He ran a hand through his hair and winced at the pain but a few bruises were preferable to a knife in his side. He pressed his fingers against his scalp to ease the ache. He must not panic. Whoever had attacked him might still be watching the house, so he would go about his business as calmly as ever. It was a damnable nuisance that he’d miss the weekly reconciliation of his account book of debits and credits because of this meeting, but that was as it must be. His manager would attend in his stead and prove his worth. In his head, Vincenzio listed the debtors least likely to repay: seventy-four florins owed by Taddeo di Piero, now deceased; sixty-seven florins by Michele Bonichi, bankrupt; the yarn broker Daddo d’Ippolito owed eighty-three florins but he had run away. Then there was the Venetian nobleman Giacomo Dandolo, whose debt of 350 lire Vincenzio considered lost. He cursed their wickedness. His profit margins had been dropping steadily—as low as three or four florins per bolt—with the growing demand for silks. This was not the time to be distracted and he cursed again under his breath as he realised he’d probably miss the daily rounds of his shops too. He’d only recently returned to overseeing the operations. He had no patience for wasting time on the shop floor, but his business demanded attention and there was too much at stake for him to leave it to anyone else, except today he must.

He slapped a glove against his thigh and realised too late how the fast action made his head hurt. The workers pushed harder when he visited, but in his absence the lazy dyers would no doubt slacken off and that would slow down the rest of the production process. He did a quick calculation of how many orders might be late and slapped his thigh again. He could little afford to have dissatisfied customers right now; his trade relied on his exemplary reputation and he needed all the business he could get. At least he’d managed to keep his problems private, though God only knew how much longer he could hide his dismal accounts from his creditors or his wife.

His mind turned briefly to the instructions he’d given Lucrezia to keep Luna home today. He’d spoken plainly enough so that even a woman could understand. He did not need his curious daughter discovering that it was he himself who had commissioned her portrait. Whilst he was at the monastery, he’d make sure the painting was dispatched. By the time Luna found out why she’d been reproduced in paint, the contract would be signed and he’d have no reason to lie to her. The notion gave Vincenzio a moment’s relief before his mind turned once more to the business at hand.