The Pope
“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.”
Galeazzo Sforza was dead.
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 he hated her.
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 courier said 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 a fool.
“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the courier asked. “The Luni famiglia have been a thorn in your side for nearly one hundred years. They have allied themselves with the Medici, protecting their position not just in Florence, but financially, too. The famiglia exclusively only bank with them, don’t they?
And Cavaliere Saturnino has routinely assassinated any threat posed to the Medici, threats you’ve orchestrated. ”
“Porca Giuda!” the pope seethed. “Where is she?”
“Location is still unknown,” the courier said. “But if she’s still alive, then she will come to Florence.”
“How do you know?”
“She will want to be there when the spell closes. Once a pietra magiche is used in a spell, its power will only last for one hundred years.” The courier paused. “The tenth of May, according to my informant.”
Triumph stole over the pope. His blood ran hot with the promise of victory. He would win his war against Simonetta. “That’s only two weeks away.”
“Correct.”
“I want those statues back,” he raged. “They belong to me, and me alone.”
Malevolent satisfaction sang through him when he pictured each member of the Luni famiglia restored to marble for all eternity.
They were made of rock from heaven, stone that was pure and holy, and witness to God’s triumph over the dark.
The statues needed to be kept safe. Locked away in a darkened room, hidden for his own pleasure and amusement.
He’d never allow anyone to see them again, just him.
He would take pleasure in staring into their lifeless eyes.
“I assume your orders are the same for Simonetta?”
“She belongs to me. I don’t care how long it takes,” he said with chilling softness.
“And if she’s alive, if you find her, bring her straight to me.
” He glared at the glowing orb hovering over the silver dish.
The same resentment raged through him as old memories assaulted him.
He was usually the one who decided when it was over.
But the woman, that enchantress, had abandoned him.
And now she was a fevered obsession. Always out of reach. Probably laughing at him. Anger surged up his throat. He wanted to scream until he had nothing left. Simonetta would belong to him or no one.
The pope knew exactly what to do with witches.
When he got himself under control, he said, “Make contact with Jacopo de’ Pazzi and the Duke of Urbino.
It’s time for the next step in my plan. We all go to Milan and prepare for war.
Bring the Nightflame.” Incredible how the talk of magic gemstones came so easy now, when it hadn’t initially.
It was getting easier and easier to use the magic.
He didn’t think anything of it; it was all for the kingdom.
The orb glowed in response and then dimmed.