Ardent by Heloise West

Author:Heloise West
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, gay, murder mystery, art, painting, florence, italy, renaissance, artists, medici
Publisher: Manifold Press

CHAPTER TEN

Benedetto

Benedetto slowed his steps as they approached the palazzo. There was no city guard now or Andrea Ricci, as he had hoped – but a man with yellow hair, another one he sought to question, stood on the travertine steps in front of the door. He wore a plum-colored doublet of satin with velvet touches and embroidered sleeves of emerald green, his hose a paler shade of plum. A green velvet hat perched atop his head. The long peacock feather stuck into it shivered from the wind, or maybe from his quiet weeping with one hand over his eyes. In his other hand, he gripped a small bouquet of blood red poppies.

“Falcone,” Benedetto said. The red of the poppies made dread trickle into his stomach.

Falcone startled, glanced up, and wiped at his tears. His upper lip curled into a snarl. He dropped the poppies, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

“I did not think him the sentimental kind,” Benedetto said. “And I mean to ask him about Arinchino.” He ran a few steps after Falcone. “Come back! I need to talk to you!”

“I will come to you, but not now,” Falcone called, but he did not stop, perhaps shamed by his tears.

“That’s the street rat from my first night here,” Morello said, sounding confused. “He called you by name then.”

“Oh. Yes.” Benedetto tried to pitch his voice to nonchalance. “He was friends with Leo.”

Morello appeared to see into his heart more and more each hour they spent together. “Oh. Yes? And so? Your eyes have turned green with jealousy. I suppose Leo preferred many golden-haired creatures, but I only prefer one.” He looked after the fast-retreating man, who glanced once over his shoulder at them with a frown and picked up his pace. “He is only a cheap imitation of you.”

Whatever cloud had been lingering over Benedetto’s head burst and disappeared. Men had whispered hollow phrases to coerce him to his knees or into their beds, but Morello’s sincerity was both naïve and touching. Benedetto laughed. Morello’s smile warmed him, as if they were in that midsummer olive grove alone, the sun overhead and their bodies bare in its caress.

Unexpected tears blurred Benedetto’s vision. “I do not deserve your friendship,” he whispered.

“Are those tears for me? I’d rather have your smiles.”

Benedetto sniffed and wiped at his eyes. He stepped up to the door of the palazzo and pushed, but found it locked.

“We could go around the back, through the garden, and try to get in, but it grows late.” Benedetto kicked the door in frustration. “I need to get in touch with the man from Milan who gave us the commission. I must know if he wants us to finish the work or return the money he’s paid us for the materials. And that would hurt us very much.”

“We can do nothing about it now,” Morello said in a soothing tone. “I want to see where you grew up before we go back.”

Benedetto stepped back into the street and swept his arms open.

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