselling Author Donna Russo Morin

Personaggi

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

What is Historically Factual and What is Not

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Reading Group Guide

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Donna Russo Morin

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PRAISE FOR PORTRAIT OF A CONSPIRACY

“Illicit plots, mysterious paintings, and a young Leonardo da Vinci all have their part to play in this delicious, heart-pounding tale.”

—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Alice Code

“This riveting book is filled with art, assassinations, retribution, and a sisterhood of fascinating women who inspire as well as entertain.”

—Stephanie Dray, New York Times bestselling author of America’s First Daughter

“In Portrait of a Conspiracy, Russo Morin’s rich detailing transports the reader to the heart of Renaissance Italy from the first page.”

—Heather Webb, USA Today bestselling author of Meet Me in Monaco

“…a page-turner unlike any historical novel, weaving passion, adventure, artistic rebirth, and consequences of ambition… a masterful writer at the peak of her craft.”

—C. W. Gortner, bestselling author of The Confessions of Catherine de’ Medici

“A 15th-century Florence of exquisite art, sensual passion and sudden, remorseless violence comes vividly to life in Donna Russo Morin’s new novel.”

—Nancy Bilyeau, author of The Blue

“Russo Morin’s elegant command of language and composition left me breathless, but the story itself, with its flawless depiction of power, corruption, defiance, intrigue, and retribution makes Portrait of a Conspiracy an absolute must-read.”

—Flashlight Commentary

“This riveting historical fiction novel [is] filled with art, passion, and violence. A portrait of the dangerous beauty of Renaissance Florence.”

—The Florentine

“The action is fierce, and the stillness is resplendent with intensity of being. The suspense is thrilling and intelligent. The writing is masterful.”

—Open Book Society

“Elegant and Intriguing!”

—Red Carpet Crash

OTHER WORKS BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR DONNA RUSSO MORIN

GILDED DREAMS

GILDED SUMMERS

BIRTH: Once, Upon a New Time Book One

THE COMPETITION: Da Vinci’s Disciples Book Two (new version releasing soon)

THE FLAMES OF FLORENCE: Da Vinci’s Disciples Book Three (new version releasing soon)

THE KING’S AGENT

TO SERVE A KING

THE GLASSMAKER’S DAUGHTER

THE COURTIER OF VERSAILLES

To Jennifer Way,

My JWay:

Forever beautiful,

Forever young,

Forever in my heart

PERSONAGGI

*denotes historical character

Viviana del Marrone-a founding member of a secret group of women artists; the daughter of a long line of wealthy vintners; born 1444

Orfeo del Marrone-Viviana’s husband; a merchant; born 1434

Contessa Fiammetta Ruspoli Maffei-a member of the secret group of women artists; daughter to one of the great noble houses of Florence; born 1442

*Lorenzo de’ Medici-entitled Il Magnifico by the people of Florence; renowned Italian statesmen and unofficial ruler of the Florentine government; merchant banker; a great patron of the arts; Platonist; poet; born 1449

*Giuliano de’ Medici-younger brother of Lorenzo de’ Medici; co-ruler of Florence though less politically active; patron of the arts; athlete; born 1453

Lapaccia Cavalcanti-member of the secret group of women artists; widow of Messer Andrea Cavalcanti; born 1438

*Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi-ruling patriarch of the Pazzi family; merchant banker; born 1421

*Francesco de’ Pazzi-oldest nephew of Jacopo de’ Pazzi; merchant banker; born 1444

*Guglielmo de’ Pazzi-nephew of Jacopo de’ Pazzi; younger brother to Francesco de’ Pazzi; husband to Bianca de’ Medici; one time Prior of Florence and member of the Eight; born 1437

Conte Patrizio Maffei-Fiammetta’s husband; a high-ranking nobleman; born 1437

*Cardinal of San Giorgio, Raffaele Riario-nephew of Pope Sixtus IV; first adolescent elevated to College of Cardinals; patron of the arts; born 1461

*Bernardo Bandini Baronecelli-banker with the Pazzi organization; born 1421

*Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati-appointed Archbishop by Pope Sixtus IV; born 1443

Sansone Caivano-professional soldier from northern Venice, born 1450

*Cesare Petrucci-Gonfaloniere (governor) of Florence; veteran militiaman

Natasia Soderini-the youngest member of the secret group of women artists; a member of one of the most powerful and noble houses of Florence; born 1462

*Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi, better known as Sandro Botticelli-Italian Renaissance painter of Florentine School; belonged to the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici; born 1445

Mattea Zamperini-last member to join the secret group of women artists; daughter of a deceased merchant; born 1461

Andreano Cavalcanti-son of Lapaccia; member of the Consiglio di Cento, Council of One Hundred; born 1456

Isabetta Fioravanti-a member of the secret group of women artists; a mainland Venetian brought to Florence by her husband, a once-successful butcher; born 1454

Father Raffaello, Tomaso Soderini-Natasia Soderini’s brother; parish priest of Santo Spirito; born 1457

*Leonardo da Vinci-polymath; born 1452

God was watching,

and He shuddered in horror at what He saw.

CHAPTER1

“Gathering Clouds”

Time rules all; it does not discriminate nor exalt. They could not run from it, though they did try to hide.

The six women hung their voluminous smocks upon the wall pegs by the locked door. In a dance choreographed by frequency and none other, they formed a circle, each facing the back of the one before them. Then, at once and together they turned, now perusing the woman on the other side with the same intense and critical eye. They turned again, facing each other in pairs now, partners in the dance, and examined more. With eyes trained and strained for the very purpose, they scoured each other’s clothing—every inch of gown and overgown, in every slashed sleeve and every partlet covered bodice—searching for the smallest of damning evidence. A strand of a feather brush, a smudge of charcoal, a splotch of paint.

For these women, for this secret group, to be caught with even the slightest bit of incrimination upon their person could be the very worst thing in the world to happen.

It could be.

* * *

Viviana longed to tell him to go to hell, but she dared not; the words were there, hanging on the curves of her lips and the hate in her heart, but she had only ever imagined herself saying them.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind and accompany me?” she asked instead.

She saw the lump of him—shriveled under the coverlet of their bed—in the reflection of the mottled looking glass in front of her. Even in half-sleep, the face peeking out of the linens was a scrunched and folded mask of discontent.

“It is a great honor to attend Mass at the Duomo, as the guest of such a well-positioned family, and on such a momentous occasion. We should be enormously grateful to Conte Maffei for the invitation,” she cajoled still, hopeful yet, hating the thin tone of pleading in her voice as she tucked a stray chestnut curl back into the russet caul posed on the back of her head. “It was so kind of the Contessa to ask, given our casual acquaintance.”

Though not as casual as Orfeo thought, in their studio, as well as in society, the two women existed on the outskirts of each other’s lives. Fiammetta’s rank towered far above her own. Today was merely charity from a woman who liked to appear charitable. Viviana knew it but brushed the truth of it away, feeling nothing more than grateful for such an opportunity.

A quick glance at her attire and a stab of insecurity jabbed her, at the minuteness of the diamond chips trimming the straight neckline of her evergreen gown, the slightly worn look of the thin lace partlet above it, the smallness of the brooch hanging from the plain headband encircling her plucked brow. Sumptuary laws or no, one’s appearance reflected one’s stature and she feared hers was the truth of it, a portrait of a low-ranking noblewoman whose family’s wealth had been squandered by a lazy spouse. She was mollified, somewhat, as she donned the newly made gamurra, thatthe sleeveless overgown of gold and the same emerald green as her gown gave her at least the aura of fashionable flair.

With one blue eye upon her husband, Viviana del Marrone scurried one finger in her jewelry box, looking for the necklace. She found it quickly, for there was far less in the carved mahogany chest than there used to be. Viviana lifted her chin an inch higher as she dropped the long, Y-shaped necklace upon her bosom, a gift from her sons, young men who spoiled their mother with keen relish. It sat well upon her, beside the chain and its key pendant, that which never came off her neck.

Viviana turned and faced her husband though his head remained upon the pillow, his heavy-lidded eyes still closed. Her stabbing stare of envy was keen.

How dare you squander such freedom? Her mind chewed upon the familiar thought. Were I blessed with the freedom of a man, the paint brush I dare to hold would never leave my hand.

She shrugged slim shoulders, brushing away her frequent companion of dissatisfaction.

“Fiammetta assured me that not only will the Medicis be there, but many other fine dignitaries as well. It was quite the impressive crowd arriving with the Cardinal of San Giorgio and the Archbishop of Pisa, was it not? And we will stand at the very front alongside them, far more forward than we would ever…,” she cloaked her words with a cough, hearing them as his easily perturbed ego would. With a light step of trepidation, Viviana moved toward the bed. “Many will envy our very privileged position. It would be a most opportune occasion to pay our respects.”

Orfeo spun round, slapped the feather ticking below him with both hands, and thrashed up.

Viviana stumbled back; her words having finally wrought a reaction, but not one she desired.

“What use have I of dignitaries, of the Medici…” Orfeo snarled, a repugnant sight. Dark-skinned face a contortion of splenetic temper. The few strands of hair left upon his head a tangled, stuck-out mess. The revealed bare torso—saggy flesh and protruding belly—quavering with his anger. “Upon their whims, they have cast me from their favor. No amount of supplication will change that. You know it!”

He stabbed the air with a stubby finger as if he stabbed her with his misplaced blame.

“How dare you toss it in my face?”

“I only thought you might try—”

“You thought,” Orfeo snarled. “You think nothing, and do not try, for you might hurt yourself.”

Orfeo flung himself back down on the bed and snapped the linens once more about the small bunch of his curled body.

“I am done. They will not let me back in the fold.” It was the mewling of a pathetic animal tainted by venomous rage.

Viviana turned to her dressing table once more, ignoring the shake of her hand as she retrieved the small, embellished drawstring purse.

If you are done, she thought as she tied the delicate emerald silk pouch to the pale pink satin band high upon her waist, it is only because you have given up, yet again.

Without another word or glance back, Viviana left her stewing husband to wallow in his silent discontent.

CHAPTER2

“Clouds gather only where a storm brews”

“Are you excited, Mona Viviana?” Fiammetta’s husband Patrizio greeted her at his palazzo door with an almost girlish twitter, plump cheeks dimpling as he held his free arm out to her. His grandly bedecked wife already in her position on his other.

“I am thrilled, dear Patrizio,” Viviana replied, taking the offered limb. “And I am grateful to be with you both, as always.”

Around the short man, the women shared bemused smiles, indulgence tinged with shared secrets.

“Have you ever seen the city so beautiful?” Viviana asked, the splendor of the moment enveloping her—erasing her husband’s virulence from her mind—as they made their way through streets teeming with smiling neighbors.

“It has been some time,” Patrizio agreed as he strutted along.

Viviana sighed, gaze full of Florence embraced by spring, cleaned to perfection, adorned in its finest costume. Festoons of flowers hung on every doorjamb and balcony, their sweet aroma filling the air. Family banners fluttered, snapping softly in the gentle breeze.

“Magnifico asked us to put on our best for his guests,” Fiammetta said without a smile. “And what Lorenzo de’ Medici bids, we Fiorentino's do.”

“Whatever the reason,” Viviana held her head high as they walked the crowded, cobbled streets, “I am glad for it.”

With a single gong, the church bells of the city began their clamoring, a splendid concerto, every bell in use to call this, the High Mass of Ascension Sunday, to order. Those so privileged or given special dispensation, rushed to the doors of the Duomo, while the rest of the city made their way to their own parishes in hopes of equal salvation or to the piazza to watch the privileged pass. Friends were in that crowd, special friends of all sorts; Viviana’s critical gaze swept the faces for those dear to her, but to no avail.

“You have made us late again, Patrizio!” Fiammetta shouted at her husband though he walked right beside her. The tolling grew louder. The urgency of sound quickened her step. Speed and breeze forced her free hand to hold fast to the jeweled veil atop her straw-like hair.

“I am moving as fast as I can.” The very bald, very round man hurried to keep up with his scurrying wife, pulling Viviana with him, his knees popping outward, his belly jiggling.

With the turn of a corner, the grand and golden Duomo rose up before them, a blazing testament to the glory of Florence. Viviana felt the familiar hitch in her breath at the magnificent sight. As they hurried over the irregular cobbled rectangle of the Piazza del Duomo, her gaze scurried over its sights: from Giotto’s campanile, the Column of Saint Zanobius, the Baptistry, to the dome itself—the round, golden vault—Filippo Brunelleschi’s wonder.

“But what is this?” Patrizio slowed his pace, holding them back with a tick of his chin.

There, on the left side of the Duomo, they spied a small group of men hastening away from the side entrance, led by none other than the powerful Medici brothers.

“But…but…,” Viviana stammered, a hand rising to her cheek. “Mass could only have just begun, if at all.”

“It is your fault,” Fiammetta grumbled at her husband. “It is because we are so late.”

Patrizio slanted a petulant look upon his wife. He rushed the women forward, bringing them ever closer to the towering front door of the cathedral, the scrolled pediment above, and the sculptures standing guard on each side.

“Slower,” Fiammetta hissed as they drew nearer, and Viviana bit back a smile. She knew there was nothing in Heaven or the cathedral to impel her inquisitive friend to enter its confines until she saw for herself what had impelled the dignitaries out.

But they need wait no longer. From the narrow Via Larga degli Spadia—the straight street of the sword forgers leading directly from the Medici Palace to the Cathedral de Santa Maria del Fiore—they spied the return of the Medicis, their group enlarged to an imposing brigata, bright with cardinal red, archbishop purple, fine velvets, and shiny leather. As the trio of friends converged on the front entrance, the Medici contingent did so from the west side.

“Oooh,” Fiammetta luxuriated on the picture. “And now they return with their guests.”

Viviana gaped at the group of men, their power, their eminence apparent as each step brought them closer. Yet the more she stared at them, the more she knew them, not for who they were…everyone would recognize Cardinal Riario and Archbishop Salviati, even the small and swarmy Francesco de’ Pazzi…but she knew them, as a group. She could not recall from where. Something about them together struck a chord in her mind, a discordant note. She tilted her head, study and stare ever more intense, still she could not name it. Her pale eyes narrowed against a bright flash of light, a reflection…

…but no, it could not be. Her sight played tricks upon her mind. What an absurdity. What she saw was nothing but a glint from a strand of fine rosary beads. She believed it, only with a shiver of unease.

Fiammetta salivated on such a juicy tidbit of gossip, “A mistake has been made it would seem. It looks as if the Medici were to meet the guests at their palazzo not the cathedral, but—”

“But I will truly be angry with you, my wife, if we do not enter before they do,” Patrizio hissed between clenched teeth.

“What in the name of…” Viviana hissed in turn.

Within the Medici contingent, a man had suddenly stopped and embraced the man beside him, none other than Lorenzo’s younger brother, Giuliano. Awkward surprise contorted the handsome young man’s face until the other released him.

“Bernardo Bandini, what are you about?” Patrizio whispered aloud.

Without thought, Viviana squeezed his arm; he had seen it too. Together they watched as Bandini released Giuliano, as he turned to whisper in the Archbishop’s ear, who whispered in another’s. The argument ended as the Archbishop left the man for the more accommodating company of two priests.

“What? What is that you say?” Fiammetta slowed her pace once more.

“Come. No more now,” Patrizio replied, yanking her forward without answer.

He hurried them into the cathedral, his wife leaning backward to get a last glimpse of the strange contingent. Viviana leaning forward.

* * *

For the third time that morning, Lapaccia Cavalcanti climbed the stairs to the third floor of her spacious home, one she had searched for the better part of an hour. Her aging knees screeched; inflicted lungs struggled for breath. She could find no sign of her son.

Andreano had promised to escort her to Mass, and he had never gone back on his promises, not in all the years of her widowhood. The deceased Andrea Cavalcanti, one of the greatest knights in all of Italy, a title earned by blood, both inherited and shed, would be disappointed in his son were he to renege on his promise to his mother, any promise.

As Lapaccia looked in her son’s room one more time, her shoulders drooped in surrender. His ornamental sword was gone from its resting place on the bedpost. His boots lay nowhere on the floor—Andreano’s notion of ‘put away.’ There was nothing for it; he had left and early, for she was a dawn riser. She would return to her own rooms and have her maids remove her splendid gown, for she had never, and would never, venture out alone socially, regardless that Viviana and Fiammetta awaited her.

Lapaccia trudged to her chambers, forgetting why as soon as she entered. Crossing thick tapestry set atop grey stone floor, she stopped before the wall of windows and the balcony beyond. The vista took in the better part of the western quadrant, the old section of Florence long since taken over by brothels and their clientele. It was a world of lascivious dirt within a city of elegant beauty.

Lapaccia watched, enthralled.

Droves of men flowed from ramshackle inns sandwiched between brightly painted bordellos. Stern-faced, adorned in dark leather and boots, yet their path could bring them nowhere other than the Duomo. Lapaccia had seen many things from these windows but never had she seen such a contingent making for Mass.

She turned from the dichotomous sight, one thought alone nagging at her.

Where are you, Andreano?

* * *

Viviana stood near the front of the congregation beside the Conte and Contessa, for once as enthralled with Fiammetta’s rank as Fiammetta had always been. She forgot any and all earlier concerns. Her slippered feet—her best pair, though worn—tapped upon patterned marble. Her thumbs twirled in the cup of her hands. It was the best attempt at quiet reverence she could manage within the multitude of distractions.

The Gothic vaults of the central nave towered above, guarded by the columns and round arches of ancient Rome, so high only birds could reach its apex, set aglow by the sweet light streaming in through the mammoth clerestory windows. It was a cave of wonders built by the hand of man; a hand guided by God.

Viviana aimed her eyes forward, on the priest standing in wait, small and encapsulated within the chancel and the cupola above it.

“Where is our Lapaccia?” Fiammetta leaned close to whisper.

Viviana merely shrugged in ignorance. They had planned to be together on this special occasion, but the woman and her son were nowhere in sight.

Mass was often no more than an excuse to see and be seen but never had Viviana witnessed so many watching so many others. Yes, it was Ascension Day, and with a cardinal coming to celebrate it at that. Still, the congregation appeared incongruently heavy with men…well-dressed, well-outfitted, standing side by side, and yet apart.

A metal hinge creaked. Viviana blinked as sunlight and the Medici brothers burst through the door. The chorus struck a rousing chord as if to sing their praises and not those of God. Both brothers accompanied the cardinal to his seat beneath the cupola. Viviana lowered her head as the priests began their parade of blessing, thuribles clacking, releasing the spicy scent of the incense that did little to mask the odor of so many bodies packed side by side.

The brothers separated, each taking the head of one side of the congregation, as far apart and as far forward as they could. Lorenzo to the left, Giuliano to just a few rows before Viviana. She wondered if perhaps they separated to discourage contrast of one so powerful and one so beautiful. With them and their group, the church filled: dignitaries, nobles, clergy, and dashing soldiers. Viviana tried not to stare at the luminaries but failed. A few she recognized as those she had seen approach with the Medici contingent, malcontent slick upon their faces, shrouded in a disquiet out of sorts with such a hallowed place.

Many congregants marveled at the sight of the Medici brothers and their guests. Viviana felt it too, their magnetism. But at the glimpse of one of the men among them, at the tall, thin man most simply called da Vinci, her breath became a shallow, elusive thing. Her emulation of the artist bordered on obsession, regardless of the salacious rumors that swirled around him like a storm.

Movement snatched her attention. Archbishop Salviati, the hem of his rich purple cappa magna slapping at his ankles, scampered down the far aisle on his short legs. Viviana turned rudely from the altar—eyes wide, brows high—following the clergyman hurrying past the ranks. Oh, over there now—an equally disruptive sight. Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi, the presiding patriarch of the powerful family, yanked her gaze to the right as he too rushed from the cathedral, and out the opposite door.

Viviana looked round, forehead creased, wide blue eyes beseeching; had none of the other congregants seen what she had, did they not find it baffling? True, she was not so familiar with Mass among esteemed patrons, but none considered such displays of disrespect normal. Did they?

“Bene dictam, adscrí ptam, ra tam, rationábilem, acceptabilém fácere dignéris.”

Viviana pinned her gaze forward, shaking her head softly to set aside and away all confusing thoughts, for the priest was making the sign of the cross, three times, over the great chalice. The Consecration had begun; the blessing of the body and blood of Christ.

In this moment, she often found the greatest connection to Jesus.

Today it was not to be.

The bell rang, the host was elevated, and…

“HERE, TRAITOR!”

The scream tore through the church, a shrieking, evil explosion. Viviana’s breath faltered. Her heart hammered. Directly in front of her, directly beside Giuliano de’ Medici, a mad man came to life. He was not alone.

“Look out!” Viviana screeched and pointed at the daggers raised high just as the priest upon the altar raised the host. The shiny steel flashed in her gaze. The flaying weapons intent upon spreading pure madness. Downward they plunged.

Viviana’s world turned blood-red.

CHAPTER3

“What I have seen,

I can no longer not have seen it”

The bells of Giotto’s campanile clanged as the world crashed in anger.

Time changed. Seconds took hours. All color drained to shades of gray save the irreverent red of blood splattering the floor, the walls, the people closest to the carnage. Viviana did not know which way to look. She looked everywhere.

The congregants in the row in front of her, the people between her and Giuliano, pushed and barged into her. Screams of scattering women mingled with grunts of fighting men. Viviana could not move—could not turn away.

A flash of light glinted off the raised blade. She followed the blade downward, found the burning eyes of a lunatic set in the grotesquely twisted face of Bernardo Bandini. His cry had started the maelstrom. Started the savagery.

Giuliano de’ Medici turned slowly, too slowly. The jagged-edged dagger plunged into his side unabated by any armor. In that moment, Viviana understood Bandini’s bizarre embrace outside the church.

The blood spurted. The reddest blood Viviana had ever seen. It gushed upon a bleached existence, a mortal rip in the fabric of a world gone mad. The beautiful face, so desired, changed, etched grotesquely by chisels of shock and horror.

Instinctively, her hands reached out as she watched the body convulse under the assault. Her hands, her heart, flung toward Giuliano as they would to one of her sons. How much he reminded her of her own Marcello.

Viviana had only one thought.

What madness is this?

The men sandwiched their victim. Bernardo Bandini stood in front of Giuliano, the bloody dagger, once plunged into his victim’s chest, hung limply in his hands. The bedlamite came at him from behind.

“Francesco de’ Pazzi,” Viviana croaked the name of the second assassin in disbelief even as he joined Bandini.

Face snarled, mouth hanging open, spewing incomprehensible grunts and curses from between gnarled lips, Francesco struck again and again at the body of Giuliano de’ Medici with a hatred not of this world, possessed by a madness Viviana had never been witness to, had never—could never—imagine existed in a human heart. The air filled with the coppery, acidic scent of blood. Bile heaved into Viviana’s mouth.

Giuliano flung his arms up in front of his face. A useless defense. His weak appendages offered little protection; they fell away with each blow. Giuliano staggered forward and to the right, toward the door leading to the Via de’ Servi. Dark waves of silky hair fell in his face, sticky with blood.

Viviana lunged in the same direction. Her feet following the tottering Giuliano. Her body colliding painfully as she bounced off the rushing, retreating horde moving in the opposite direction.

“Stop! Oh please, dear God, make it stop,” Viviana pleaded to the deity surrounding her, but the uproar in the cavernous space gobbled up her words. Would the great cupola of the Duomo finally come crashing down as so many had feared since its creation?

Giuliano fell and Francesco de’ Pazzi slashed at him, shredding the body. Frenzied and possessed by his insanity, de’ Pazzi plunged the blade into his own thigh. Yanking it out, he kept on, oblivious to any pain.

Closer to Giuliano now, Viviana heard the bleeding man whisper, “Where is Lorenzo?”

She followed his gaze. Her whole body began to shake.

* * *

Lorenzo did not hear his brother from where he stood on the southern side near the old sacristy, where madness found another niche.

Another cry, this one from his brother-in-law, Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, filled Lorenzo’s ears. “I know not of this!” he screamed. “I am innocent. I vow, Lorenzo, I vow. Forgive me!”

The young man scrambled about, unsure which direction to run, only trying hard to do so.

Lorenzo reached out, wrenching him back by the shoulder. “Of what folly do you speak?”

He received no answer as more lunacy erupted.

The almost childlike cardinal, Raffaele Riario, shrieked. Lunging forward, he dropped to his knees on the altar, hands up in prayer, mumbling incoherently, rocking back and forth.

“What madness is this?” Lorenzo asked the world.

But he should have been watching the priests. He had seen them, just seconds earlier. Two priests in simple soutanes, inching toward him.

From behind, a steely fist gripped Lorenzo’s shoulder, spun him round. A dagger flashed, aimed for his heart.

With the swiftness of the soldier he had once been, with one graceful move, Lorenzo raised his mantle up, winding it about his left arm—a padded shield. With his right, he drew his short sword.

Lorenzo plied no more than a parry or two until they surrounded him. A human shield formed about his person by those who called him friend and master, Francesco Nori—employee, dear friend—led the charge of defenders, moving them toward the altar. Leonardo da Vinci, unarmed, wrapped his arms about his friend, armor made of his flesh.

Within this circle, Lorenzo could think of but one.

“Giuliano!” He bellowed the name of the spirit and bane of his youth, of the one he swore to protect with his life. “Giuliano! Giuliano!”

Lorenzo screamed as he searched about, jumping up to see over the heads of the chaotic crowd bolting from the church in primal panic. But he saw nothing…nothing but the bobbing body of Francesco de’ Pazzi as he swung his blade up and down on the far side of the church.

* * *

They heard it too; Viviana saw it in their split-second hesitance, at the turn of their heads. Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini twitched at the strain of Lorenzo—still alive—calling for his brother. With one glance at the plundered body at their feet, they made their decision.

“Il Magnifico! Beware!” Viviana screamed as the murderers headed his way. She plunged closer to Giuliano in their wake.

A full-scale war raged beneath the statues standing guard in the cathedral, but they could not come to life and bring peace to such insanity.

With guttural shouts, Pazzi and Bandini engaged Nori and the others, reaching out in rage for Lorenzo. Arms thrashed, swords flashed, cries of hate and pain erupted.

Nori’s black gaze turned for an instant from his attacker to the door just beyond the railing, to the north of the altar. Viviana saw it then too, the door to the new sacristy.

The crazed Pazzi lunged. Nori jumped between Lorenzo and de’ Pazzi, taking the strike to the upper arm.

Wounded now, Nori raised his sword once more, beating the wounded Pazzi back with his swinging blade. At the same time, he pushed Lorenzo, forcing him to jump the low wooden rail into the octagonal altar.

The throng of assassins followed. The railing crashed beneath their weight. So determined, the Medici defenders held them back. From the left side, the other priest came at Lorenzo, a sword and small buckler in hands that once held the chalice and wafer. His malice denied by a liveried servant in red and gold Medici colors.

“Lorenzo…”

Viviana barely understood the gurgled cough. Looking down she saw Giuliano lived still, barely. She knelt by his side and took his hand, but he gave her no acknowledgment. She followed his gaze, moaning much as he did; no impediments obstructed the view from the cold stone floor. Beside the brutalized man, she watched as Lorenzo’s assailants made one last push.

A young Cavalcanti man, another Lorenzo by name, took a blade to the arm, crying out as his now useless limb dropped his sword.

Il Magnifico, Nori shielding him, reached the sacristy door, but he would not enter.

“Giuliano!” He cried once more, even as Nori, da Vinci, and the others pushed him.

Bandini lunged forward as the wounded Cavalcanti staggered back. With a guttural grunt and a hate-filled thrust, he plunged his sword into the gut of Francesco Nori.

“Dio mio, no!” Viviana cried out, free hand reaching out helplessly as if to reach him through the churning crowd.

Nori looked down in stunned disbelief as the bloodied sword retracted from his abdomen. Pure hatred curled his lip, powered his arm to lash out at Bandini, hurtling the man back as the tip of his sword slashed Bandini’s cheek.

The other Medici protectors encircled Nori now, dragging him into the sacristy as they pushed Lorenzo in. In that instant, brother found brother.

“Giuliano!”

At the sound of his name, the sound of his brother’s voice, the hand in Viviana’s twitched and she saw the moment his eyes locked with Lorenzo’s. She saw it all, all that ever lived between them—every moment, every word, all their love, the same love and indelible bond of brothers her own sons shared—spoken for the last time.

Giuliano’s bloodless lips spread as if in a smile, watching his brother disappear from his sight, alive and safe, beyond the heavy bronze doors, and into the sacristy.

Viviana felt it then, Giuliano’s last breath. The presence of life slipped from his body as his hand slipped from hers.

Still kneeling beside the now lifeless body, Viviana saw it—saw the battle end as any unharmed perpetrators carried out their wounded conspirators. Rats jumping off a sinking ship.

In the wake, madness lived still, for it had taken residence in her soul.

She curled over, hands on the floor, face in her hands, and sobbed.

CHAPTER4

“Disease is contagious, as is Madness”

“Viviana. Viviana! You must come away, now!”

Whether prodded by the urgency in his voice or the tugging of his insistent hand on her arm, Viviana came into awareness, turning away from the sight of Giuliano de’ Medici’s journey to death.

Looking upward, gaze ablur with tears, her mouth open yet silent, she found the stricken face of Patrizio inches away. He bobbled and staggered as he tugged on her arm.

Fiammetta wailed, desperate and despairing. She slapped at her husband’s grip, longing to be free of it, longing to flee. But Patrizio would not let go of either of them.

Viviana pushed to her feet, uncurling slowly as if the pain of her heart infested her body. For an instant, she put her hands to her ears to dull the cacophony—Fiammetta’s yowling, the screams of so many still fleeing the cathedral, the shouts of men trying to gain control. Above all, Lorenzo’s pleas escaping out the cracks of the closed sacristy door, crying his brother’s name, begging for an answer in each anguished call. She could not bear another moment of it.

Squatting beside the body of Giuliano, blood running from him in a widening pool of glistening red, Viviana reached out a quivering hand and closed the dead man’s eyes, feeling the warmth belying the end of his life. She draped a piece of tattered linen ripped from the edge of her chemise over his torso and head and rose up with a wavering breath, having done the best—the only—thing she could.

“Now, Viviana.” Patrizio pulled again.

“Yes, now.” She nodded and turned away, never to turn back again.

* * *

Blinded at first, the sun too bright after the bleached and dim interior, colors and light assaulted her. Viviana blinked, but to no avail. What she saw was the truth—the contained chaos inside the cathedral had spread to the piazza, spread and expanded. A beastly thing.

People streamed out of the Duomo, but they were not the same who had entered less than an hour ago. Now they were pale ghosts of their former selves. Loosened animals ran amok at their feet, their squeaks and squawks adding to the din, tripping people in a pandemic rush.

Viviana searched the crowd for her sons—soldiers garrisoned for months—for Isabetta, for Mattea, for Lapaccia.

“Viviana!”

Patrizio had released his hold on her but would not release her from his security. He called her out of paralysis as his still wailing wife yanked him down the few narrow marble steps. Viviana staggered toward them.

Amongst the churning humanity, the three turned south, toward their home quarter.

At the corner of the stairs, Patrizio pulled the two women out of the fray, pulled them against the stone of the Duomo.

“It will be hard going.” He took his wife’s face in his hands, his words, his glare, cutting through her mania. “We must hold tight and fast, yes?”

Fiammetta, mouth finally closed, quietly nodded, as did Viviana, dropping her forehead in her hand; she could bear to see no more, yet more came.

At her feet, a young boy crouched in the small, shadowy corner where stairs met wall. Barely visible except from her vantage point. Huddled into a tight ball, he looked no more than eight or nine years old. He showed no fear; his black eyes bulged wide with eager curiosity.

“Do not look, child,” she berated softly. It sickened her to see him seeing.

Her words brought Patrizio’s attention to the child.

“Niccolò, to your home,” Patrizio spoke unkindly, a man already overburdened.

“No, signore, I must see.”

Patrizio swiped his hands together twice, switching one across the other, and raised them in the air in washed surrender. “At least stay out of the way.” Taking each woman once more by the hand, he pulled them forward, head bent as if walking into a storm.

Viviana hesitated, fighting the tug of her escort. “Is he an urchin?”

Orphaned boys lived on the streets of Florence in droves, stealing their way through life. The Conte shook his head, kept them running. “No, the Machiavelli's live just over the Ponte Vecchio, in Santo Spirito. His father is a fine consigliere.”

Viviana steeled a look back at the boy, at the shining, gruesome curiosity on his young face. A shiver of fear ran up her back. “We must—”

“We must get you home.” The Conte yelled above the screaming crowds. “You must return to your husband. He will be worried for your well-being.”

Even as Patrizio compelled her, two men pushed him roughly, unconscionably, rushing away. As they whirled past, Viviana knew them for the devils who had brought evil upon her world, knew them as Bernardo Bandini and Francesco de’ Pazzi.

Mouth agape, she watched Francesco hobbling as fast as he could, leaning on Bandini’s arms, wounded thigh dropping scarlet circles of blood in their wake. Her blood surged; her heart pounded in her ears.

She grabbed her skirts, lifted them, and shot out after the fleeing murderers.

The yank on her arm snapped her head back like a whip.

“They will kill you without thought,” Patrizio hissed, his lips so close his spittle splashed cold on her hot skin.

Heaving with anger, she stared at her friend, the cries of his wife in her ears. The annoying bleat of a sheep in the field. Viviana knew Patrizio was right, but it did little to curb her craving for retribution. She had never known the feeling called blood lust…till now.

“Orfeo, Viviana. You must go to Orfeo.”

Patrizio’s words caught her up sharply. In the tumult of this inhuman moment, the truth almost slipped from her soul. She shook her head, denying it. “Yes, of course. To my husband I must go.”

CHAPTER5

Nightmares exist in the wakeful moments of day

“Giuliano! My brother, my brother,” Lorenzo shrieked, pounding against the door, fighting those who kept him inside the sacristy.

“Leave me be,” he screamed, blue veins bulging on his reddened forehead. “I must get to my brother.”

Golden chalices clanged, falling from the oak table slammed against the back wall. Table legs screeched against marble floor as the bevy of men fought to keep Il Magnifico from raising the barricade someone had quickly dropped into place.

“You cannot, My Lord. I cannot allow it.”

Somehow the young Cavalcanti, a cousin branch to Lapaccia’s own, named for the man before him, wedged his body between his namesake and the bronze door. But Lorenzo abused the body as he did the door, barraging both with tight-fisted, blistering blows.