The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)

The Prince placed the man back on his feet and released his tie.

The man continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes with a glazed look on his face, then his fingers moved to the keyboard of his computer.

He looked at the screen and tapped a few keys. “Professor and Mrs. Gabriel Emerson departed yesterday.”

The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. They were scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

“Master, the computer says they checked out early for personal reasons.”

“Sard,” the Prince cursed, pounding his fist on the counter.

The wood split beneath his hand.

The man seemed unfazed by the destruction of hotel property and simply continued to stare into the Prince’s eyes, his expression and demeanor surprisingly placid.

The Prince growled. “Where is Emerson now?”

The man’s gaze dropped to the computer screen.

“They did not leave a forwarding address.”

“What addresses did they leave?” The Prince’s voice morphed into a bark.

“Three addresses, Master. One in Umbria, at a house near Todi. And two in America—in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.”

The locations sounded familiar to the Prince, as they matched the intelligence report he’d been given. But he didn’t know which residence the Emersons had departed for upon leaving Florence.

“Give me the addresses.”

The man tapped a few keys and the printer to his left came to life. He withdrew a single sheet of paper from the tray and placed it on top of the counter, where the wood was split.

“Look at me,” the Prince breathed.

The man’s eyes moved to his again.

“You will remember nothing of this exchange. You will go upstairs to the penthouse and enter the room. You will discover that a vandal has broken into the penthouse and destroyed it. You will not call the police. You will have the room repaired immediately and will tell no one about the matter.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Prince held his eyes before storming out of the lobby and through the front door, clutching the paper in his fist.

The Emersons may have escaped him this evening, but they would not escape him for long. He would hunt them until he found them and then they would pay.

The professor would pay with his life and the woman at his side would pay with her heart, by watching her husband die. In killing the professor and the professor’s wife’s happiness, the Prince would have his revenge.

He was a few steps from his motorcycle when a figure emerged from across the street. He scented her before he could see her.

“Niccolò sent me with an urgent message.” Aoibhe stepped into the light that shone from the hotel doorway.

“And?” the Prince clipped.

“Venice is on the move. Our spies inside the city report that Marcus has sent his army by sea. They intend to land at Rimini.”

“Send word to the Princess of Rimini immediately, informing her of the impending invasion. Then summon the Consilium. We’ll amass our army to make ready for their attack.” The Prince shoved the piece of paper he was holding into his jacket pocket.

Aoibhe eyed his pocket curiously.

“Have I interrupted you, my lord?”

“The security of the principality is my primary concern. Now go,” he ordered, ending their conversation.

Aoibhe bowed and disappeared while the Prince returned to his motorcycle.

“You may have escaped for now, Emerson. But you won’t escape me forever.”

The Prince of Florence climbed aboard his machine and sped off into the night.

Fin.

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The Prince’s adventures continue in THE RAVEN, coming in February from Penguin!

Keep reading for a special preview.

A lone figure stood high atop Brunelleschi’s dome, under the shade of the gold globe and cross. His black clothing faded into the encroaching darkness, rendering him invisible to the people below.

Not that they would have seen him.

From his vantage point, they looked like ants. And ants they were to him, an irritating, if necessary, presence in his city.

The city of Florence had been his for almost seven hundred years. When he was in residence, he spent the moments before sunset in the same place, surveying his kingdom with Lucifer-like pride. This was the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, and he wielded his power without mercy.

His considerable strength was magnified by his intellect and his patience. Centuries had passed before his eyes, yet he remained constant. Time was a luxury he owned in abundance, and he was never hasty in his pursuit of revenge. Over a hundred years had come and gone since he’d been robbed of some of his most prized possessions. He’d waited for them to resurface and they had. On this night, he’d restored the illustrations to his personal collection, the sophisticated security of the Uffizi Gallery causing him only the most trifling of inconveniences.

So it was that he stood in triumph against the darkening sky, like a Medici prince, looking out over Florence. He smelled rain on the warm air as he contemplated the fate of those responsible for acquiring his stolen illustrations. He’d intended to kill them two years previous, but had been thwarted by a tiresome assassination attempt. The war that ensued between the underworlds of Florence and Venice had kept him occupied since then. He’d won the war, successfully annexing Venice and all its territories. And his prey had finally returned to the city. Now was the time to have his revenge.

He had time enough to plan the killings and so he stood, enjoying his success, as a warm, persistent rain began to fall. The ants below scattered, scurrying for shelter. Soon the streets emptied of human beings.

He clutched the case under his arm more closely, realizing that his illustrations were in need of a dry space. In the blink of an eye, he traveled down the red tiles to a lower half dome before leaping to the ground and sprinting across the square. Soon he was climbing to the roof of the Arciconfraternita della Misericordia, an adjacent, aged building.

There was a time when he would have served the Arciconfraternita, joining in their mission of mercy, rather than treating them as a hurdle. But he hadn’t been merciful since 1274. In his new form, the concept never entered his consciousness.

Some hours later, he flew across the tiled roofs at great speed, dodging raindrops and heading toward the Ponte Vecchio. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. There was more than one vintage, but the scent that attracted his attention was young and unaccountably sweet. It resurrected in him memories forgotten, images of love and loss.

Other monsters moved in the darkness, from all parts of the city, racing toward the place where innocent blood cried out from the ground.

He changed direction and increased his speed, moving toward the Ponte Santa Trinita. His black form blurred against the night sky as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

As he ran, the question uppermost in his mind was: Who will reach her first?