The wedding banquet had begun to come to a close, and the bride and groom would be retiring soon. I knew what was not supposed to happen behind the doors of their marital chamber, and I wanted to make certain Giovanni Sforza remembered it as well.
He had been sitting sullenly at his place most of the night, dancing only once more with Lucrezia after their first dance. He had also been drinking heavily, and from the scowl on his face, I highly doubted he’d forgotten his conversation with the Holy Father. Yet on the off chance he was drinking to get his courage up for disregarding the pope’s wishes, I decided it was best that he and I have a chat.
He rose from the table, no doubt intending to go fetch his bride, but I was already at his side. “Brother-in-law,” I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. I smiled widely. “A word with you, if I might.”
“Very well.” He met my eyes, waiting.
My smile never slipped as I said, “I just wanted to ensure that you remember what was discussed in your audience with His Holiness last week.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “As if I could forget.”
My fingers tightened their grip, digging into his shoulder. “Good,” I said. “Make certain you don’t.”
“Let go of me, Borgia,” he snarled, forgetting all titles and courtesy in his frustrated drunkenness. “I’m not some Borgia dog to be commanded as your family wills it. She is my wife and if I choose to exercise my right as her husband, then I—”
He broke off as I tightened my grip, pressing my thumb into the spot above his collarbone that would cause the most pain. “I think you’ll find that you are to be commanded as we will it,” I said smoothly. “That is what you agreed to when you signed the marriage contract. And as such, you will not lay a finger on my sister. Is that understood?”
“Take your hand off me, bastard.”
Icy rage flared in me, but I tamped it down. “Be careful who you insult, Sforza. You will not touch my sister.”
“And if I do? There is not a court in the land that would find me guilty of anything for fucking my own wife.”
Michelotto stepped from the shadows to stand behind me, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Is there a problem here, my lord?” he asked calmly.
Sforza’s face went white. Michelotto had quickly become known throughout Rome as my bodyguard and hired blade. Just as I had intended when I’d dropped the story of the would-be assailants into the right ears.
“Non lo so, Michelotto.” I looked back at Giovanni, my grip not loosening at all. “Is there, Sforza?”
“No,” he bit out. “No, there isn’t.”
“Good.” I released him, and he stumbled slightly. “I have made myself clear, then?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Yes!” he all but shouted. “You and your father were very clear.”
“Excellent. I do so wish you a good night.” I grinned at him, more a baring of the teeth than anything. “You will no doubt find it a restful one.”
With that, I left the dais, and Michelotto faded back into the shadows. I had a servant bring me another glass of wine, well satisfied with my work that evening.