Page 38 of A Dangerous Bargain

The treasonous words congeal like a miasma, deadly and catching. I’d give anything to see the council members’ faces. Are they leaning away from their ninth member, as if he’ll poison them next? Or have they gone stone-still, too afraid to agree with their traitor in front of the Medici?

Piero makes a disappointed noise. “Thank you for your honesty.”

A ringing rasp of drawn steel. With a gasp, Soderini falls, blood fountaining from his throat. It’s a shocking dark red, spreading rapidly across the stone floor, pooling and racing along the cracks in the mortar.

Right under our table.

Leonardo flinches, only my hand over his mouth stifling his cry. The blood seeps beneath the tablecloth, reaching for him. He shudders closer to me, his panic a writhing, feral beast. All the man sitting closest to him has to do is cross his ankles, and he’ll find Leonardo. Madonna santa, I thought he was jesting when he said he was afraid of blood!

Moving carefully, I wedge my body between him and the spreading puddle. I grit my teeth as it soaks into my trousers, lukewarm and sticky. The metallic scent swirls around my head, nauseating. I nearly gag, tasting it with each breath. I’m too close to the edge of the tablecloth, my smallest finger in the light. If someone looked, they’d see me. One glance, and they’d slit our throats too.

Leonardo’s arm circles me, pulling me away from the damning sliver of daylight and against his side. I close my eyes and hook my chin over his shoulder, willing myself to stay still while the blood seeps up my thigh. He smells familiar, like the soap in Verrocchio’s house, the nutty musk of linseed oil from the workshop, and a scent all his own, skin-warm and sweet. I inhale deeply, anchoring myself to the scent to crowd out the stink of blood, distract me from the fact that—dear God—the wetness is creeping up my waist now—

There’s a sharp pinch on my earlobe. My eyes fly open, a shock jolting down my spine.

Did he just bite me?

Leonardo’s mouth twists ruefully, confirming my suspicion that yes, he absolutely did, but he’s nodding toward the center of the room, his fingernails curling into my bicep.

Stay with this. Pay attention.

“Does anyone else have a complaint they’d like to share?” Piero de’ Medici sounds amused, of all things. As if he hasn’t just ordered his own guard to kill a man in cold blood. As if he hasn’t just violated one of the most sacred rules in our republic.

No one speaks up. A delighted clap rings out. “Perfetto,” Piero says. “This meeting is over. If anyone finds out more about the fountain incident, tell me and me alone.”

A murmur of assent goes around the room. Then the chairs boxing me and Leonardo slide backward. Footsteps grow fainter as the priori flee into the corridor. Leonardo moves away from me, unfurling his cramped legs with a long sigh. I clasp my arms around myself, cold without his warmth.

I’m about to crawl out from under the tablecloth when a hand appears inches from my face.

“What’s this?”

My pulse spikes. The hand is unlined, young. A beat too late, I recognize Lorenzo de’ Medici’s voice.

We’re not alone yet.

He picks something up. There’s a shhh of flipping paper. Copper floods my mouth.

It’s the ledger with Niccolo’s name. The one I dropped before the meeting started.

They know someone’s been in here.

“Leave it for the servants,” Piero barks.

Lorenzo’s voice grows surly. “What if someone was going through it for a reason—”

A whump of fist meeting wood. “I don’t care! What I care about is how you managed to lose the key the one and only time I left you here unaccompanied.”

I flinch, a wounded thing in my chest curling in on itself. This isn’t your father, I remind myself. This isn’t your problem. Even still, I can imagine Lorenzo’s gaze sliding to the side, his shoulders rising as if someone else’s disappointment is a physical thing he could protect himself from. I almost feel bad that I have his missing key in my bedchamber.

Piero continues berating his son, voice a low hiss. “Did you not hear Soderini? If someone learns the truth about angels, it’s over for us.”

“It’s already happening,” Lorenzo hazards to say, proving himself braver than I ever was with my own father. “What about Verrocchio’s old angel? He attacked a boy. He tried to drink his blood. People aren’t stupid. That’s not the work of an angel; it’s the work of a—”

Lorenzo cuts off abruptly. As if someone put a hand over his mouth.

“Do not ever say what they are out loud. Do you understand?”

The silence is knife-sharp.