Roberto was a fool, Vincenzio thought. Probably believed himself invincible and paid heed to none of his warnings, choosing rather to enjoy the city’s bars till he’d lost his senses in wine and let slip something incriminating: a boast of his Medici blood or some such pride-filled bombast. Unless, of course, Vincenzio had been right in his conjecture that the same man who’d attacked him had stopped the messenger from delivering his note to Piero and so Roberto’s presence in the city had been known. That would mean he was at greater risk of discovery, for surely they’d seek out the author of the letter next. This turn of events was troubling.

A torrent of bells drowned out the men’s conversation as the many smaller churches picked up the hour and all across the city the call to Mass went out. The knelling marked the hour of the day for the cloth dyers and wool cleansers as much as for the bankers and lawyers Vincenzio fraternised with on the cathedral steps. The group of men made their way towards the church doors but Vincenzio hung back. His mind was madly hunting through his last conversation with Roberto for anything that might expose his connection to the man.

A small group of worshippers wandered past and Vincenzio heard one of the men talking excitedly. He turned abruptly, convinced he’d been recognised as a Medici traitor and his connection to Roberto was about to be exposed. But the man didn’t stop to accost him. What coward’s elixir had taken hold of his senses? Vincenzio bent to his knees a moment and gasped. Then he righted himself and watched the party of gentlemen disappear into the darkness of the cathedral’s interior. He must quell these nervous reflexes.

Before long, he saw his family’s carriage drawing near, so he rearranged his face into as agreeable a smile as he could manage—just broad enough, he hoped, to convey an easy confidence—and went to greet them.

Inside, the cathedral was congested already, and Vincenzio wrinkled his nose at the smell of the unwashed crowds who’d gathered to hear the preacher of the people. It reminded him of standing with his mother and father in the poor church of his childhood. That boy had admired the plain white-washed walls with what Vincenzio now knew was misplaced awe. He waved his arms and pushed back roughly to create some space for his family. He kept alert for any sudden movements towards him, fearing an attack just as Roberto had suffered. He’d not be taken by surprise.