Allegra.”
The don stared up at him.
“My God,” he whispered, “you are Alphonse’s elder son, Lazar. You have your mother’s coloring, but you are his very image.” Monteverdi suddenly gulped. “Your Majesty, I am innocent—”
Lazar laughed. “ ‘Your Majesty?’ The king is dead, Monteverdi. You and the Council saw to that.”
“I am innocent.”
“You don’t seem to understand how painful I can make death for you. You are not a man accustomed to pain, are you? You’ve had a soft life. How well you’ve done for yourself,” he remarked, gazing about at the sumptuous drawing room, “feeding off the carrion of the great Fiori. Fifteen years as governor, eh? Very laudable.” He exhaled a puff of smoke and looked away, unable to stomach the sight of the man.
“I am innocent!”
Lazar smiled blandly. “I tire of hearing you say that. All I really want to know is why you did it. I have asked myself that question a thousand times. You were a member of his cabinet, one of the six men he trusted most. He was good to you. He trusted you. As did my—mother.” He checked himself before he wavered.
Monteverdi searched the floor, then his shoulders sagged. He shook his head. “They were going to do it anyway. I could not have stopped it.”
“So you agreed to help.”
“Once the dons of the Council brought the matter before me, if I had not cooperated, I, too, would have been killed.”
“Why did they choose you?”
He shrugged. “Most of my family is Genovese. Genoa was all but bankrupt,” he said heavily. “Not even the revenues from Corsica restored the industries.”
“Those old men are lucky they’re dead. You—you’re not so lucky.” He slid Monteverdi a look. “Your crime is the worst one, anyway. You sat at our dinner table. You rode to the hounds with him. You taught me how to play chess. You were our friend, and you sold us for the slaughter. Didn’t even try to warn us—”
“Enough,” he choked out. “I’ll tell you why. I did it for my wife. My beautiful wife, who was in love with him,” he whispered.
Lazar stared at him warily.
He remembered her clearly, the beautiful, sad-eyed Lady Cristiana, his mother’s closest girlhood friend and her lady-in-waiting.
“I loved her, oh, more than a man should ever love a woman,” he said with quiet, futile passion. “But I could not make her stop loving him.”
Instantly Lazar suspected a trick, for Monteverdi was a proven liar. “So when I bed Allegra, I’ll be tupping my half sister, eh?” he taunted, approaching him. “Do you seriously think that will deter me?”
“Allegra is my daughter,” he said frostily. “Only in her heart was Cristiana an adulteress. She was a pious woman, and she loved Eugenia too much to act on her feelings for Alphonse—and of course, your father was never known to stray.” He lowered his head. “Cristiana fell into a deep melancholia after they died—”
“ Died? ” He suddenly grabbed Monteverdi by his cravat, lifting him off the ground above him. “ Died? After they were butchered by your hirelings, you mean!” he roared.
Lazar threw him to the floor and stalked to the door, intent on leaving before he killed the don with his bare hands. Monteverdi had not suffered enough yet to receive such a swift and merciful death.
“Nothing you can do to me matters,” the man on the floor sobbed out behind him. “None of it matters.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lazar paused at the door, turning around.
“Cristiana found out what I’d done—”
“Did you have her killed, too?”
“No! God, no,” he wrenched out. “She suspected all along, but somehow six years later she realized the truth. She sent Allegra to her sister in Paris, and one day when I came home, my too-beautiful, highborn wife had blown out her brains there, in our home, where she knew I would be the one to find her. And a note saying she had done it for shame of me.”
He hung his head in his
The don stared up at him.
“My God,” he whispered, “you are Alphonse’s elder son, Lazar. You have your mother’s coloring, but you are his very image.” Monteverdi suddenly gulped. “Your Majesty, I am innocent—”
Lazar laughed. “ ‘Your Majesty?’ The king is dead, Monteverdi. You and the Council saw to that.”
“I am innocent.”
“You don’t seem to understand how painful I can make death for you. You are not a man accustomed to pain, are you? You’ve had a soft life. How well you’ve done for yourself,” he remarked, gazing about at the sumptuous drawing room, “feeding off the carrion of the great Fiori. Fifteen years as governor, eh? Very laudable.” He exhaled a puff of smoke and looked away, unable to stomach the sight of the man.
“I am innocent!”
Lazar smiled blandly. “I tire of hearing you say that. All I really want to know is why you did it. I have asked myself that question a thousand times. You were a member of his cabinet, one of the six men he trusted most. He was good to you. He trusted you. As did my—mother.” He checked himself before he wavered.
Monteverdi searched the floor, then his shoulders sagged. He shook his head. “They were going to do it anyway. I could not have stopped it.”
“So you agreed to help.”
“Once the dons of the Council brought the matter before me, if I had not cooperated, I, too, would have been killed.”
“Why did they choose you?”
He shrugged. “Most of my family is Genovese. Genoa was all but bankrupt,” he said heavily. “Not even the revenues from Corsica restored the industries.”
“Those old men are lucky they’re dead. You—you’re not so lucky.” He slid Monteverdi a look. “Your crime is the worst one, anyway. You sat at our dinner table. You rode to the hounds with him. You taught me how to play chess. You were our friend, and you sold us for the slaughter. Didn’t even try to warn us—”
“Enough,” he choked out. “I’ll tell you why. I did it for my wife. My beautiful wife, who was in love with him,” he whispered.
Lazar stared at him warily.
He remembered her clearly, the beautiful, sad-eyed Lady Cristiana, his mother’s closest girlhood friend and her lady-in-waiting.
“I loved her, oh, more than a man should ever love a woman,” he said with quiet, futile passion. “But I could not make her stop loving him.”
Instantly Lazar suspected a trick, for Monteverdi was a proven liar. “So when I bed Allegra, I’ll be tupping my half sister, eh?” he taunted, approaching him. “Do you seriously think that will deter me?”
“Allegra is my daughter,” he said frostily. “Only in her heart was Cristiana an adulteress. She was a pious woman, and she loved Eugenia too much to act on her feelings for Alphonse—and of course, your father was never known to stray.” He lowered his head. “Cristiana fell into a deep melancholia after they died—”
“ Died? ” He suddenly grabbed Monteverdi by his cravat, lifting him off the ground above him. “ Died? After they were butchered by your hirelings, you mean!” he roared.
Lazar threw him to the floor and stalked to the door, intent on leaving before he killed the don with his bare hands. Monteverdi had not suffered enough yet to receive such a swift and merciful death.
“Nothing you can do to me matters,” the man on the floor sobbed out behind him. “None of it matters.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lazar paused at the door, turning around.
“Cristiana found out what I’d done—”
“Did you have her killed, too?”
“No! God, no,” he wrenched out. “She suspected all along, but somehow six years later she realized the truth. She sent Allegra to her sister in Paris, and one day when I came home, my too-beautiful, highborn wife had blown out her brains there, in our home, where she knew I would be the one to find her. And a note saying she had done it for shame of me.”
He hung his head in his
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