Page 12 of A Dangerous Bargain

“I’d tell you,” Leonardo says slowly, teasingly, “but I don’t think you’d believe me.”

Frustration slams though me. “Why are you like this?”

Pigeons scatter at my shout. A few people turn to look at us. Leonardo’s smile tangles and falls. “You know what? I don’t think I’ll tell you after all.”

“Fine!” I snap, like I don’t deserve the cold treatment he’s giving me. “Thanks for finishing the painting for me. It was nice of you.”

Leonardo pats my head—pats my head!—and smiles again, bigger, brighter, and more irritating than ever before. “That was a very good first apology. Practice a bit more and I might even believe you next time.”

Oh, damn his need to have the last word every single time! “Did you know that you are the most annoying person I have ever met, and I have younger sisters?”

I can count every tooth in his smile now. “Your compliments could use some work too.” He turns and gasps, grabbing my sleeve like I haven’t just been a beastly shrew to him. “Do you see that?”

Too late, I realize it’s not the sun that’s blinded me, but bronze.

More than I’ve seen in my entire life.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A parade of bronze statues prances through the piazza—gods, warriors, lions, wolves—forming a path leading to the Palazzo della Signoria’s open doors. A shadow flies overhead, a bronze stag whomping inches away. I see my shocked expression reflected in its blank eyes before it scampers off to join the others. I click my jaw shut, not wanting to gape like a peasant. This is… a breathtaking amount of magic. A Medici display of power and might if there ever was one.

The Palazzo della Signoria’s rough-stone face juts into the piazza like a jaw braced for a fight. It’s one of the oldest buildings in Florence, built long before the angels blessed us with beauty. Inside the interior courtyard rich blue-and-gold frescos adorn the walls behind the loggia. If I tip my head all the way back, I can just glimpse the palazzo’s austere clock tower piercing the winter sky: the Torre d’Arnolfo.

Niccolo told me the Medici patriarch was once a prisoner inside it. ’Tis hard for me to believe there was ever a time when the Medici didn’t rule our supposed republic. Their immense wealth has shaped Florence for years—making the city theirs in practicality if not in name. The thought leaves me sulky and bothered.

After Niccolo disappeared, I lurked outside their bank until the owner, Piero de’ Medici, appeared. I threw myself on my knees and begged him for relief with Casa delle Volpi, but he only laughed and ruffled my paint-speckled hair like I was dog. “Your family made a deal with us,” he said bluntly. “Pity it was a bad one. Let it be a lesson to you.”

If the Medici can waste their money feting their son for his wedding, why couldn’t they forgive the money a dead man owed them? What does adding one more crumbling house to their vast investments do for them? Owning Casa delle Volpi would mean nothing to them, but it would mean everything to us.

I can’t help feeling there’s a slimy, rotten core in their hearts. It must be why the Medici have never had an angel of their own. The holy beings must sense the wrongness in them too.

The artists mill in the palazzo’s courtyard until after the church bells strike the hour. Then, with the chiming still humming through the air, the doors to the palazzo’s innards burst open.

Piero de’ Medici, the family patriarch, stands with his son Lorenzo. The crowd explodes into cheers; some artists even bow to the old man like he’s a king. Piero indulgently lifts both hands, a grandfather welcoming his grandchildren. “Gentiluomini! My eldest son is marrying this summer. To celebrate this occasion, we need a wedding portrait, one worthy of the Medici name and gorgeous enough to make the angels weep! Each morning, we will unlock the palazzo’s doors, and my Lorenzo will sit in this courtyard. Every workshop will send their very best artists to capture his likeness, and Lorenzo’s bride shall choose the portrait she most likes when she arrives. Whoever paints the winning portrait will become my family’s own personal painter and receive one hundred florins for his work!”

There’s a feeling in my stomach like I’m falling. I sway, catching myself against Leonardo’s arm. The courtyard’s noise fades away, my head echoing with Piero’s words, so loud, there isn’t room in me for anything else.

One hundred florins?

It’s an unthinkable sum. Far more than I’ve made after almost five years in Verrocchio’s workshop. Even after the workshop’s cut, it would be enough to buy Casa delle Volpi. Enough to dower my sisters with gold to marry princes.

Enough to change my life.

And to be the Medici’s personal painter… it’s not opening my own workshop, but ’tis close to it.

“Lorenzo will sit his first hour today, starting now.” Piero’s teeth flash. “I hope you came prepared.”

Chaos unleashes. Some artists draw out linen and charcoal from their bags, others bark at their boys to sprint back to their workshops to grab supplies. Master Verrocchio circles his index finger, gesturing for us to flock around him.

“Ragazzi, this is a chance to prove yourself. Anyone who wishes to be considered will give me a sketch by the end of the week. The artist of the most promising one will enter the Medici commission.” He takes a bag of charcoal from his belt with a wink. “May the best artist win!”

We fall upon the bag with a flurry of excited whispers and furtive glances.

“Four months isn’t much time to complete a painting.” Leonardo frowns.

Merda, I’m still leaning on him. I back off quickly and snag a charcoal stick. “Perhaps not for you.”

Leonardo’s eyebrows rise, and a lick of guilt lashes me. He fixed my millipede dog in a single morning. The same one I couldn’t complete for weeks. Had never completed, because he did it for me.