“Gonfalonier—” Eyes on the floor, shoulders rounded, meek and timid; that’s it. Santa Marta save me, I had no trouble sounding timid. “If you wish me to entertain you this evening, I am pleased to obey.” I forced the words out through dry lips. I’d hoped that if I could just get away, run for the kitchens and disappear into the palazzo, Juan Borgia would slouch off in search of easier prey or maybe just get drunk enough to forget all about me by morning. But if I couldn’t get away, I’d have to endure it. Plenty of the other maids in this household had had to do the same—I’d had to myself, a few years ago when Cesare Borgia had passed a disinterested eye over me and decided to bend me over a table.

But you wanted that, the thought whispered. Cesare Borgia had been frightening, but he had at least been beautiful. Juan made my whole skin crawl across my flesh like it was trying to escape my body altogether.

It doesn’t matter, I told myself. Juan Borgia had recognized me from the ball—Marco’s doing too, no doubt—and if the Pope’s favorite son wanted me, I’d have to grit my teeth through it. Grit my teeth and douse myself afterward with good strong vinegar.

“Did you fuck my brother?” he asked casually, taking another swallow of wine.

“W-what? Gonfalonier, I don’t—”

“Saw him looking at you too, at that ball. You prefer snakes to tigers?” He clapped a hand over his own codpiece. “I can tell you now, a tiger has the bigger cock.”

Sweet Santa Marta, maybe there was a way out of this unholy mess. “Cardinal Borgia has been gracious enough to honor me with his attentions,” I said meekly. “If that means you do not wish to have me—”

But my sliver of hope died, the hope that the Duke of Gandia would spurn his brother’s leavings, because Juan Borgia backhanded me across the face without any change in his expression at all.

“My brother’s attentions aren’t any kind of honor,” Juan spat as I watched a spray of blood fly from my nose across the cellar floor. “I’m the Holy Father’s favorite. I’m Gonfalonier of the papal armies. I defeated the French at Ostia!”

“Yes, Gonfalonier,” I mumbled around my own blood running down from my nose into my mouth.

“—and if I decide I want to poke your smelly kitchen cunt, you should be honored. Honored.”