The Roman (The Florentine 3)

Prologue

May 2013

Florence, Italy

SHE WAS DYING.

The Prince heard her heart stutter and slow and her breathing grow even shallower. The young woman with the brave soul and the great green eyes was dying.

The humans had smashed her skull into a wall. No doubt her brain was injured. The skin on her arms was pale, almost translucent. Her face was bruised and smeared with blood.

The Prince had seen goodness die, not once but twice. He’d held it in his hands and seen the life ebb out of it, like sand sifting through his fingers.

He would not let such beauty die.

Out of sight of the other vampyres, he retrieved the illustrations he’d left on the roof. He cradled them along with the woman as he flew across the Ponte Vecchio to the other side of the Arno River. With every step, he focused his ancient hearing on the sound of her heartbeat, worried it would fall silent before he reached the safe haven of his villa.

He would have to give her a great deal of vampyre blood in order to heal her. It was possible she was beyond help. And it wouldn’t be his blood he would give to her. Not even to save her life.

The Prince quickened his pace, his figure moving like a jagged flash of lightning up the hill. When he reached the heavy iron gates that surrounded his home he paused, holding the woman more tightly. With a cry, he leapt over the barrier, landing like a cat on the other side. The woman groaned at the movement, and her eyes flickered open.

“Cassita,” he whispered, his gray eyes meeting hers. “Stay awake.”

Her eyes rolled back into her head.

“Sard,” he cursed, sprinting to the front door of the villa and barrelling inside.

He didn’t bother calling for his servants; he had mere minutes, perhaps even seconds before her heart stopped beating. Forever.

To his massive library he flew, pressing one of the volumes on the shelf. A wooden panel on a nearby wall moved, revealing a hidden door.

Without hesitation, the Prince entered the absolute darkness that shrouded the doorway and descended a staircase, stepping nimbly until he reached the lower level. He ran down the hall until he reached a heavy iron door. He pressed a secret code into a number pad and waited impatiently as the door opened.

The woman’s heart grew fainter still.

He held her close, pressing her face into his neck, as if his strength could be passed to her. As if, by his touch, he could keep her from death.

He wound his way through row upon row of wine bottles, carefully stacked in tall, wooden racks that reached over six feet in height. He moved to the very back of the wine cellar, where his oldest vintages were stored.

Placing the woman on a wooden table, he put his illustrations to one side. He’d attend to them (and his revenge) later.

The Prince chose one of his most precious vintages, the blood of an old one he’d destroyed in the fourteenth century. He uncorked the bottle and swept his finger inside, retrieving a black substance. He placed his finger in the woman’s half-open mouth.

It wasn’t the best way to feed her. She was unconscious and unable to swallow. He could only hope that the vampyre blood would dissolve into her system, staving off her imminent death.

Within a minute, the woman drew a sharp breath.

He withdrew his finger, noting it was clean. He jammed it into the wine bottle once again, coating it with more life-sustaining darkness.

He placed his finger in her mouth, and this time her tongue moved. A weak half-swallow follow

ed.

He whispered old words in her ear, lapsing into Latin as he exhorted her.

The woman’s heart skipped a beat, then increased its movements until it was beating slowly but steadily. Her lungs drew a deeper breath. He could hear her veins begin to hum as the foreign substance mixed with her blood to flow through her body.

But these were reflexes—the body hungering for life while the mind remained unconscious.

He fed her a little more blood by mouth. Although she was breathing, her pulse remained weak. She needed vampyre blood in greater quantities than she could take orally. But he couldn’t risk moving her until he was satisfied she’d survive the time it would take to set up a transfusion.

The Prince cursed the animals that had attacked her.

He fed her twice more before choosing several valuable vintages from his collection and jamming them under his arm. He’d leave the illustrations behind, for the present. They were safe enough in his wine cellar. Although the thief had taken them from his home before…

He lifted the wounded lark into his arms and transported her to the hallway. He whispered to her as he climbed the staircase, begging her to hold fast to life.

He was far from certain she’d survive the transfusion. But for the sake of the goodness of her soul, he would try.

Chapter One

August 2013

Florence, Italy

“THE HUMAN IS DEAD.” Gregor’s Russian accent was far more pronounced as he spoke nervously to the Prince of Florence.

The Prince had just regained control of his principality and was closeted with his former assistant, out of reach of prying eyes and ears.

“Dead?” The Prince’s stoic expression slipped.

“Yes, my lord. Apparently, he was trying to protect your pet and her sister when Maximilian killed him. He came with the sister from America.”

“Where’s the body?” The Prince abruptly unsheathed and sheathed his sword.

“With the police. There’s to be an autopsy.” Gregor hesitated.

The Prince speared his assistant with a look. “And?”

“The human intelligence network is concerned about a policeman named Batelli. Although he isn’t involved in the murder investigation, he’s aware your pet and her sister have disappeared. He’s claiming a connection between all of this and the robbery of the Uffizi.”

The Prince bared his teeth. “An autopsy will expose us. Instruct the network to claim the body as soon as possible. They are to keep it until I give them further instructions.”

The Prince strode toward the door of his study without a backward glance. Raven and her sister would be devastated to learn that Daniel was dead. That is, if they were still alive.

He touched the handle of the door. “Assemble the army and order them to stand guard along the borders. Word of the attempted coup will spread. It’s possible even one of our allies will take this opportunity to attack us. We must be prepared.”

Gregor bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Tell the loyal the treasury will be opened in order to reward them. You and Aoibhe are to oversee the distribution, and I task you with keeping her generosity moderate.”

The Prince placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You and she are the last remaining members of the Consilium. I’m sure you’re aware you cannot trust her. It seems she’s been colluding with Ibarra, who is still alive and roaming the city. I’ve dispatched a hunting party to locate him.”

“Ibarra?” Gregor’s eyes widened. “But you executed him.”

“I did.” The Prince wore a grim expression. “It seems he was…resurrected.”

Gregor blinked. “He’s as powerful as Aoibhe, if not more so. A hunting party will have difficulty felling him.”

“That is why we must be on our guard and why I’m tasking you with overseeing the security of the city. Keep a close watch on Aoibhe, and see that Ibarra is destroyed. I shall be at my villa, trying to stave off a war with the Curia.”

Gregor fidgeted with his hands. “Beg pardon, my lord. I thought the gift of the human females would be enough to placate them.”

The Prince’s expression tightened. “Only if they arrive unspoiled. The conflict with Machiavelli delayed me in sending couriers to our neighbors. And there are other dangers.”

A look passed between the two vampyres.

“I hope they will arrive safely, my lord.”

“We may hope, Gregor, but over the centuries I’ve learnt not to surrender my fate to hope. See to the army and be cautious. Either Ibarra or Aoibhe may try to take your head.”

The Prince opened the door and entered the corridor, striding purposefully toward a secret underground passage.

Once he entered the passage and closed the hidden door behind himself, he broke into a run.

He hoped he would not be too late.

Chapter Two

WILLIAM IS DEAD.

The realization repeated like a maddening refrain in Raven’s mind.

Machiavelli had seized control of Florence and sent Raven and her sister as a peace offering to the Curia. He’d probably executed William already, making his ascent to the throne complete.

Raven shut her eyes, too distraught to cry.

William’s last act had been to break his promise. He’d sworn they’d stay together, but he’d allowed the soldiers to take her away. He hadn’t even drawn a sword.

Je t’aim, he’d mouthed, as the soldiers dragged her. A last look, a last meeting of the eyes, and she was torn from him.

Now he was dead.

The vampyre who was carrying her stumbled. Raven hung over his shoulder, her face at his back. She fisted his shirt in order to hang on.

He smacked her bottom. “Let go, you cow. You’ll fell us both!”

Anger, quick and hot, overtook her. She made a fist and punched him in the kidney.

Her fist met something hard and unyielding.

“Ow!” she shrieked, cradling her hand. “What was that?”

The soldier laughed. “Kevlar. We’re wearing vests.”

Raven grabbed his shirt over the vest, pulling it taut against the front of his body. “Touch me again and you’ll answer to the Curia.”

Her words were enough to halt the vampyre. His chest erupted in a growl. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. When we get to Rome, the Curia will want to know how I was treated. And I’ll tell them.”

“You’re just a human,” he spat. “You need to learn your place.”

“So do you. The Curia has sworn to eliminate you and the others. Do you really want to give them another reason to kill you?”

The soldier didn’t move. It was as if the wheels of his mind were turning, measuring her words.

“Be smart,” she continued, releasing his shirt. “Keep me and my sister safe, and you’ll be rewarded.”

“A reward from the Curia is worth nothing,” he snarled.

Before Raven could respond, footsteps approached.

“You there,” a deep voice barked. “Keep running.”

“Yes, commander.” The soldier took off at high speed.

Raven noted with satisfaction that he now held her closely but cautiously. Her threat had worked.

She had a piercing headache and was nauseated after bouncing on the soldier’s shoulder for hours. The landscape was still bathed in blackness. She was fairly sure sunrise was approaching, but she had no idea of the time. She wasn’t wearing a watch, and her cell phone was tucked into a pocket. The soldier hadn’t seemed to notice it.

She still wore the gold bracelet William had given her some months ago. It signified their connection. But the soldier hadn’t seemed to notice it, either.

She called out to her sister, earning a command of “Silence.” She defied the soldier twice, but Cara didn’t respond. She mu

st still be unconscious.

Cara’s current state was Raven’s fault. She’d failed to protect her from their stepfather when they were children. She’d failed to protect Cara when a vampyre attacked them in Florence. Now Cara’s fiancé was seriously injured, and they were at the mercy of ten vampyre soldiers and their leader.

The soldiers had been tasked with delivering the women to their old friend Father Kavanaugh at the Vatican. They were a peace offering given by the new Prince of Florence to his enemy, the Curia. William had…

Raven halted her thoughts.

She didn’t have time to dwell on the past. She didn’t have time to grieve his loss or curse him for what he had or hadn’t done. Through a great force of will, she ignored the feeling in the pit of her stomach and focused on the present.

She needed to protect her sister. She needed to ensure they reached Rome alive.

A shout sounded to Raven’s left, and her captor slowed. They climbed what seemed like a steep, rocky hill and went about twenty paces before he heaved her roughly to the ground.

The soldier took a large step back, staring down at her with undisguised contempt before striding away.

He’d deposited her in a copse of trees, seemingly protected. She searched the darkness, eagerly looking for her sister. Thankfully, Cara had been placed on the ground nearby, sprawled across the roots of a tree. Raven crawled to her side.

“A short rest,” announced Stefan, the leader of the group. “We’ll take cover for the day in Umbria. Princess Simonetta is an ally, and the Prince’s couriers should have informed her of our presence.”

Raven only half-listened as she examined her sister. Cara was breathing steadily, eyes closed.

Raven squeezed her hand. “Cara.”

She didn’t respond.

Raven tried again and again. Cara made no movement.

Raven struggled to her feet, ignoring the searing pain that shot from ankle to hip in her disabled leg. She stumbled toward Stefan, biting the inside of her cheek against the pain.