“I doubt torture would have extracted anything useful. To torture them effectively, we’d have to deliver them to the Curia.”
The grin slipped from Aoibhe’s attractive features and she glanced over her shoulder. The barest of shivers shook her lean form.
“I’ll be damned before I collude with those monsters. I was volunteering to do the torturing myself.”
The Prince indulged himself in a ghost of a smile. “I appreciate the gesture.”
“Were they gathering intelligence?”
He gestured to the corpses on the ground and pointed to the roof. “Ten armed men, fixed on a single target? No. They were would-be assassins.”
Aoibhe shook her head, regarding the bloodied scene with new eyes. “I’m surprised they sent so few.”
The Prince straightened. “There may be more. Summon Gregor and Pierre. Instruct them to record images of the faces before they burn the bodies, and turn the information over to Niccolò. Perhaps the intelligence network can discover their identities.”
She bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“I will notify Christopher of the breach personally. Prepare for a Consilium meeting.”
“As you wish, but is a meeting necessary? They’re already dead.”
He fixed her with a stony glare. “They invaded my principality.”
“Are we under siege?”
“I’m not going to wait in order to find out. Tonight, the Consilium meets to discuss the art of war.” His lips twitched. “I’m sure Niccolò will find the discussion most familiar.”
Aoibhe huffed. “That pompous windbag enjoys hearing himself talk.”
“True. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a war. It will be good for the younglings, and since I intend to be victorious, it will be good for the principality.” The Prince lifted his chin. “Go, Aoibhe. Make haste.”
She bowed once again. But before she departed, she approached him, cautiously.
She reached out to touch his sleeve, but catching the set of his teeth and the glare from his eyes, she withdrew.
“I’m glad you’re still alive,” she whispered, her eyes darkening momentarily.
The Prince nodded tersely.
With a small smile, she turned and scaled the hotel, before disappearing on the roof.
As the Prince adjusted his cuff links and surveyed the carnage at his feet, all thoughts of the Emersons and his precious illustrations were pushed aside.
Personal injury was one thing, but an invasion of his principality was quite another.
The professor and his ill wife could wait. His mind was fixated on a far more political revenge.
Chapter 6
“This meeting of the Consilium will come to order.” Lorenzo, the Prince’s second in command, slammed the bottom of the ceremonial staff on the stone floor, the sound echoing throughout the large subterranean chamber.
There was no electricity in the Florentine underworld, including the chamber that was at its center. The space was illuminated by torches that hung from large iron sconces on the walls and tall pillar candles atop heavy wrought iron candelabras that were six feet in height.
In the principality of Florence, there was but one ruler. A few centuries earlier, however, the Prince had established a council of six members that oversaw various affairs of state.
(Not that he trusted them).
The Consilium, which included Lorenzo and Aoibhe, had been summoned a few hours before dawn. They sat in tall wooden chairs that were upholstered in red velvet, waiting for the Prince.
When he entered the room, they stood.
He strode down the central aisle, his black cloak streaming behind him. The council members bowed their respect as he approached.
The Prince of Florence was both respected and feared. He was respected because under his rule citizens enjoyed prosperity, peace, and an excellent lifestyle. He was feared because he was powerful, he was dangerous, and he would do anything to preserve his rule of the city.
He’d ruled the city for centuries and had learned over time not to trust anyone, not even Lorenzo, his lieutenant. The principality of Florence was a prize and almost every citizen nursed a secret desire to rule it.
Now he’d been the target of an assassination attempt by a foreign power. Although the leader of the invaders had named Venice as his principality, the Prince believed there were traitors amongst his citizens who’d colluded with the enemy.
He wore a thunderous expression as he ascended the platform and sat on a gold throne between the two candelabras.
“There has been a serious breach of security. Christopher of Canterbury, security is your responsibility. What have you to say?” The Prince addressed the Consilium in Italian, as was the custom.
An Englishman with brown hair and brown eyes approached the throne, his shoulders and body tense.