Page 13 of A Dangerous Bargain

“Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It was rude,” Leonardo agrees breezily. “But your apologies are getting better, so I’ll forgive you if you give me your charcoal.”

Master Verrocchio’s bag is empty.

I clutch my stick tightly. Not sketching Lorenzo’s likeness now will cost me a day, but Leonardo did do me a favor, and I’ve done nothing but snarl at him for it. It was, objectively, a nice thing for him to do, even though I hate that he did it.

A bargain can help you make up for the lost time.

Perhaps a month of my life for a week of perfect memory. Then I’d only need to see Lorenzo once.

I unclench my fist and let the charcoal fall. “Happy to.”

Leonardo catches the stick with a smirk. “Why, thank you, Virgil. Has the new angel broken the curse that turned your heart to stone?”

I turn away with an annoyed wave and try not to let the words slip under my skin.

A lesser artist would give up, but not me. The Medici have been de facto rulers of Florence for so long, some of their personal art collection must have snuck its way inside the government palazzo. I can look at it and get a better sense of what they like, learn how to create something that feels familiar yet fresh.

When no one is looking, I go through the unlocked doors into the palazzo’s halls. I have a feeling I’m not allowed here, but I wasn’t explicitly told not to explore either.

I scurry down the corridors, poking my head through the open doors. Endless offices and parlors and receiving rooms, the stone walls outside them bare and boring. Finally, two grand double doors etched in filigreed gold catch my eye. With a surreptitious look over my shoulder, I test one of the handles.

Unlocked.

This room is the largest one and filled with dark wood benches, enough for a hundred people. I ease inside slowly, grinning at the rows and rows of portraits on the walls. Finally!

They aren’t exceptional pieces, but it’s striking how similar they are, all of them squares in simple wooden frames. Some are so old and dusty, I can barely make out the faces, but a few still stink with the egg smell of fresh tempera paint. The subjects themselves are… interesting. Most of the men look frightened or angry, or both. Are these portraits of politicians? It would explain both the ugliness and the location, but there are more than nine portraits here, and only nine elected officials hold office at once. They must be of something else, but what?

The opening and closing of a nearby door tugs me from my thoughts. It doesn’t matter who these men are. The portraits aren’t the inspiration I’m looking for, unless I want Lorenzo’s bride to feel sad and bored when she sees my painting.

I move to leave, but a flash of red catches my eye.

I turn.

And gasp.

I lift trembling fingers and trace the familiar cheekbone, the smile I know better than my own. The one I’d recognize anywhere.

Niccolo.

My missing brother.

On the wall of the most important building in Florence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Niccolo was here.

My hand clenches the canvas, as if I can reach in and pull him from the frame. Every punch of my heart scrapes bone.

It’s unmistakably him, down to the red cloak he wore the day he disappeared.

I will never forget the swirl of red against the snow when I last saw him. Even then, I wanted to take every horrible word I’d said and stuff them back into my lungs. But pride had grabbed my throat and held me still.

I trace the lines of his face. Without the cloak, I still would’ve known the sweep of his jaw, the green in his hazel eyes, the very same as mine.

Hope, raw and wild, claws through me, tears open my mind to a possibility I smothered long ago.