Page 21 of A Dangerous Bargain

A painting of a grisly battle hangs in the space between two offices. The men silently war on the canvas, wielding blades and shedding blood in an endless battle. I sidle closer to the magicked painting and whisper, “Pardon me, I’m looking for a big room with wooden benches. Do you know where it is?”

A wounded soldier raises his severed leg and points it toward a door behind me. I murmur my thanks and move on.

Down a hall, up a staircase, through another corridor, and—yes!—at the end are double doors etched in filigreed gold. My hand tingles when I grab the boar’s-head-shaped knob. Anticipation surges through me as the door swings open—

I blink at the blank walls.

There are paler rectangles on the stone, the sign of frames recently taken down. There had been rows and rows of them. I could understand moving one or two, but all of them?

I walk to where I think Niccolo’s portrait hung. I caress the empty space, as if the cold stone could give me answers, a chill prickling the nape of my neck.

It seems unlikely that the portraits were moved because I’d stumbled across my brother’s, but… I can’t shake the feeling that that’s exactly what happened.

With one final glance at the barren wall, I slip back into the corridor.

I return to a room with broken chairs and tuck a busted wicker seat under my arm. Then I take a tapestry and wrap it around the chair seat.

I roam through the palazzo until I find the person I need.

“Excuse me!” I hold up the wrapped seat. “I found this portrait. It must’ve been left behind when the art was moved.”

“What are you talking about?” The servant squints, as if he’s trying to place me and can’t. I swallow and keep my face bland. Agonizing seconds tick by before he finally sighs. “Oh right, that. Come with me, then.”

He leads me upstairs—farther up than I’ve gone before—to another set of double doors paneled with exquisite wood carvings of the Last Judgment. Seems an odd choice for a government office. But perhaps God condemning people to hell is a perfect metaphor for our republic. I wouldn’t know. I’m paid to paint, not do politics.

“… so you’re ready to go,” the servant says.

Madonna santa, I’ve missed everything he said. He’s already turning around, and asking him to say it all again would make me memorable, so I thank him and lift one of the heavy doors to slip inside.

High ceilings greet me, along with an excellent view of the piazza below. Rows of cabinets line the wall across from the windows, the shelves stuffed with fat ledgers. There’s a throne-like chair at one end of the room and a circle of chairs and tables around it. Opposite the throne is a huge painting of a gray-bearded man emerging from pink-and-gold clouds. Something about his face looks almost familiar, but judging from how strapping he is, he must be God. Florentines love a muscular holy father, but even by their standards, this one’s a bit tasteless.

The tables are chaos, every surface covered with loose papers, baubles, and—yes—a pile of linen-wrapped squares the size of my torso. I set my parcel down and unwrap the one closest to me.

It’s a portrait from the other room.

Heart pounding, I carefully unwrap the corner of each one until I find Niccolo’s. I only let myself touch his face once before I flip the canvas over and look for the artist’s signature.

There’s nothing.

Frowning, I return to the front to see if the artist hid their name in the portrait itself, but no. It’s not unheard of for an artist not to leave their mark, but it is odd, especially for art that’s important enough to hang it in the Palazzo della Signoria.

Someone left their work unsigned on purpose, but why?

My gaze slices to a ledger open on the table, the book half hidden under one of the other wrapped portraits. I set Niccolo’s portrait down for a closer look.

It’s a series of numbers paired with a date, some of them stretching back years, some more recent. A catalogue of some kind, the page only half full, as if someone was in the middle of doing their work and was called away. It reminds me of the inventory records from Father’s trading voyages. The ones I could barely read.

I re-examine Niccolo’s portrait even more carefully until I see them—three numbers so small, you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for them: 512.

A door opens in the distance, followed by rapidly approaching voices.

Merda! I hurry to rewrap Niccolo’s portrait and accidentally knock a heavy iron key onto the floor. I wince at the loud thunk and shove it into my pocket. There’s no time to put it away, no time to do anything except leave.

I push open one door as someone else pulls on the other.

Lorenzo de’ Medici, heir to the ruling family’s fortune and power, possible future owner of my childhood home, the man supposedly sitting for his own wedding portrait downstairs, smiles pleasantly even as his eyes remain two chips of stone.

“Why, hello,” he says. “What brings you to my father’s office?”