He glanced at the computer screen. Its wallpaper was a crossed dagger and sword, silver blades on a black background. The image a symbolic reminder of the story of Giuliano de’ Medici, murdered in Florence Cathedral at High Mass. An old score and a power play with ten thousand witnesses to his nineteen cuts under the Duomo on Easter Sunday. The Pazzis, with their brazen public assassination, had meant to strike fear into the ruling family.

Niccolo Machiavelli had been arrested, interrogated and tortured as a suspected conspirator without evidence. Repeatedly hoisted by his wrists on the strappado, he composed sonnets to the Magnificent Giuliano when not hanging from a rope and pleading his innocence. The tactic worked to secure a pardon, and years later he wrote his classic The Prince with Giuliano in mind. It was anyone’s guess whether he had in fact helped plot his death.

The new ruler must determine all the injuries he will need to inflict, he penned. He must inflict them once and for all. The timid are always compelled to keep a knife in hand.

“Drajan.”

The voice was female, quiet and calm. He turned toward the archway that opened to the stairs.

Quintessa Leonides stood barefoot in the soft light. Her shift was loose and sleeveless, the sheer white fabric clinging above her knees. Her carefully manicured toenails were a translucent pearl color. She wore a diamond bracelet on her left ankle and held her own glass of the amber mead.

“Thank you for this.” Drajan motioned slightly with the glass, then nodded toward the computer. “Give me a moment.”

Quintessa shook her head once, left to right. She had the long neck of a swan, and her blond hair brushed smoothly over it.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Drajan stood very still as she entered the turret, stepped onto the rug and approached him.

“I’m going to Paris,” she said. “I leave in three days.”

He looked at her. “How long will you be away?”

“I don’t know,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. “I may do some traveling afterward.”

Drajan could see nothing but night through the windows behind her. Yet the escarpment in its massive dimensions was a tangible presence.

“You know what’s about to happen,” he said. “This is no time for strolling Le Marais.”

“I’ve already made my reservations, Drajan.”

“And they can’t be postponed?”

“I don’t want to postpone them.”

He looked at her.

“What of the cryptocurrency transfer?”

“It can be arranged from wherever I may be.” She nodded behind him. “Computers, Drajan. What is it you call them? Portals.”

He took a step closer to her. “Tell me why you’re leaving.”

“I expect you know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Quintessa regarded him with her glacial-blue eyes. “Things aren’t what they were when we met.”

“Is there too little excitement here? Do you miss the stim clubs?”