The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel by Sara Poole Read Free Book Online

works of astounding beauty from sand, wood ash, and fire. Call it wickedness, call it hypocrisy, but the truth is that being certain that I could never be wife to Rocco only increased my desire for him. My reluctance to lower myself in his estimation stopped me from acting on my natural tendencies, but only just.
    “If she must have a name,” I said, looking down at the kitten that, still in my arms, set about washing herself with admirable industry. “Are you going to keep her?”
    “Can we, Papa?” Nando asked.
    Rocco hesitated. “I thought you wanted a dog.”
    “I do, but—”
    “Why don’t you keep her, Francesca?” Rocco prompted. “She seems to like you.”
    I stared at the creature, ready to explain why that was impossible. A deep rumbling, surely too vast for so small an animal, came from her. She blinked startlingly blue eyes and opened her tiny mouth in a yawn.
    “I’ve never had a pet.” My father had discouraged fondness for any particular animal, the better to steel me for the practice of testing new poisons on stray cats and dogs. It pained him to use them in such a way but he saw no alternative. He was horrified when I insisted that people should be used instead but ultimately he found merit in my argument that a man or woman condemned to torture and the stake would welcome a quicker and more merciful death. The discreet arrangements he made with various prison officials have served me well when needed, which, lest you think too badly of me, I assure you is not often.
    “Then it’s time you did,” Rocco said, for thankfully he had no notion of my dark thoughts. That quickly it was settled. I could say no to Rocco on a matter as fraught as marriage, but when it came to the small things—upon which some say life truly depends—I was helpless to deny him.
    He pulled a stool from the table and invited me to sit. As I did, Nando presented himself before us and stuck out his hand with the palm up. I noted that his fingers were ink-stained. Several months before, his father had begun teaching him to read and write. Getting the boy to concentrate on his lessons was something of a chore, as Nando saw little use for paper and pen except to draw. I had seen several of his sketches and thought he showed true promise.
    “I know, Papa,” he said with a grin, “tell Donna Maria that you want an especially good loaf.”
    When Rocco looked bemused, Nando eyed us both and laughed. “Every time Donna Francesca comes to visit, you send me to the bakery for fresh bread.”
    I am certain that we both flushed then but Rocco did not disagree. He drew a coin from his pocket and sent it spinning through the air. Nando caught it and hurried off.
    Except for the kitten, who had gone to sleep on my lap, we were alone, if only briefly. Rocco wasted no time. He took the stool across from me and said, “I’ve had a cryptic note from Luigi, something about postponing further business until the weather clears. Do you know what that’s about?”
    I breathed a small sigh of relief that the banker was safe and quickly said, “I came to tell you that the villa was attacked while we were meeting. Sofia and I got away and I think everyone else did as well. You’ve had no trouble here?”
    Rocco had paled the moment I began to speak. Now he shook his head and said, “Nothing … I had no idea. You are unharmed?”
    When I assured him that I was, he said, “Tell me all that happened.”
    As I finished describing the events of the previous evening, Rocco took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could see that he was struggling with himself, torn between anger over what had occurred and deep concern as to what it portended.
    “Do you know who the attackers were?” he asked. “Did you see their faces?”
    I shook my head. “The dogs alerted us and we fled too quickly to see anyone. Nor did they see us. They may not know our identities.” I was hopeful that was the case but precautions had to be taken all the