The Roman (The Florentine 3)

“Why should we have war now, after all these years? We aren’t Prague or Budapest.”

He released her hand. “The Curia is on the move. They are eying my principality, waiting for an opportunity.”

“The Roman would never allow it.”

“Treaties are made and broken; traitors abound.” His gray eyes met hers. “I say this as an ally, Simonetta: be wary. Be vigilant.”

Her pale eyes grew sharp. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I tell you what you already know—the Curia stood by while Venice and Florence went to war, hoping we’d destroy one another. When that didn’t happen, they turned their eyes on my city. My detachment travels to Rome to try to negotiate a peace. But I have no confidence such peace will last.”

The servant re-entered the chamber, delivering an opened bottle and two ornate goblets on a tray. He served the vintage and withdrew.

The two vampyres clinked glasses.

Simonetta inclined her head, watching as he drank. “If the situation is as fraught as you say, why leave Florence?”

The Prince swirled the blood in his glass. “As I said, I was cleaning up Machiavelli’s mess.”

“I thought that’s why we had servants.” She sipped the blood delicately.

“Servants can be incompetent. I need to execute Stefan for that reason. May I have your permission to do so here?”

“You’re welcome to use our torture chamber, if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary. All I require is your aid in having the head and body burned. I shall execute him personally.” The Prince’s attention returned to his glass, and he stared into the blackish depths.

“Of course.” Her eyebrows drew together. “If news were to reach you that the Curia desired Umbria, would you tell me?”

“Yes.” He looked at her carefully. “Can I hope the same from you?”

“As always. You have been an excellent ally and neighbor. Would that all the royals in Italy were the same.” Her rosy lips pouted. “The last time you visited me, you kept me at arm’s length.”

“I was hunting.” He drained his glass.

“Yes, an American family. My spies tell me you drove them out of Umbria, but you didn’t kill them. I find that curious.”

The Prince rose and placed his glass on the tray. “With respect, princess, I am eager to dispatch the detachment to Rome. I am grateful for your friendship, as always. I promise friendship in return.”

Simonetta put her glass aside and stood, her long, flaxen hair slipping over her pale shoulders. “Surely your departure can be delayed.

“Come, William. Send the detachment, and I’ll order one of my patrols to accompany them to the southern border. We can entertain one another in the meantime. I’ve missed you.” She reached for him, but caught only air.

He bowed to cover his evasion.

“Your offer of support is appreciated, but it’s best if the detachment departs as soon as possible, unaccompanied.

“As to your other offer, you honor me with your attention, but I must take my leave. Florence needs me.”

Simonetta lifted her hand and placed it against his cheek.

She studied him.

“There was a time when you leaned into my touch.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb and withdrew her hand. “Something has changed.”

He forced a smile. “You are a delight to look upon as always, Bella. But I am in haste.”

“Let us not lie to one another. Not about this.” She returned to her couch. “I don’t suppose Aoibhe is the reason for your indifference?”

William straightened. “I am hardly indifferent.” He forced his gaze to wander over her comely form.

“Ah, my old friend, that was a lie.

“I’ve seen you distracted, but this is something else. One might almost think you’re in love.” Her beautiful face grew grave. “I know our kind only too well, William. We don’t love. Even if we enjoy a fascination for a time, all good things for us must end.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to respond.

He simply stood, worried he’d given too much away.

She gestured toward the door. “Execute your physician, send your detachment, and take your leave. May your beautiful city remain safe, and may we always be allies.”

William’s face grew grim. He retreated, pausing in the doorway. “Thank you, princess.”

She waved her fingers at him and returned her attention to her goblet of blood.

As William exited the doorway, he realized he had been the only one to gaze into the mirrors, noting their reflections. Simonetta hadn’t bothered.

Instead, she’d sat like a bird in a gilded cage, watching his reactions.

He felt a good deal more than uncomfortable at the realization.

Chapter Fifteen

ISPETTOR SERGIO BATELLI ascended the staircase from the crime scene to Raven Wood’s apartment, muttering curses.

The body of an American man had been found inside the door to Signorina Wood’s apartment building by paramedics, who had been called to the scene by someone claiming to be a neighbor. Once they arrived, they’d tried to resuscitate the victim, but to no avail.

The investigating officer had written in his report that the victim suffered blunt force trauma to the head. Before an autopsy could be performed, someone from the American consulate had appeared, demanding the body. The local police refused. The autopsy had been postponed while superiors on both sides of the conflict argued.

Batelli’s colleagues had already searched Signorina Wood’s apartment. He tore through the tape that sealed the door and opened it. He risked the ire of his superiors, as well as that of the officer in charge, but he didn’t care.

He flicked the light switch.

The apartment was clean, exceptionally so. Scents of lemon and orange filled his nostrils. But the apartment was empty.

In the police reports, which a fellow officer had shown him, neighbors claimed not to have seen or heard anything suspicious before the body was found. They didn’t even know Signorina Wood was moving out.

A quick telephone call to the Uffizi Gallery revealed that her employer had no idea of her whereabouts; she was on holiday like the rest of the restoration team until September.

Batelli stood in her empty bedroom, staring at what appeared to be part of a cane that was embedded in the wall.

There was something ominous about the object. Batelli had no idea what it represented, if anything.

The victim they’d found downstairs wasn’t a relative of Signorina Wood, and he wasn’t the lover Batelli had observed from a distance entering and leaving the building.

Batelli trusted his gut. Right now, his gut was telling him Raven was somehow connected to the corpse. The homicide investigators were waiting on the American consulate to provide them with details about the corpse’s identity.

Batelli hadn’t given up on solving the mysterious theft of Botticelli illustrations from the Uffizi, despite the fact that their owner, Professor Gabriel Emerson, had given up hope of recovering the items and returned to America.

And Batelli hadn’t given up his active pursuit of the mysterious and untraceable William York, who had been named by Professor Emerson as a suspicious person connected to the gallery.

Batelli’s investigation had quietly yielded the record of a transfer of funds from a bank in Geneva to the Uffizi, a donation attributed to William York. Although Dottor Vitali, the director of the Uffizi, seemed to have no memory of William York or his extravagant donation, Batelli believed he had gifted the money for the purpose of securing an invitation to the private reception accompanying the unveiling of the Botticelli illustrations. Professor Emerson had corroborated the donation and York’s presence at the unveiling.

Of course, the bank in Geneva refused to offer any inf

ormation about the funds, apart from confirming that they had transferred the money from one of their institutional accounts at the request of a client. They refused to identify the client or to confirm whether he, she, or they held Italian citizenship.

Batelli thought it was interesting how all roads led to Switzerland. The illustrations had been sold to the Emersons by a Swiss family in Cologny, a suburb of Geneva. The car Raven Wood’s lover drove around in was registered to a Swiss diplomat. A Swiss bank had transferred thousands of Euros to the Uffizi just prior to the opening of the Botticelli exhibition.

More puzzling still, there were no records of a Swiss resident or national named William York.

But the police had possession of his Mercedes, or what appeared to be the Mercedes Batelli had observed Raven Wood and her lover using. The car had been abandoned a short walk from her apartment. Earlier that day, the forensic specialist had combed it for evidence.

Batelli’s cell phone chirped with an incoming text.

He was surprised to be receiving a message, as it was long past midnight.

The text was from an unknown number.

Find the underground club on Via Ghibellina.

Batelli was intrigued.

He shoved his phone in his pocket and quickly searched the rest of the flat. When he was finished, he turned out the lights and painstakingly repaired the tape sealing the apartment.

Perhaps the text was a joke. Perhaps it would lead nowhere. But he descended the stairs with the intention of finding the underground club.

Chapter Sixteen

“WE ARE DEPARTING FOR ROME. Assemble the men, and don’t bother trying to find Stefan. The traitor has been dealt with.” The Prince addressed Borek, who bowed and marched away, taking the other Florentine soldier with him.

The remaining Umbrian soldiers departed also, following the instructions of the princess’s lieutenant.

William exhaled his relief.

He opened the door to the chamber and hastily closed it behind him. Raven’s scent assaulted him.

“William?” She sat up sleepily on the couch, rubbing her eyes. “What’s happening?”

“We need to reach Rome before sunrise.” He surveyed the dimly lit room. “Where is your sister?”

“In the shower.” Raven pointed to the closed bathroom door.

“Can you be ready to leave in a few minutes?”

“I think so.” She went to him and buried her face in his chest. “You were gone a long time.”

He tensed in her arms. “Protocol is never swift.”

She lifted her face. Without words, she pressed her lips to his.

He reciprocated, albeit briefly. “We don’t have much time. I am sorry.”