Chapter 40
Capitolo Quaranta
Ravenna woke in the circle of Saturnino’s arms, morning light on her skin filtering in through the partially covered window of his bedroom. She refused to open her eyes, didn’t want to greet the morning, because then she would have to accept the unacceptable.
It was Saturnino’s last day on earth.
Ravenna dug deeper into Saturnino’s side, flinging her arm across his chest, and wished she could push back time with her bare hands.
She prayed for the return of the night. She turned her face so she could press her nose against the hollow of his throat.
His scent wrapped around her, and she breathed it in.
It always made her think of snow-covered pines.
Saturnino stroked a lazy line with the pad of his fingers up and down her naked back, gently brushing her long hair out of the way.
“It’s today,” Ravenna whispered.
“It’s today,” Saturnino whispered back.
She pushed herself up so she could meet his eyes. He stared back at her in the soft golden light, his dark green eyes shining: unguarded, raw, vulnerable.
“I can’t bear it,” Ravenna whispered.
“Neither can I,” Saturnino whispered back.
The day seemed to stretch out ahead of her, and it felt both too long and impossibly short.
She wanted the day to be over, she wanted it to never end.
It was the day of the tournament and Saturnino’s existence depended on her killing the pope.
A thousand things could go wrong, so much was out of her control.
Saturnino gently eased Ravenna off his chest, sliding out of her embrace.
He padded to the wooden trunk at the foot of his bed, wearing not a stitch of clothing, his only adornment an iron key that hung from a slim strip of leather tied around his neck.
He pulled it off and bent to unlock the trunk.
He closed the lid and came back to join her in bed, his hand clasping a roll of parchment.
He unrolled it and handed it to her.
She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, and, with her free hand, took the parchment, her eyes skimming the Latin. At the bottom was the official seal of Santa Maria del Fiore.
“Is this…”
“It is the legal documentation of our marriage,” Saturnino said. “If the worst should happen, everything I own belongs to you.”
She bit her lip, averted her gaze.
“Ravenna, we have to make a plan,” he said quietly. “Where will you go afterward?”
He meant once he turned back to stone and, for some reason, couldn’t be turned back. The idea of it so horrified her, the pain threatening to fracture her heart, that she could barely breathe from the ache.
“Look at me,” Saturnino said. “Please.”
Ravenna shifted, met his gaze. Her voice shook. “I made friends with the owners of the inn your family brought me to on our way to Florence.”
“Can you trust them?”
She thought about Amina, the way she had tried to help her, the supplies she’d given her so she could attempt an escape. Ravenna nodded. “Yes, I can.”
“All right,” Saturnino said. “There’s money for you in the trunk.
Take my horse, and head to that inn. Don’t linger, stay only a few days.
Once it’s safe to travel, ask for an escort to help you reach Malmantile.
It’s a small village not far from Florence where I have a home that no one in my family knows about.
” He reached for her hand. “My home is near the village’s only olive grove, next to a stone well, shaded by an ancient oak tree.
From the well, the house is a short walk to the east. It’s tucked behind a cluster of pines, the gate is unmarked, but there is a rosemary bush growing beside it. ”
Ravenna nodded. “I’ll remember.”
He leaned toward her, holding up the necklace, a simple cord of worn leather, the iron key hanging from it like a talisman. “This,” he said, his voice low and steady, “is yours now.”
Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he slipped the cord over her head.
The leather settled against her skin, warm from his hand, and the key dangled above her heart, its weight both foreign and grounding.
“It opens the trunk and the front door. Don’t leave Florence without it, and proof of our marriage. ”
“I won’t,” Ravenna clutched the key in her hand. “I promise.”
Saturnino smoothed the line between her brows with his finger.
“What if I can’t kill him? What if I fail?”
Saturnino brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingers drifting to her collarbones, then sweeping up to cradle her cheek. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“What if the courier doesn’t keep his word?”
His fingers traced her eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, the outline of her mouth. “Vampyres live by a code. They don’t often give their word, but when they do, they mean it.”
She nodded, a bit more reassured.
“If it were up to me, I would spend eternity with you.” He whisked his lips across hers. “Every sunrise and sunset, every precious moment in between.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, breaking at the edges. “And all your nights would belong to me.”
Tears slid down her cheeks, and he kissed them, wiping them away with gentle fingers.
He coaxed her onto her back and pressed his lips to her cheek, her brow, down the line of her jaw, and the rising and falling of her chest. Slowly, softly, as if trying to taste every second he had left, his mouth traced a silent prayer over her skin, each kiss a hushed vow.
Saturnino worshipped her with his mouth, a man trying to memorize the shape of his salvation. His hands swept across her, brushing her hips, and then went farther down still. Her heart raced, blood pumping furiously through her; she was alive with him in that moment, living and breathing him in.
He brought his mouth between her legs and Ravenna threw her head back against the silk pillow, stared up at the velvet fabric draped over the canopy, sensation flooding her.
She pulled at his black hair and he lifted his face, flanked by her legs, and gave her a wicked smile.
He turned his head, and placed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.
“Saturnino,” she breathed, shivering.
His dark eyes burned. “Ravenna.”
Time unraveled between them. Another hour of tracing each other’s bodies with shaking hands, words whispered as they chased after pleasure together. When Saturnino moved inside her, when he was close, she pulled his head down, their foreheads pressed together, and said, “Stay, stay, stay.”
He groaned, dragging both hands high over her head, and entwined his fingers with hers. He stared down at her, stripped of his armor, any trace of stone within him obliterated. He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to fall.
Saturnino, who had never let himself break.
Saturnino, who had spent nearly a century being untouchable, immovable, immortal.
The man above her was all human, and he came while breathing her name, in and out, staying as close and as deep as he could. Ravenna tried not to think of their time running out, the minutes and seconds slipping past her fingers.
But it was there between them, a slow, dying heart, one beat at a time.
Ravenna stared straight ahead at the back of the Medici family’s gilded carriage as she leaned against Saturnino, his arm a solid weight around her waist. With his free hand, he held on to the leather reins to his destrier, his hooves clip-clopping against the cobbled path.
Citizens lined both sides, waving red and white ribbons and blue and silver banners; they threw blooms, cheering and whistling as the progression made its way to Santa Croce.
Everyone had come out in support of the tournament, thanks to Lorenzo de’ Medici’s influence.
“Do you think any of them suspect what will happen today?”
Saturnino’s breath tickled her ear. “No, Lorenzo has distracted them with free entertainment, food, and drink for the duration of the tournament.” He paused. “We’re almost there, amore.”
Ravenna turned her head, her cheek brushing against his armor, polished to a resplendent sheen. “Will the pope already be there?”
“He will arrive after us,” Saturnino said. “The better to make a grand entrance.”
“Of course,” she muttered.
They made a turn, and the noise of the crowd rose when they arrived. People whistled and cheered, clapped, and stomped their feet. They were chanting something, but the gentle breeze sweeping up and down the piazza carried off most of the words. Finally, she discerned the name.
“Cavaliere Saturnino! Cavaliere Saturnino!”
Ravenna shifted in the saddle, arched a brow at the knight.
He winked at her.
Piazza Santa Croce was alive in a burst of color, hundreds of banners fluttering in the agreeable afternoon sun, representing the participating families and nations.
A cacophony of languages swelled around them.
Flags bearing family crests hung from windows and doorways, while flower bouquets scented the air with their delicate fragrances.
Statues and sculptures decorated the square, depicting knights, saints, and ancient gods.
The elevated papal viewing box stood to her left, a lavish focal point of the piazza. Signor Medici had spared no expense. Gold and crimson draped the canopied platform, and hundreds of spring flowers decorated the beams in garlands of lily and violets.
The Luni family tent stood on the other side, draped in canvas painted in midnight blue, with guards standing on either side of the entrance.
Saturnino clicked his teeth, pulling on the reins, and his horse veered to join his family as they emerged from their carriage.
They gathered with Signor Medici, and together they disappeared into the tent—everyone except for Marco.