Page 22 of A Dangerous Bargain

CHAPTER TWELVE

His father’s office.

I’m in Piero de’ Medici’s office. The most powerful man in Florence.

And his son’s caught me.

A dozen excuses well up, none of them good enough. There’s no reason to be here. My fake portrait has outlived its usefulness. If Lorenzo discovers I’ve lied my way in here, there’s a high chance I’ll be acquainted with the sharp end of his sheathed knife. “I… got lost looking for the chamber pot?”

Lorenzo sighs. “Of course you did. Come along with me, then.”

He snaps his fingers, and two guards appear. They flank me as Lorenzo marches me through the palazzo—so close, they nearly step on my feet. Why do they each have a sword and a knife? Seems like an awful lot of steel to carry around inside.

“Are you with the painters?” Lorenzo demands.

I’m not dragging Leonardo into this. He’s an even worse liar than I am, and Verrocchio would make us both grind pigments for weeks if he learned we offended the Medici.

“What painters?”

Lorenzo’s eyes flash. “You know,” he says lightly, almost jovially. “Most people would agree it’s unwise to lie to the Medici. So I’m wondering: Are you very stupid, or do you have a desire to have your hands broken?”

My hands flex involuntarily. Lorenzo’s mouth curls like a cutlass. I shove them into my pockets with a shudder.

My fingers collide with cold metal. The sodding key. What am I supposed to do? I didn’t mean to take it.

One of the guards breathing down my neck shoves me. “Andiamo, ragazzo!”

Right. I’m sure explaining that I didn’t mean to steal anything will go over as well as suggesting we all leave the palazzo and share a cup of wine together.

Perhaps I can use it as an excuse to go back. Graciously return it like a good citizen whenever it seems most useful for my schemes.

We enter the Palazzo della Signoria’s courtyard, but there’s no sign of the painters anymore. I must’ve been wandering around for longer than I thought if everyone’s gone—no wonder Lorenzo found me.

Instead of dumping me into an unceremonious heap on the front steps like I expect and deserve, Lorenzo cuts right and heads toward a different, smaller door.

One that faces a narrow, dark alley.

My spine goes rigid.

There was an alley like this beside Casa delle Volpi. It was off the kitchen, a door no one used but the servants. When I displeased my father, whether it was fucking up my lessons or stammering something foolish in front of a client, he’d haul me out there. He never touched me—it was still public, after all—but his fury cracked over my narrow shoulders like a switch.

Hopeless.

An embarrassment to our name.

What did I do to deserve a son like this?

When Niccolo noticed my red-rimmed eyes, he started finding excuses to use the door before our father could really lay into me. He’d steal pears from the neighbor’s tree overhanging the wall, sneak out to meet a girl. My father’s scorching tirades were interrupted so much, he stopped dragging me out there entirely.

Niccolo’s not coming to save you now.

If I go into the shadows with these men, a soul-crushing scolding will be the least of my problems.

I slow, looking for an escape, but there’s nothing. I’ll have to sprint for the piazza. They’re armed, but I’m fast. ’Tis the best I can do.

We approach. Another guard opens the door. The sunlight burns so bright, I can’t see. I brace myself, ready to run—

“There you are!” Leonardo whips around the corner, pink-cheeked and out of breath.