Capitolo 28
Capitolo Ventotto
The cold seeped into the fibers of her gown, coating her skin in an icy grip.
Ravenna shivered as she looked out the window of Signor Sforza’s transport.
It was a cloudless night, the moon high and vibrant, a sparkling gemstone against a swath of navy fabric.
Ravenna poked her head out the window, careful to keep balance with the jostling of the carriage.
Ahead, Ponte Vecchio came into view, a stone and wood bridge that crossed the narrowest part of the Arno River.
Moonlight shone over the various shops lining either side of the structure, hanging over the river, and supported by wooden stakes.
The carriage rattled onto the bridge, and Ravenna wrinkled her nose from the overpowering stench.
“You can thank the grocers and butchers for the smell,” Signor Sforza said from behind her.
Ravenna glanced over her shoulder. He was sprawled on the opposite bench, staring at her steadily, the air around him steeped in anticipation.
His expression revealed a calculating coldness that chilled her blood.
His hands had moved down from his lap and were fingering the folds of her gown.
It made Ravenna’s skin itch as if she’d trod over an anthill barefoot.
She wanted to leap out of the transport, but she gritted her teeth and held on to the handle.
If he came nearer, if he tried to reach under her skirt, she would jump.
Damn the pope and his demands.
Ravenna concentrated on breathing, keeping a close eye on their progress while maintaining a keen sense of Signor Sforza’s movements.
He idly played with the embroidery of her gown, tracing the floral design with his finger.
She fought the panic fluttering deep in her belly, the warning sound rushing in her head.
They were coming to the middle of the bridge, and while she hadn’t been told exactly where the meeting would take place, this spot was as good as any. It was the only spot on the bridge that offered views of the river, unobstructed by the shops on either side.
“I want to get out and walk,” Ravenna said.
Signor Sforza raised an eyebrow. “At this time of night? There’s nothing to see. It’s deserted.”
She wouldn’t fail now, not when she was so close to the wretched night being over. “Exactly,” Ravenna said coyly, by some miracle. “I think the view will be spectacular.”
Signor Sforza gave her a pointed look and slowly unbuttoned his green jerkin. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
Ravenna forced a light laugh and then smacked the roof of the transport twice with her fist. The driver clicked his teeth, pulling hard on the reins. She didn’t bother waiting for it to fully stop, pulling down hard on the latch, eager to escape the confines of the carriage.
Signor Sforza called out to her, and once again, she looked at him over the curve of her bare shoulder. “Are you coming?” Ravenna asked.
No one in her family would have recognized her.
She barely did.
That thought made her stomach clench.
Signor Sforza stepped out of the carriage and stalked toward her, his pace slow and measured. His gaze was intent on hers, his mouth tipped into an arrogant smile. Ravenna backed away, keenly aware that he was enjoying the role of pursuer.
Predator.
Her heart thumped hard against her ribs.
Ravenna forced herself to stop in front of the stone arches that provided a vista of the Florentine skyline and the fast-moving river.
The breeze swept over her, making the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.
She wished for a cloak. She wished the night would end.
She wished for the pope’s courier to finally arrive so that he could deliver the message to Signor Sforza.
She glanced at the other end of the bridge, sure she’d see his tall silhouette.
But there was no one. She was alone save for the man who looked like he wanted to devour her whole.
He came to stand next to her and they both stared out over the river, the only sound coming from the dark water rippling beneath them.
Signor Sforza took hold of her elbow and pulled her closer to his side. Ravenna stiffened as he shifted her to face him. He tapped her chin, a silent request for her to look up at him.
She needed more time, and her mind worked frantically to find a way to distract him from his pursuit. Saturnino’s face swam in her mind, the tension bracketing his mouth when he talked of the shifting alliances Florence faced.
“I hear you have an artist working on a secret invention,” she said.
Signor Sforza’s touch turned bruising; he gripped her chin hard and forced her head back. Ravenna gasped but remained still. An animal instinct warned her not to fight, that it would only draw his ire and suspicion.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked coldly.
Ravenna swallowed. “There’s been chatter about an impending war. It frightens me.”
“Be specific. Where and when did you hear this?” he asked again.
“While dancing with Saturnino,” she said truthfully. “He seems to think Florence needs every ally they can secure against Rome.”
He narrowed his gaze. “He said all this to you?”
“Is he wrong?”
“No,” Signor Sforza replied slowly. “But I’m surprised he would talk to you openly of politics. You are just an artist, aren’t you? A sculptor by trade?”
“Just an artist,” Ravenna repeated, trying but failing to keep her tone nonchalant. “Artists can’t have political opinions? A say about what happens in their community? Thoughts on war?”
“Are you saying that you have them?”
Now that she’d successfully brought him to the bridge, she didn’t care about being coy. Anger flowed in her veins; it had filled her ever since she’d heard him speak in the garden. She couldn’t be seen or heard then; she had to be invisible.
But she would be heard now.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Ravenna said, her voice shaking with emotion.
“But as an artist, my job is to capture humanity in all its forms: at war, at home, out working in the fields, in a studio, hands held out in worship and supplication. Humanity is wistful, yearning, hopeful, growing. Art can work like a mirror, reflecting who we are at any given moment. Creativity is conversation and movement. It is not stagnant.”
The Duke of Milan’s lip curled. “I don’t like my women to have opinions.”
Ravenna tilted her chin up. “I’m not yours and never will be.”
Signor Sforza stepped closer to her, dark gaze narrowing. He kept his face carefully neutral, but a subtle note of menace punctuated his stance. “What else has Cavaliere Saturnino shared with you?”
“Nothing else.”
His eyes dropped to the smooth curve of Ravenna’s neck, where her pulse leaped. “He hasn’t mentioned what kind of invention Leonardo da Vinci is working on?”
“No, nothing,” Ravenna said. “But he’s just an artist, isn’t he? A painter, I believe?”
His lips twisted in an appreciative smile.
“You’re a lot smarter than you look. He’s much more than that.
” There was a curious note to his voice, one Ravenna couldn’t easily define.
Signor Sforza seemed almost … wary. As if he were holding an unpleasant memory in his thoughts.
He straightened away from her, and the air of menace dissipated.
His manner turned assessing. “What is Saturnino to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“He might say you don’t belong to him, but that’s not how he acts. He’s made it very clear to me that I’m to keep my hands off you,” he said. “It’s curious. I’ve never known him to behave so possessively.”
She almost laughed. This ally of the Medici family had it all backward. “If that’s true, then what are you doing here?”
He leaned forward, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “What are you?”
“I don’t belong to him, either.”
“He seems to think so,” Signor Sforza countered.
He reached out suddenly, taking hold of her arms, and then yanked her forward.
“But I have a better question for you, Signorina Ravenna.” The carriage suddenly lurched forward, hurtling past them, and then made its way off the bridge.
Signor Sforza gaped at it before focusing his attention onto her.
His lips were close to hers, his breath against her. “Why did you lure me out here?”
His fingers dug into her sleeves, hard, painfully. He shook her once, twice.
Ravenna gritted her teeth and brought her knee up sharply.
Signor Sforza’s eyes widened and his grip slackened.
She pulled free and then shoved him backward, her magic roaring to life inside her.
He stumbled but was able to stay on his feet.
His face rippled with fury; he took a menacing step toward her—
A sharp hiss rent the air as something long and thin flew past Ravenna.
An arrow struck Signor Sforza near his heart. The force of the hit sent him crashing to the ground. Blood poured from the hole in his chest and gurgled out of his mouth. He pitched himself to his side, and then struggled to get to his knees.
He let out a watery gasp, and spat out, “Bastards.”
Ravenna screamed as another arrow blurred across her vision. Signor Sforza was flung backward, his head cracking hard against the slab of stone. She went to him, dropping to her knees. He stared up at her, his eyes wild and unseeing.
He reached for her hand, his own stained from the pool of blood gathering underneath him, but it went limp before she could grip it. Panic bubbled in her veins, making her head swim. She curled forward, breath heaving, fighting her racing heart as it pounded against her ribs.
The memory of the quarry rose up in her mind, its craggy walls seeming to surround her as she watched her magic devour the poor man who had tried to help her. His screams swam in her blood, drummed in her ears, as loud as a thunderclap.
Ravenna shoved the memory aside, tried to focus on the man dying in front of her.
His death was slow and terrible. He gave one last shuddering breath, a deep rattle.
The Duke of Milan stilled. The finality of it scared her—the man had been alive only moments earlier, murdered before her eyes.
She couldn’t make sense of his pale form, the way his chest no longer rose and fell.
Hot tears dripped down her cheeks, splattered onto the stone beneath her palms.
From behind her, Ravenna heard footsteps.
Whoever was coming wasn’t alone. Her body trembled, but she forced herself to shut Signor Sforza’s eyes as her mind spun.
This was a powerful friend of not only the Medici family but of the Luni family as well.
She had mistakenly believed the pope would try to turn him against his allies, using whatever methods at his disposal, and she was sure there were many.
But instead, he’d had the courier assassinate him. Hunted down like an animal.
Ravenna prepared herself for a conversation with the courier, knowing that her own life was in the balance. If the pope could dispose of someone as powerful as a duke, then he was more than likely to look at her as replaceable.
Exactly the way Saturnino viewed her.
“What were his last words?” a gruff voice asked.
She stood, her knees shaking, her gown soaked with Signor Sforza’s blood. Cold air whipped around her, and her teeth chattered as she slowly turned to face the courier.
But there were three of them, all dressed in dark, hooded robes.
Their faces were cast in shadow, but Ravenna could see that one of them had a thick beard.
The other two were clean-shaven, both skinny.
All three wore crosses around their necks—priests, then, Ravenna thought.
One of them stepped forward, uncovering his head with his free hand, while his other carried a crossbow.
She knew his face, the angled cheekbones, the thin mouth that sometimes pulled into a crooked smile, but it had been a long time since she’d last seen it.
Her brother Antonio was one of the assassins.
“Buonasera, Ravenna.”