The Quiet Between Them - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The air in the gran salone of Palazzo Cizzioli shimmered with candlelight and the scent of spice. Wax gleamed on the walnut panels, and the frescoed gods overhead, Apollo bathed in light, the Muses pouring wine, seemed to watch in lazy amusement as Florence’s gilded youth from the great families drank and argued beneath them. The young men gathered as much to match wits as to seek relief from the political tensions that always roiled the Republic of Florence.

Matteo de' Rossi lounged by the hearth on this chilly March evening, his long legs in their violet hose stretched before him so that his leather boots could be warmed by the fire. His handsome face was animated as he joined in the discussions with his friends.

They were the sons of merchants and magistrates, heirs to fortunes forged in silk and gold. Their eyes were eager, their voices practiced, their wit honed upon the whetstone of Latin and pride. Around them drifted mistresses of the learned sort, women who could quote Virgil more easily than their men could count coin. Wives were forbidden, of course. Wives had eyes, and long memories.

At the long table lay a scatter of books: Horace, Livy, a worn copy of Dante bound in cracked vellum. Servants refilled cups with wine spiced with clove and orange peel. The talk, as always, had turned from money to poetry, from poetry to politics, and back again.

“Dante would scorn our philosophers,” stressed Filippo Tornabuoni, tapping the Commedia with his signet ring. “He would say we have traded faith for flattery, and grace for Greek.”

“Then he would be a fool,” replied Piero Acciaiuoli. “He walked with Virgil, did he not? Even in Hell, he knew wisdom when he saw it.”

Matteo de’ Rossi grimaced. “Dante’s faith burned too fiercely to be at peace with anything. He would argue with angels. But he would listen, and then condemn us all for listening too much.”

The laughter that followed was quick and comfortable. Only Danilo, Matteo’s servant and bodyguard, sitting a little apart on a carved chest, did not join in. He had the look of a stray dog scrubbed up for company... lean, restless, eyes too sharp for comfort. He turned his knife idly in the light.

“Hell’s full enough already,” he muttered. “But I’d wager the wine’s better there.”

The company glanced toward him, half-amused, half-offended. Matteo only waved a hand. “Pay no heed. He was raised among friars and thieves. Both taught him how to sin properly.”

That won laughter again. Danilo’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “And I learned that both steal from the poor, and a cudgel clears more sins than a sermon, signore.”

“Blasphemy wrapped in truth,” Matteo sighed. “How very Florentine.”

For a time the talk ran easily. Cicero was invoked, Petrarch debated, Plato abused and redeemed in equal measure. Yet even among friends, Matteo felt the faint unease that came with expectation. Gianluca Colonna should have been there. He could almost see him in the doorway, head tilted, lips twitching sly and knowing, ready to quote Ovid and undo half the room with a glance. His absence felt like a shadow behind the laughter.

“Tell us, Matteo,” demanded Filippo. “Would Dante embrace this new learning? Or would he damn us all for daring to read?”

Matteo considered his wine. “He would praise the light and curse the pride. Florence births poets the way fire births smoke, by burning everything near.”

“Smoke chokes before it clears,” Danilo spat out.

The door opened, and conversation stilled. Giuliano de’ Medici entered with an athlete’s ease, the candlelight striking off his dark velvet doublet. His smile was quick, his beauty effortless, and the room brightened as if in obedience.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, spreading his arms. “I trust I am not too late for wine and scandal?”

“Never too late for either,” laughed Matteo, rising. “Florence would fade without its favorite son.”

“Then I shall remain forever,” Giuliano replied. “To keep her glowing.”

The laughter that greeted him was warm, but one voice cut across it, dry as steel.

“How fortunate we are,” sneered Francesco de’ Pazzi from his place near a window. “A Medici among us. The gods are ever generous to Florence. Though some might call it habit.”

Giuliano’s smile thinned. “Florence is generous to all who serve her.”

“Serve?” Pazzi’s tone held acid. “Your brother commands her, and she calls it love.”

Matteo set his cup down, choking back irritation that Pazzi again dragged them all into his petty quarrel. “Enough, Francesco. We came to drink, not to quarrel.”

Pazzi’s eyes flicked to him, cold, assessing. “Ah, Rossi. Still playing philosopher? Careful. Florence loves her thinkers best before they act." The Pazzi heir rose, smooth and pale, his rings flashing, his cloak whispering over the tiles. “Drink to loyalty while you still can.” He bowed with deliberate grace and left the room. The door closed on a silence thick as smoke.

Danilo’s voice broke it, pitched low but carrying: “He toasts loyalty the way a wolf toasts sheep.”

A burst of muffled laughter followed, and Giuliano turned, eyebrows raised. “By the saints, Matteo, where did you find such a saucy varlet?”

Matteo laughed ruefully. “He found me. Wandered into our kitchens one winter night, half-starved and wholly insolent. Bit the steward, insulted my mother, stole a loaf of bread. We tried to throw him out, but he refused to go.”

Giuliano laughed. “And you kept him?”

“He kept himself,” Matteo clarified. “Like a feral cat that decides which house it owns.”

Danilo lifted his cup. “And I bite only those who deserve it.”

Giuliano clapped Matteo’s shoulder. “Keep him close. Florence breeds flatterers faster than friends. A man who bites might yet save your life.”

“Bravery and folly often share a bed,” said Matteo softly.

The hour grew late. Bells tolled from Santa Maria Novella, deep and slow. The company began to drift away... first Filippo and his laughing mistress, then Piero with a servant bearing books.

Giuliano lingered just long enough to drain his cup. "I must away," he apologized. "My brother awaits, and the affairs of Florence never sleep." He leaned close to Matteo, “Come to the tournament grounds next week,” he requested. “We’ll see if your sword is as sharp as your tongue.”

Matteo bowed slightly. “I’d not risk my pride against yours, my lord.”

“Then at least risk your coin,” Giuliano said, smiling.

“I’ll bring both,” Matteo replied.

Giuliano bowed and took his leave. When the last laughter faded, only Matteo and Danilo remained, the air thick with smoke and the sweetness of spiced wine. Matteo had waited, hoping that Gianluca would come from whatever diversion had detained him, but finally abandoned hope.

They left the palazzo together. Outside, the streets were nearly empty, the stones gleaming damply under the moon. Danilo walked a pace behind, cloak drawn close.

“You shouldn’t mock the Pazzi,” Matteo warned as their footsteps echoed on the narrow street.

“I didn’t mock him,” Danilo insisted. “I insulted him. Mocking takes patience.”

Matteo chuckled. “You’ll earn me enemies enough for three lifetimes.”

“Better enemies who show their teeth than friends who hide theirs.”

They turned onto the Via del Giglio. Ahead, the Palazzo Rossi rose from the shadows, its walls cut from the rusticated sandstone known as pietra serena that caught the last torchlight like embers. The great doorway yawned beneath the family crest... a rampant stag framed by laurel leaves, glowing in mosaic.

Matteo stopped a moment, looking up. “Home,” he muttered. “A prison carved in pride.” This was the center of the Rossi banking enterprise.

“Could be worse,” Danilo quipped. “Could be hungry.”

Matteo smiled and clapped his shoulder. “Go on to the servants’ court. I’ll not wake the house.”

Danilo hesitated. “There’s bad luck in the air tonight.”

“Then may it tire of waiting,” Matteo said. “Good night.”

He pushed open the great doors and stepped inside.

The vaulted passage breathed cool air, rich with stone and beeswax. The banking hall was dark, ledgers closed, torches guttering low. Inky shadows pooled under the arches. Matteo crossed to the cortile, where the fountain murmured quietly. Bronze dolphins spat silver threads into a basin, the water glowing with faint torchlight from the surrounding loggia.

For a moment he simply stood and breathed the stillness.

Then something shifted.

A whisper of leather on stone.

A breath that was not his own. Danilo would have smelled the danger. Matteo regretted having dismissed him.

He turned sharply toward the colonnade. Nothing... only deepening dark. He cursed his nerves and took another step toward the archway leading to the inner garden when the darkness itself detached and struck.

A weight hit him. Breath and stone.

Cold steel kissed his throat.

A blade.

“You,” a deep voice hissed in his ear, hot and close. “You are an affront to all that is holy. You should die for it.”

Matteo bucked hard, rage flaring. His fist cracked against a jaw. Stone grated under his boot as Matteo twisted, catching a glimpse of a hooded figure.

“God’s wounds,” he spat, grappling for the assailant’s wrist. “What the hell... ”

They rolled in a tangle of limbs, curses tearing the dusk. For a heartbeat Matteo feared the blade would find his throat, but something in the attacker's stance seemed horribly familiar.

“Messer Matteo!” A servant's voice rang clear from the loggia above, smooth with lazy amusement at the familiar antics of the youngest Rossi son and his friends. “Your father craves your company. Unless you are indisposed?”

The struggle froze. Both men stilled, panting. Slowly the dagger slid away. The assailant should have struck again. Instead, the air between them burned with something older than rage.

Matteo shoved hard, rolling free. He looked up and saw a figure leaning over the balustrade, dark hair glinting in torchlight. He called up, his breath ragged. “Tell my father I will attend anon.” His heart was still hammering, but not from fear. He knew that now.

He turned to his assailant and ripped back the hood. Green eyes sparked mischief beneath a tousled fringe.

“Gianluca.” Matteo’s voice was a growl. “You bastard.”

“Bastard?” Gianluca vaulted the stair like a cat and strolled toward him, dagger dangling from two fingers. “I had you by the throat. You always fall for that. Admit it. You would be cooling on the stones if not for my mercy.”

“Mercy? Hardly.” Matteo laughed once, harsh and breathless. He glanced toward the arches, now empty, then caught Gianluca’s wrist and dragged him close in the shadows. The kiss was swift and fierce, lips burning with the taste of danger. He slipped his hand inside Gianluca's doublet to caress bare skin. If anyone saw them, not even the Medici could shield them.

“Does that feel like mercy?” Matteo muttered.

Gianluca’s grin widened. “Feels like surrender.”

“Fool!" Matteo shoved him back with a smirk, already tugging loose his doublet. Sweat glued his shirt to his spine. He stripped it off and let it fall, the torchlight painting his shoulders bronze. Without a word he strode to the fountain, plunged his hands into the cold rush, and sluiced water down his chest. Droplets spangled his skin as he tipped his head back, breath hissing between his teeth. He dipped a jug in the fountain to pour over his head. "How long have you been here?"

Behind him Gianluca leaned against a pillar, dagger flashing idly in his fingers, eyes lingering with insolent heat. "No more than a quarter of an hour," Gianluca replied. "The steward directed me to wait in the family rooms, but I thought this would be more diverting." He grinned, “You made me wait,” Gianluca said. “You know I hate waiting.”

Above them the Rossi frescoes glowed in vermilion and cerulean, oblivious to the war of pulse and breath below.

Matteo tossed a silk-bound bundle across the marble. “Virgil. The new transcription. Keep it safe.” He watched Gianluca’s gasp of delight as he snatched the Eclogues. “Take the back stairs and wait in my chamber while I play the dutiful son.”

Gianluca’s grin dimmed. “You expect talk of your betrothal to Lauretta Tornabuoni.”

“Yes.” Matteo’s hand closed on his arm, voice low. “It is an advantageous match. But it changes nothing.”

For a moment they stood close enough to share a breath, then the voice from above rang out again. “Messer Matteo. Your father grows impatient.”

Matteo sighed and turned toward the stair, water sliding from his skin like molten glass. “Anon.”