The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(5)
Author: Sylvain Reynard

“Not really. But I recall the donation was large and wired within an hour from a Swiss bank.”

Gabriel frowned. “I don’t trust him. Do me a favor and keep him away from Julianne.”

Vitali gave him a puzzled look.

“Has he insulted her?”

“Not yet.”

Vitali glanced at the Englishman.

“He’s one of those rich, young aristocrats who fled England to pursue pleasure in my country. We’ve seen thousands of his kind over the years. I’m sure he knows better than to trouble your wife.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel’s tone was unconvincing, as was his expression as he stared at the stranger’s retreating back.

Vitali gestured to the front of the room. “Come, my friends. Please.”

Gabriel extricated Julia from a conversation she’d been having with Vitali’s wife, and escorted her to their table.

“Va bene,” said Vitali, taking his wife by the hand and following the Emersons.

Neither the professor nor Vitali realized that even from the hall the mysterious stranger could hear every word of their exchange, or that he’d changed his mind and decided to deal with Vitali sooner rather than later.

Dottor Vitali’s memory was about to become even less reliable.

Chapter 4

The Emersons had sexual intercourse during the gala not once but twice.

The Prince silently saluted the professor’s (human) stamina.

It was close to midnight by the time the elaborate dinner ended and the Emersons said their farewells to Dottor Vitali. They exited the Uffizi hand in hand, strolling toward the Piazza della Signoria.

The Prince followed, keeping to the shadows.

A figure trailed behind him, having encircled the Uffizi for hours, like a shark, waiting for him to emerge. The figure made sure that he was downwind of the Prince, so that his scent would not reveal him.

It was a short walk from the Piazza to the Gallery Hotel Art, which was only a few steps from the Arno River. Still, the Emersons took their time.

Mrs. Emerson seemed determined to give money to every homeless person she encountered and the professor seemed determined to kiss her every time they passed a gelateria.

(Given the number of homeless persons and gelaterias in the city center, the Prince despaired of them ever making it to their hotel before Advent.)

When they finally entered the hotel, the Prince stood across the street, waiting. His contacts in the human intelligence network had informed him that the professor had expensive tastes. He’d reserved the penthouse suite.

Locked doors and tall buildings were no barrier to the Prince, given his abilities, but it was fortuitous that the penthouse was easily accessible from its private terrace. He’d simply bide his time until the Emersons retired for the evening.

(The Prince secretly hoped they would not have intercourse a third time, as it would delay his revenge once again.)

It was at this point that the figure who had been following him disappeared.

The Prince saw the lights go on in the penthouse. A short time later, those same lights were extinguished.

In a flash, he was across the street. He was just about to scale the side of the hotel when the wind shifted.

He froze, closing his eyes and inhaling.

The scent of a number of his kind came into sharp relief. Not a single one of the scents was familiar.

The Prince ascended to the roof just in time to see a crowd of ten men, wielding swords, sprinting across the rooftops in his direction. They were about a half a mile away.

He was unarmed.

Quickly, he surveyed the area in case they’d sent another group to flank him. But they hadn’t.

The Prince found the fact rather curious.

It was possible they were after someone else. Possible, but not likely. A group of armed beings running in his direction meant only one thing—assassination.

He faced them, his body alert, continuing to survey the area in case there were more.

The group leapt to the building next to the hotel and stopped.

Once again, the Prince found their strategy (or lack thereof) surprising.

“The Prince of Florence, alone and unarmed.” A man who appeared to be the leader of the group addressed him in Italian, brandishing his broadsword.

The Prince examined the group, searching for any familiar faces. He found none.

He straightened himself to his full height. “You have one minute to put down your swords and surrender, or I will destroy you.”

The group laughed, one of them moving to the edge of the roof to taunt him. “Are you mad? We are ten to your one.”

The Prince’s gray eyes lasered into his. “Do you have any idea who you are addressing? I’ve been in possession of this principality for centuries. Lay down your weapons or die holding them.”

The group laughed again.

Another man mimed a beheading, his broadsword whistling through the air.

When the laughter ended, the first man who’d spoken raised his weapon and with a shout crossed the gap between the buildings, flying toward the Prince.

The Prince remained still until the man was just above him. Then he stepped to the side, grabbing the man’s sword hand at the wrist and wrenching it. The wrist bones snapped like twigs beneath his fingers.

The man howled in pain and released the sword, crashing to the roof.

The Prince caught the sword with his left hand and spun, slicing through the man’s neck. The head flew into the air and then hit the floor with a sickening, wet thud.

He tossed the sword to his right, kicking the headless corpse aside. He turned his smile on the group. “Next?”

There was an instant of hesitation, but only an instant. A cry rang out from the remaining members and they surged forward.

The Prince waited until they were almost within striking distance before leaping high into the air. He executed a flip midair and landed behind them, quickly severing the heads of two men with a single stroke.

Again, he kicked the decapitated bodies aside, ignoring the rolling heads.

His attackers rushed him.

The Prince fenced and battled, leaping into the air to avoid the blades. In a few moments, he’d diminished the group by six. Only four remained, including the leader.

“Put down your swords.” The Prince paced like a lion, herding the men toward the edge of the roof.

The leader cursed, spitting on the ground.

“Vincenzo, see to the others.” The leader addressed the man next to him, gesturing to the corpses and heads that littered the roof, their blackish blood shining like tar in the semidarkness.

The leader attacked, hoping to give Vincenzo the opening he needed. The Prince evaded the leader’s strikes and kicked Vincenzo in the chest, forcing him to his knees before taking his head.