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He was only five years old at the time, but for the rest of his life Giovanni de’ Pazzi remembered clear as day the moment his mother first put Francesco in his arms. He was red-faced and wailing and at first Giovanni declared that he was ugly, making his parents laugh. But then Francesco settled down, brown eyes blinking curiously up at him, and Giovanni decided he liked his baby brother after all. To the point where he almost threw a tantrum when seven-year-old Guglielmo wanted a turn holding Francesco.
“Now, Guglielmo’s had practice being an older brother, but this is your first time,” his mother said to him. “I want you to be a good brother to Francesco, just as Guglielmo is to you. I want you to love him and protect him. Can you do that?”
Giovanni looked down to where Francesco’s tiny fingers were curled tightly around his bigger one, and a surge of affection washed over him. “Yes,” he said confidently.
Giovanni was twelve the first time that promise was truly tested. “Come, Francesco,” Jacopo said as he led Guglielmo and Giovanni towards the front door of the Medici home
“Stay where you are,” Lorenzo said.
The three Pazzi stopped and turned around, and Giovanni watched as little Francesco stood frozen in place, slowly lifting his head to look at Jacopo, his expression both defiant and scared. Jacopo dropped the older boys’ hands and strode over towards Francesco, grabbing him by the arm. Francesco struggled and tried to pull away, and Jacopo hit him across the face.
Giovanni ran over to them, blood boiling. “Don’t touch him!” he snapped just as Lorenzo said the exact same thing at the exact same time. Lorenzo planted himself between Francesco and Jacopo while Giovanni went for his brother, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulder as Francesco pressed his hand to his cheek where Jacopo had struck him.
“Get out of my way, or you’ll feel the force of my hand too,” Jacopo told Lorenzo coldly.
Contessina’s voice rang authoritatively through the room. “Not in this house, Messer Pazzi.”
She called for Lorenzo, and they all stood there for a moment, waiting to see what would happen. Then Lorenzo reluctantly gave in and stepped aside, and Jacopo took Francesco’s arm with one hand and Giovanni’s with the other, separating them and dragging them alongside him as he left the house, Guglielmo obediently trotting after them.
Giovanni saw Francesco throwing a backwards glance at Lorenzo and he did the same, though his was more of a glare. It was Lorenzo’s fault that Francesco had been hurt. Lorenzo who had encouraged—no, ordered him to defy Jacopo. Giovanni didn’t want them to go live with Jacopo any more than Lorenzo did, but he, at least, knew there was no use fighting it.
When they arrived at their uncle’s palazzo, Jacopo locked Francesco up in his new bedroom to punish him for his disobedience and said he would not be allowed out until dinner. But it was on the ground floor, so Giovanni snuck in through the window to see him.
“What are you doing?” Francesco whispered, looking frightened, as Giovanni straightened up, dusted himself off, and shut the window again. “If Uncle catches you—”
“He won’t,” Giovanni promised. “I wanted to see how you are.”
“I’m fine,” Francesco said, but his eyes were red and he’d clearly been crying.
Giovanni hugged him. “I’m sorry he hit you.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
“I should have protected you,” he said. “When you were born, Mother and Father made me and Guglielmo promise to look after you. And—and again just before they died.”
Francesco didn’t say anything in response, but he hugged him tighter. Giovanni held him until he’d stopped trembling.
Giovanni let Francesco come with him because he wanted them to fail. He was no great friend of the Medici himself, not to mention he was angry with Guglielmo for running off with Bianca de’ Medici without so much as saying goodbye. But the last thing their family needed was to be dragged into a scandal of this magnitude, and Giovanni felt that Jacopo was frankly an idiot for even suggesting that they make the scandal public, as if a stain on Guglielmo’s reputation wouldn’t affect the entire Pazzi name.
Thus it was purely for the family and not for Guglielmo (or so Giovanni told himself) that he hadn’t tried to find an excuse for Francesco not to come when Jacopo had sent the pair of them to use Guglielmo and Bianca to blackmail Lorenzo into giving up the treaty. He knew that Francesco’s presence would ensure the desired failure of the blackmail.
Because as much as Francesco pretended to hate him, Lorenzo was a weak spot for him. Had been since they were children. Giovanni was confident they’d be leaving the Medici home with Francesco having been talked out of going along with Jacopo’s plan by Lorenzo, and so much the better.
“I can’t believe Guglielmo would do this,” Francesco said as they walked through the streets of Florence together.
“I can,” Giovanni muttered.
“I can see why he would leave without telling Jacopo, but why wouldn’t he tell us?” Francesco said. “Why wouldn’t he say goodbye?”
Giovanni glanced sideways at him. His expression was closed-off, but even so Giovanni could read him easily. Francesco was trying to be angry, but really he just felt hurt. Hurt and abandoned. Giovanni’s resentment towards Guglielmo doubled.
He changed the subject. “I’ll let you do most of the talking in there,” he said. “Lorenzo likes you, he’d be more likely to listen to you than me.” Or rather, Francesco would be more likely to fall for Lorenzo’s charms than Giovanni would. He felt a little guilty for manipulating his brother, but it was for the best.
“He doesn’t like me,” Francesco said.
“Of course he does, you were the closest of friends.”
“That was years ago.”
Giovanni watched Francesco trying to mask the hope that had appeared on his face at the suggestion that maybe Lorenzo still cared for him. “Well, a bond like yours isn’t broken easily,” he said.
And indeed, once they arrived, Giovanni discovered that he really might as well have not come, because aside from greeting him, Lorenzo barely spared him a glance, he was so focused on Francesco. And vice versa. At one point Lorenzo came over to stand in front of Francesco—much closer than necessary—and gestured back and forth between them as he discussed their alliance, eventually actually poking Francesco’s chest and letting his finger rest there. Francesco stared down at his finger, looking utterly bemused, and Giovanni had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
“If I can save Guglielmo and Bianca without putting the treaty at risk, would you consider it?” Lorenzo asked.
Francesco frowned. “There’s no way.”
“All I’m asking for is time.”
“We can give you time,” Giovanni said, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived. Lorenzo and Francesco both started and looked at him, as if they’d forgotten he was sitting there. “But not too much, you’ll have to act quickly.”
Lorenzo nodded. “Of course.”
Francesco started to protest. “But Uncle said—”
“I know what he said,” Giovanni interrupted. “What’s the harm in stalling a little while to see if Lorenzo can do what he’s saying he can? You want Guglielmo to be happy, don’t you?”
That was a low blow; Giovanni knew full well that he himself and Guglielmo were Francesco’s biggest weaknesses, even more so than Lorenzo. But it had the desired effect: Francesco chewed his lip before finally saying, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Thank you, Francesco. And Giovanni,” Lorenzo added almost as an afterthought.
Giovanni leaned against the wall with his arms folded, making no move to help when Guglielmo winced in pain as the servant bandaged his hand. “You’re selfish,” he said.
Guglielmo looked over at him. “What?”
“Running off like that,” Giovanni said. “Didn’t you think about how Francesco would feel, waking up and discovering his brother had abandoned him?”
Guglielmo dropped his eyes, his expression guilty. “I wasn’t trying to abandon him.”
“Be that as it may, you did abandon him. I don’t know if you merely didn’t think your actions through fully or if you simply don’t care about Francesco—”
“How can you say that?” Guglielmo said, looking hurt. “I love him. You know I do.”
“But you love Bianca more,” Giovanni said.
“Don’t make me choose.”
“I’m not. Because you already did choose. And Francesco knows it.”
“Giovanni—”
“The saddest part is, he isn’t even angry with you for trying to abandon him,” Giovanni continued. “How could he be? He worships you. Always has. You can do no wrong in his eyes. Even when you run around doing whatever you want without sparing a thought for how it would affect him.”
Tears were welling up in Guglielmo’s eyes, to Giovanni’s satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Giovanni said.
“And why not? I abandoned you too.”
Giovanni looked away. “Well, I don’t need you,” he said finally. “Not the way Francesco does.”
They were interrupted by the door opening, and Francesco himself walked in. Giovanni fell silent and Guglielmo quickly blinked his tears away as Francesco approached him. He sent the servant away and finished bandaging Guglielmo’s hand himself.
“You have only yourself to blame,” Francesco said, though Giovanni could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
Guglielmo gazed anxiously up at him. “Do you forgive me, Francesco?” he said quietly.
Francesco’s expression softened. “Have I ever sided against you?”
Guglielmo smiled, but he glanced over at Giovanni when Francesco wasn’t looking. Giovanni gave him an I told you so look, and his smile faded.
A moment later Jacopo joined them and announced that Guglielmo was officially betrothed to Bianca, and Giovanni’s heart thawed a little despite himself when he saw the joy on his brother’s face. But then before he knew what was happening, Jacopo’s demeanor had changed and he was disowning Guglielmo and turning around to leave the room.
“Come, Francesco, Giovanni,” he said. “Your brother is beyond our help.”
He walked out without another word, leaving a deafening silence in his wake. Francesco, looking like he was about to cry, was glancing back and forth between Guglielmo and Giovanni, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Just like that day Jacopo had come to take them away. Again Giovanni’s heart ached for his little brother, who pretended to be so proud and independent and yet was so easily led by the people close to him. So reliant on them for direction and validation.
Giovanni turned to Guglielmo, who was pale and shocked. “Congratulations, you’re now a Medici rather than a Pazzi. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he said, his voice hard. And he turned and followed Jacopo out.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard Francesco’s footsteps behind him a second later.
“Cheer up,” Giovanni’s wife Beatrice said, coming over to where he and Francesco were lurking at the edge of the room, watching the festivities rather than participating. “It isn’t every day your brother gets married.”
“Nor is it every day that your brother tries to elope without telling you,” Giovanni grumbled. “Forgive me for not being in a celebratory mood.”
“Well, we all do silly things for love,” Beatrice said mildly. “Besides, even if they had eloped, it isn’t as if Guglielmo would never have seen you again. I’m sure he would have come back with Bianca after everything had settled down, or at least written to you two to tell you where he was so you could have gone to see him.”
Giovanni paused; that had never actually occurred to him. “Yes, well, still,” he said, his pride not letting him concede the point. “He risked our whole family’s reputation.”
“But it all worked out.”
“He does look happy,” Francesco chimed in, watching Guglielmo and Bianca on the far side of the room.
Giovanni felt his bad mood melting away at the soft expression on Francesco’s face. If Francesco had already forgiven their brother for his actions, Giovanni didn’t want to infect him with his own current annoyance towards Guglielmo. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, he does.”
Just then they heard a crash from behind them, and all three turned to look. An unfamiliar young woman with red hair was in Lorenzo de’ Medici’s study, scrambling to pick up the helmet she must have knocked off the suit of armor behind her.
“Who is that?” Beatrice asked, looking amused.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her before,” Giovanni said. “Do you know her, Francesco?” Francesco said nothing, and Giovanni turned to him. “Francesco?”
Francesco was gazing at the woman with something like awe on his face and seeming like he wasn’t listening to a word of their conversation. Grinning, Giovanni nudged him. “What?” Francesco said, finally tearing his eyes away from the woman.
“It looks like she could use a hand,” Giovanni said. “You should go over and help.”
“I should?”
“Go on.” Giovanni all but shoved him forward and Francesco stumbled slightly, then took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went into Lorenzo’s study.
Giovanni and Beatrice were too far away to hear the exchange, but they watched it with great interest. “Look how smitten he is,” Giovanni said. “And he’s only just met her.”
Beatrice looped her arm through his. “It’s always love at first sight with you Pazzi, I suppose,” she said, and Giovanni chuckled and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Dear God, what is she doing?”
Giovanni looked back just in time to see the woman aiming a bow and arrow at Francesco and letting the arrow fly. It embedded itself in the wall next to Francesco’s head, but Francesco looked only mildly alarmed as he looked back at her and said something.
Giovanni laughed again. “Trust Francesco to make a woman want to shoot him after talking to her for two minutes.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a hostile interaction, though,” Beatrice said, also grinning. “Look, they’re smiling at each other…oh, who’s that man?”
“Her father, perhaps? I don’t recognize him either,” Giovanni said. “Venetian, I’d guess, judging by his clothes.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. Ah, and here comes Lorenzo de’ Medici. I wonder what he wants.”
“Probably to convince Francesco to do something for the good of the Medici bank—excuse me, for the good of Florence,” Giovanni said, rolling his eyes.
Indeed, Francesco seemed deep in thought when he returned to them after Lorenzo had left. “What was Lorenzo talking to you about?” Giovanni said.
“He wants the Pazzi bank to sell alum with the Medici bank,” Francesco said. “As a joint venture.”
Giovanni turned the idea over in his mind. It would benefit the Medici bank, undoubtedly…but it would also benefit the Pazzi bank. “That would help our bank,” he said. “Why would Lorenzo want that?”
“Well, we are family now.”
Giovanni snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re naïve enough to think this wedding will erase the generations of hostility between our families.”
He regretted saying it so bluntly when he saw the flash of disappointment in Francesco’s eyes, like he’d wanted to believe the wedding would do exactly that. It wasn’t that Giovanni hated the Medici or wanted to continue the feud; on the contrary, he was eager to see it put to rest the way his parents had wanted. It was just that Francesco, for all his aloofness, was actually a bit of an idealist, like Guglielmo.
And Giovanni was a realist, which meant that he was much slower to trust Lorenzo’s claims of wanting peace.
“Of course I know that,” Francesco said. “I’m only telling you what Lorenzo said. He said he wanted the marriage to begin a partnership between our families. He seemed sincere…”
“He always does,” Giovanni said under his breath.
“He wants me to convince Uncle to agree,” Francesco continued.
“Why not just go to Jacopo directly?” Beatrice asked.
“I suppose Lorenzo thought I’d have an easier time convincing him than he would.”
Or that Lorenzo would have an easier time convincing Francesco than convincing Jacopo. Suddenly Giovanni found himself thinking again of the day Jacopo had taken them from the Medici home. Stay where you are. Lorenzo’s methods of persuasion were much subtler now, but the hold he had over Francesco was the same. And Lorenzo clearly knew it, too, knew he still had the power to convince Francesco to go against Jacopo.
Giovanni glanced across the room at Lorenzo. Did he actually believe his own words about a partnership between their families? Or was he only using Francesco as a pawn in his plans for the Medici bank?
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” Francesco was saying.
“I don’t think it’s a bad one,” Giovanni said, turning back to the conversation. “But I’m not certain how much I trust Lorenzo. He might have an ulterior motive.”
“Or he might not,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps he truly does want to make peace.”
“Perhaps,” Giovanni said. “Do you think it’s a good idea, Francesco?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. I do. It will benefit our bank.”
Giovanni nodded. “Then go ahead and try to get Uncle to agree. And good luck to you,” he added wryly.
“Are you certain I should?” Francesco said.
“It’s your decision,” Giovanni said. “Do what you feel is best.”
“But—”
“Now, that’s more than enough business talk for our brother’s wedding,” Giovanni said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That woman you were talking to before, what’s her name? You seemed to be getting along.”
A faint blush bloomed on Francesco’s cheeks. “Novella,” he said. “But I don’t know her family name.”
“Look, there she is now,” Beatrice said, pointing a little ways away, where Giovanni could make out a mass of red curls in the crowd. “You should go ask her to dance.”
“Oh, I—I don’t know, I’m sure she wouldn’t be interested in—”
“Of course she would. Now go, it’s about time we got you married,” Giovanni teased, making Francesco’s face go almost as red as his tunic.
Giovanni had to admit that Francesco had been happier this past year than he’d ever seen him. A large part of it was due to his marriage to Novella, certainly. But he knew it was also a result of his renewed friendship with the Medici and with Lorenzo in particular. Lorenzo had made him godfather to his son, and Giovanni had seen the pride and happiness on Francesco’s face during the christening, had seen the way he’d looked for Lorenzo across the church and smiled when their eyes met.
The way Lorenzo had smiled back.
For the first time since his parents’ death, Giovanni allowed himself to hope. That maybe this feud could be ended once and for all. That maybe Lorenzo was trustworthy and did care about Francesco beyond just his political support.
And then everything changed.
Giovanni and Beatrice were having a leisurely dinner one evening when they heard someone knocking urgently on the front door. A minute later one of the servants was leading a tearful and distressed Novella into the dining room.
“Novella!” Beatrice said, jumping to her feet and hurrying over to her. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Francesco,” she sobbed. “He—he’s so angry with me—”
“What? Why?” Giovanni asked, coming over as well.
“I don’t know! He was asking about why I was invited to Florence,” Novella said. “I told him I didn’t know why, but he didn’t believe me. Then I said he’d have to ask Lorenzo, and that made him even angrier, and he left the house and wouldn’t tell me where he was going.” She sniffled. “I was so afraid…”
“You were afraid? Of him?” Giovanni said. “Did he hurt you?”
Novella shook her head. “No, he only grabbed me and then he let go,” she said. “But—but I was afraid he was going to. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
Beatrice rubbed her back soothingly as Giovanni struggled to think of an explanation for such behavior. Francesco adored Novella and was always so loving and gentle with her, what could possibly have happened to make him act like this? And why had the mention of Lorenzo made him angrier? The two of them had never been closer than they were these days.
They had some more wine brought out for Novella and sat with her until she’d calmed down, and then Giovanni suggested that they take her home. “If Francesco’s back from wherever he went, I’ll ask him why he’s so upset,” he said. “And if not, we’ll wait with you until he does return.”
Novella nodded, still sniffling. “Thank you.”
When they arrived at Francesco and Novella’s home, they saw a carriage out front being loaded up with several trunks. And Francesco was standing there overseeing the process. He glanced over and saw them approaching, but he remained silent.
“Francesco?” Novella said, her voice quivering.
“You will return to your father’s house in Venice,” Francesco said coolly, and then he turned on his heel and went into the house, pulling his arm out of Novella’s reach and slamming the door in her face.
“Francesco!” she cried, pounding on the door. “No! I won’t go! Francesco! I won’t go!”
But the door remained firmly shut, and finally Novella stepped back and turned around to face Giovanni and Beatrice, looking so lost. Beatrice took her into her arms while Giovanni pounded on the door himself.
“Francesco, open the damn door!” he called. “What is the matter with you?”
Still no response. Giovanni looked helplessly at Novella, his heart breaking at the expression on her face. “You’ll stay with us tonight,” he decided. “And in the morning I’ll find Francesco and make him see sense.”
Francesco wasn’t at home when Giovanni went the next morning, so he headed over to the bank to look for him. He found him in Jacopo’s office, surrounded by a large stack of accounts. “It cannot be,” Francesco was saying, staring disbelievingly down at the paper he was holding. “It just cannot be! He’s kept the alum! This is only the papal account!”
He passed the paper over to Jacopo, who scanned it before throwing it down on his desk. “This is the Medici,” Jacopo spat. “This is what they do.”
“Francesco,” Giovanni said, and they both looked up, noticing him for the first time. “May I speak with you?”
Francesco’s jaw worked for a moment, but then he followed Giovanni out into the main part of the bank. “Do you care to explain why you’ve thrown Novella out of your house?” Giovanni said.
Francesco folded his arms. “That doesn’t concern you.”
“She is my sister-in-law, not to mention she’s currently in my home, where she spent the whole night crying,” Giovanni said. “It damn well does concern me.”
“She betrayed me,” Francesco said. “She’s been spying on me for Lorenzo the entire time we’ve been married, that’s why Lorenzo invited her here in the first place.”
Giovanni stared at him. “What in God’s name—where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” he demanded.
“Well, Uncle made me see that—”
“Ah,” Giovanni said, realizing the source of Francesco’s unfounded paranoia. “You should know better by now than to listen to anything he says. Really, Novella spying on you? That woman doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body!”
“It’s Lorenzo’s fault!” Francesco burst out. “You heard Uncle, this is what the Medici do! They lie, they manipulate, they pretend. Pretend to care about you, all the while using you to prop up their bank and undermine your own, thinking you’ll be too much of a fool to notice!”
“Francesco—”
“You said the feud could never be stopped, and you were right,” Francesco said bitterly. “You were right about that, you were right about Lorenzo, he didn’t truly want my friendship, he was only using me. Are you happy now?”
“What? No! No, I’m not happy,” Giovanni said. “I didn’t want to be right about any of that. And I don’t think I am, this must be some sort of misunderstanding. Just talk to Lorenzo—”
“So he can use his silver tongue on me yet again? I don’t think so.” And Francesco shouldered past him and left the bank.
Giovanni watched him go, debating if he should chase after him, but instead he stalked back into Jacopo’s office. “What have you done?” he hissed. “What did you tell Francesco to make him betray the Medici?”
Jacopo raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re a friend of the Medici too now,” he said. “I expect no better from Guglielmo anymore, and Francesco was always weak to Lorenzo’s manipulations, but you—”
“I don’t care about the Medici,” Giovanni said impatiently. “I don’t care about their bank, I don’t care about our bank, I care about Francesco and his happiness, which the Medici gave to him and you’ve stolen away again!”
“It was false happiness they gave to him,” Jacopo said. “They were playing him for a fool, and I helped him to see that.”
“It wasn’t false,” Giovanni said. “But Francesco has known so little of genuine happiness during his life thanks to you, I suppose he isn’t able to tell the difference.”
He stormed out of the bank, and as he walked home, he found himself thinking of the day Francesco was born. I want you to be a good brother to Francesco, just as Guglielmo is to you. I want you to love and protect him. Can you do that? Was it being a good brother to allow Francesco to be manipulated by Jacopo? Was it loving and protecting him to stand back and watch as he destroyed everything that was good in his life?
Giovanni had spent Francesco’s whole life constantly on alert, constantly looking out for him. But these past months when everything had finally seemed to be going right, Giovanni had let his guard down and allowed Jacopo the opportunity to strike. He’d failed as a brother. He’d broken his promise to his mother.
The only thing he could do now was pray that it wasn’t too late for him to fix things.
Giovanni stared numbly at the ground. All he could see was the look on Francesco’s face, his knife plunging into Giuliano’s back over and over again. How had it come to this? How had Giovanni failed to realize Francesco was plotting something so awful? How had he not noticed some sort of change in his behavior, some sign that would have let him know something wasn’t right?
Then again, Francesco hadn’t been speaking to him much since he’d broken with the Medici and become Jacopo’s puppet.
“Giovanni?”
He lifted his eyes and managed to focus on Beatrice. She was pale and trembling; he imagined he looked the same. “Did…” She swallowed. “Did you know?”
Giovanni shook his head. “No,” he said in a broken voice.
Before they could say anything more—not that either of them had any words—the doors of their home burst open and the mob rushed in. Giovanni didn’t even try to fight back as some of them seized him and dragged him outside while the rest began sacking the house.
“Lorenzo will want to deal with them himself,” one of the men said.
Them? Giovanni turned his head and realized they were bringing Beatrice too. Now he did start to struggle. “Let her go!” he said, trying to yank his arms free of his captors’ grip. “She’s innocent, she is not even a Pazzi—”
“Giovanni, it’s all right,” she said, though tears were streaming down her face. Or maybe she’d already been crying, maybe she’d been crying since the moment Francesco had delivered the first blow. “It’s all right, my love, we’re innocent, Lorenzo will show us mercy.”
Giovanni wasn’t so sure. If their positions were reversed, if it was one of the Medici who had murdered Francesco, Giovanni would not have rested until every single member of their family had been wiped out.
They were led through the center of Florence, where an enormous crowd was gathered, jeering and all facing Palazzo Vecchio. Giovanni looked up and saw several figures hanging out the windows with nooses around their necks, and his heart dropped into his stomach. “No…”
They got closer, and then Giovanni could see him clearly. Francesco, his eyes wide and blank, his mouth open in a futile attempt to gasp in air that wasn’t there.
Giovanni staggered, his knees giving out and tears blurring his vision. “No,” he said. “No, no, Francesco—Francesco, my Francesco—”
“Keep moving,” one of his captors snarled, yanking him to his feet and dragging him along.
Giovanni didn’t want to keep seeing, but he couldn’t look away. He stared at his brother’s lifeless body, remembering the little baby he’d held in his arms so many years ago. The baby he’d promised to protect.
I want you to be a good brother to Francesco. I want you to love him and protect him. He hadn’t. He had failed.
And in that moment Giovanni realized he didn’t care what Lorenzo decided to do to him, didn’t care if he decided to kill him. Hoped he’d decide to kill him. Because he didn’t want to live anymore. Wanted his life to end right now, rather than having to spend years haunted by this image of Francesco’s corpse with a noose around its neck.
They were taken to the Medici home, and Lorenzo was there to meet them. Giovanni wanted to kill him, wanted to rip his heart out with his bare hands, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to do anything more than gaze at him with deadened eyes.
Lorenzo’s eyes were just as deadened, and for the same reasons. “Put them with the others,” he said, and he walked out of the room.
“The others” turned out to be Guglielmo and Bianca, who were locked in their bedroom. Giovanni and Beatrice were shoved into the room with them and the door was locked again behind them. “Giovanni! Beatrice!” Guglielmo said, hurrying towards them. “Are you all right?”
Giovanni sank to the floor, unable to see anything but Francesco. “Francesco…” he whispered. “Francesco’s dead.”
Silence fell. Giovanni finally looked up at Guglielmo and saw that he had grown very pale. “What?” he said. “Francesco’s…dead?”
“Yes. Hanged.”
“Good,” Bianca said savagely.
Rage sparked inside Giovanni, and he jumped to his feet again and lunged towards her. “Giovanni!” Beatrice exclaimed, grabbing him and pulling him back as Guglielmo quickly put himself between his brother and his wife.
“What did you say?” Giovanni said loudly.
“I said ‘good’!” Bianca said, just as loudly. “It’s what he deserved!”
“How dare you—”
“He killed my brother!”
“And your brother killed my brother!” Giovanni said, nearly hysterical now. “He killed him, he’s dead, and it’s my fault, it’s my fault, I should’ve done something, I should’ve—”
“It’s not your fault,” Beatrice said, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s not your fault, Giovanni, there’s nothing you could have done.”
Giovanni fell apart in her arms, sobbing until his throat was raw and he had no tears left. “We failed, Guglielmo,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Mother and Father told us to protect him. And we didn’t. We didn’t.”
Guglielmo’s cheeks were streaked with tears. He said nothing in response, standing alone in the middle of the room with no one to comfort him, because how could Bianca have sympathy for the death of her brother’s murderer?
At last Lorenzo called Giovanni into his study to speak with him alone. “Did you know of the plot?” he said without preamble.
Giovanni almost wanted to say he’d been complicit so Lorenzo would kill him too, but he couldn’t risk endangering Beatrice. For the first time, he was relieved Francesco had sent Novella away when he did.
“No,” he said.
“You’re lying.”
“I am not,” Giovanni said. “Not that it matters, as you’ve clearly already decided on the punishment I will receive for crimes I had no knowledge of.”
Lorenzo ignored him. “And your wife?”
“She knew nothing.”
Lorenzo studied him for a moment, and Giovanni looked right back at him, his head held high. “Beatrice goes free,” he said finally. “You will be imprisoned. For life.”
Giovanni closed his eyes. “I’d rather you kill me,” he whispered.
“Unfortunately, I’m not feeling merciful,” Lorenzo said coldly.
Giovanni opened his eyes again and looked at him. “I hope you live a long life. And I hope that today haunts you tomorrow and all the days after that,” he said. “I hope that every night as you try to fall asleep, you see your brother being murdered again and again before your eyes. Because I know I will.”
And he allowed Lorenzo’s guards to take him away.