The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(14)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

“I know a much quieter piazza nearby.”

She stifled a laugh. “Is that the best you can do?”

“There’s always the hotel. I have a beautiful room.”

“Really?”

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.

“It isn’t as beautiful as you, of course, but it isn’t entirely unfortunate.”

She lowered her eyes and blushed.

The Prince merely scowled beneath his hood, willing the Emersons to stand up and leave already.

The professor squeezed Julianne’s hand. “Nothing compares to your beauty, not even this city. Florence has exceptional architecture and art but Brunelleschi’s dome lacks your compassion. And no painting in the Uffizi could ever capture the beauty and warmth of your love.”

The Prince had had enough. The maddening, overly sweet exchange had almost propelled him to take off his Franciscan robes and confront the Emersons, if only to silence them.

Then he heard the sound of Julianne’s laughter. The happy sound stopped him in his tracks.

“Are you flirting with me, Professor?”

“This isn’t flirtation, Julianne. This is seduction. And I won’t rest until I enjoy the wonder that is your body, lying underneath me again.”

He kissed the shell of her ear, before moving down to the side of her neck. He pressed unhurried kisses against her skin, brushing against her collarbone.

“This is just the beginning,” he whispered, his hand caressing her side. “Think of the delights that await you.”

She hummed softly. “I’d like to hear more about that.”

He stood, holding out his hand.

“I’ll do more than tell you. But I’m afraid you’ll have to leave this piazza.”

Julia glanced over his shoulder at the fountain.

She sighed. “It’s hard for me to leave.”

“But we’ll be together.” He tugged her into his arms. “Tonight I’ll help you touch the stars. And when you fall back to earth, I promise to catch you.”

She looked up him, at his tender, intense expression, and lightly cupped his angular jaw.

“What about you, Gabriel? Don’t you want to touch the stars?”

He smiled his slow, sweet smile.

“You’re the only star in my sky.”

She kissed him fiercely, before taking his hand and walking hurriedly in the direction of their hotel.

The Prince did not follow. He’d enjoyed enough insipid conversation and public petting for the evening.

Satisfied that the Emersons had returned to their penthouse, he melted into the shadows. He hoped his foray into the city had gone unnoticed and put from his mind all thought of happiness.

Chapter 11

Ibarra of the Basques was tall, dark, and intelligent. He’d lived in Florence for over a century and was proud of his recent ascent to the Consilium.

It was an honor to be so elevated within the principality. But Ibarra knew, as did his fellow citizens, that Consilium members who failed in their responsibilities were either banished or executed. Banishments were extremely rare.

Well aware of the history of Florence’s underworld, (a subject he’d studied since his arrival), Ibarra was conscious of his responsibility as head of security. He wanted to prove himself to the Consilium and to the Prince.

(He also had a fondness for his head and would sorely hate to lose it.)

And that is why Ibarra stood in an empty apartment overlooking the Ponte Santa Trinita hour after hour, his gaze fixed on the Arno River.

He’d persuaded the Prince to allow him to track the remaining attempted assassin personally and had spent days and nights doing just that, only to discover that the Venetian had evaded capture by hiding in the Arno.

It was a clever ruse.

Water masked the stranger’s scent. The river, although shallow, provided adequate protection from the sun during the day. There was the small matter of oxygen, but their kind barely needed to breathe. Ibarra surmised the Venetian was able to surface beneath the shade of the bridge during the day and draw air before sinking to the bottom once again.

But no more.

The new head of security had found him and was waiting patiently for him to come out. Just as the last rays of the setting sun faded from the city, he did just that.

Ibarra watched as a man dressed in dark clothes and carrying a sword emerged from the water. The figure quickly scanned the area, tipping his nose into the air and closing his eyes as if to scent out any predators. Seemingly satisfied he was alone, he climbed the underside of the bridge and heaved himself onto the road.

Quickly, Ibarra opened the window to the apartment and leapt to the ground, withdrawing his sword as he landed.

The Venetian’s head came up. His gaze darted in Ibarra’s direction.

When he caught sight of the Basque he cursed, breaking into a run. He crossed the bridge and headed toward Santo Spirito, on the south side of the Arno.

Ibarra followed at a high rate of speed, climbing a building near the bridge. From the vantage point of the roof he caught sight of his prey escaping into a side street.

The Basque crossed to the roof of the next building, continuing to monitor the Venetian’s progress.

The failed assassin wheeled around a corner, coming perilously close to the holy ground of a church. Ibarra watched with silent amusement as the man paused, momentarily confused, before making a hard left and entering Piazza Santo Spirito.

Ibarra jumped to the pavement, pursuing him across the Piazza and into an alley.

The Venetian skidded to a stop the moment he realized the alley was blind.

Ibarra stood behind him at the mouth of the alley, wielding his sword.

The Venetian glimpsed Ibarra over his shoulder, then ran for the wall opposite and began to climb.

The Basque flew toward him and grabbed his clothes, tossing him to the ground.

The would-be assassin landed hard, a loud oath escaping his lips. But he did not drop his sword.

Ibarra stood over him, speaking in Basque-accented Italian. “Surrender and I shall be merciful.”

The Venetian looked around, measuring the distance to the street.

Ibarra took that opportunity to focus on his scent. “You haven’t fed in some time. You must be hungry. I will ensure you’re given food.”

The Venetian stumbled to his feet, waving his sword in front of Ibarra’s midsection. His eyes flickered from place to place, weighing his options.

“Our Prince is dead. You’re the only assassin who survived. The entire principality is hunting you and the others will kill you when they find you.”

The Venetian’s expression changed, but only momentarily. He hadn’t heard the assassination had been successful or that his entire team had been killed. And he didn’t appear to trust Ibarra’s word.