“Heaven and Hell, both may bring the pain.”
“I must go out again, mama.” Mattea dropped the veil over her braided auburn hair. Her skin itched; she could not find a place to put herself at ease. Fear niggled at her; not only for Lapaccia, but for them all, what they dared to do. And yet the thought of reproducing such a creation…her body tingled with the expectation of it. She had to walk.
“But you have only just returned.”
“Dio mio.”
“Language, Mattea, if you please.”
“I left my rosary at church.” Mattea looked away from the sharp black eyes piercing her. “I could not forgive myself if they were lost.”
She put a hand to the door once more.
“You will not find a husband walking the streets alone and in such desolate days,” Concetta Zamperini chided her only child.
Mattea sniffed, “The chances of me finding a husband are not good on any day.” They were harsh words, if quietly said, and she turned back to her mother, regretting them more at the forlorn sight.
The woman’s lower lip trembled. “He did as much for us as he could with the time God gave him.” Concetta reached out a veiny hand to place upon her daughter’s unblemished one. “I know you have felt his absence deeply. What young girl wouldn’t?”
Mattea began to shake her head, but it would be meaningless; indeed, what young girl wouldn’t miss her father, growing up without the most important of all men to tell her she was beautiful.
“He provided,” her mother continued. “He sold the business without the government knowing and we will always have the money we need to pay the taxes. We will never lose our home, he made sure.”
Releasing her hold on the door, she held her mother’s hand instead. “He did, mama. He did better than many other men would have done.”
Her words brought a smile to her mother’s pale face. “You shall see. You have your dowry fund. It will bring you a fine man.”
“I must go, mama.” The words had turned her, and Mattea longed once more for escape. “I will return quickly, I promise. I will be here to make your supper.”
She slipped out then, before her mother could say more.
Meandering back toward the Church of Santo Spirito, should she be seen by any of her mother’s friends, Mattea dragged her plain, worn slippers over the pavement stones.
She felt at ease in the desolate streets of the wealthy quarter. Free, for once, from supercilious eyes raking her with their judgment, the denigration of a single young woman walking the streets. Her poverty clung to her, as did her threadbare gown; no one would ever think her part of the Pazzi plot. No one would see her—few ever did. Heartsick at the scourge upon her homeland she may be, she ambled in the quiet and the freedom.
She turned onto the Borgo San Jacopo to follow the river out of the far less opulent Santa Croce district where she and her mother lived, and she almost laughed at her mother’s brand of chastisement.
There was money in her government dowry fund. Put there by her late father since her birth, it was money she would lose if she did not marry in the next few years. There was enough to buy her a simple man, but it was not a simple man haunting her dreams, bringing her the only other satisfaction in her world. It was a satisfaction of such magnificence, it made her shudder at the very thought of him. A man of such high standing, it would be an outrage for them to consider a life together, yet she could think of a life with no other.
The frustration ate at her.
She saw him in her mind—a Greek god come to life: the body of Hercules, the face of Adonis, topped by a thick head of raven hair falling in waves to his shoulders. They wafted behind him when he walked, like a banner of privilege, and set his whole being on fire when the sun touched him. He set her on fire just thinking of his touch.
Frustration.
Mattea heaved a sigh full of it as she wandered onto the Via Bardi, the road taking its place along the Arno. She would forsake the river’s crossing at the Ponte Vecchio. Though she was sure most of the fine shops along the gently arching bridge would still be closed, she had no wish to even see the fine wares in their windows.
Someday, I will have more of—
The man grabbed her from behind, snatching her and her thoughts away.
“Gesumarie!” Mattea released a cry. But then she saw the face—his face—and all dread and distress disappeared.
It was him, as if conjured by her very thoughts, of things wanted but just out of reach.
Mattea laughed as she quickened her step, all too eager to keep up, to follow his long cape, a banner unfurling behind him. He turned them right, down one of the narrowest of streets, no more than an alleyway, but she followed him without question, the excitement in her chest pounding against her ribs, thrumming in her ears.
Costa San Giorgio tapered as they followed its winding path, the buildings on either side so close together not a ray of descending sun crept in.
“Where do you take me?”
He only smiled over his shoulder, light brown eyes sparkling with mischief, a sensual laugh emerging from deep in his chest. A wave of desire made her weaker. Mattea knew what she did with him was a sin, yet she had not made the rules they must live by, had not built the societal walls separating them. If he and what they did together were the fires of hell, she would gladly burn.
He pulled her once more to the right, along the back of the abandoned San Girolamo Convent. Built more than two hundred years ago, once a convent for Franciscan nuns, it was in the middle of renovations, work suspended, at least for the time being, since the riotous events of Sunday.
Her man pulled her into the garden at the back, rushing her through the flowers and vegetables, wild and untended, rustling and rasping against their legs as they rushed through to the very back corner of the building and the encompassing solitude of the location.
He pulled her in front of him, plunged her against the wall, and thrust his body against hers, his lips upon her mouth.
Mattea moaned with breathless rapture, the feel of his lips, his hard body. He kissed her with relish—the rushing thrill of lust, yes, of course it was, she knew. He kissed her as if they were drowning and only shared passion could save them. But she knew it was worship as well, adoration snatching his breath with magnificent thievery.
He moved his lips down her throat as she laid her head to rest against the wall behind her, holding fast to him, lest she fall to the ground limply. Mattea opened her eyes, for she would watch him, see him as much as she could. He was the epitome of the new man, a man of the rebirth taking place in their city, zealous and expert in all facets of his life, be it art or sport or politics. Or love.
His lips moved to hers again, but this time she denied them.
“I was so worried for you,” she whispered, though she knew none were near to hear, only the crickets chirping around them as evening fell. Their love lived in these dark corners, in the secret places of the city, sometimes in the forest outside the city walls. It was only in her dreams that they walked, hand in hand, through the Piazza della Signoria, or into the Duomo, with the greatest of Florence’s families smiling benevolently at them. “I knew you would be, must be, in the thick of this.”
The young man nodded, pulling his face no more than inches from hers, eyes caressing her lovely features, fingers brushing them with a feathery touch. “I must be. But I had to see you. Had to hold you.”
“Are you well?”
He leaned in, his lips teasing her ear, making her tremble. “As well as can be.”
Pulling back abruptly, he held her by the shoulders. “You and your mama, do you have all you need? Is there anything I can get you?”
And there it was—the concern transforming lust to love. Mattea held to it tightly.
“We are fine. Signore Bostiana brought us some milk and cheese just this morning. We will be fine. I will go to the market soon.”
“You will ask one of your friends to accompany you, yes?” he said sternly, as he would to a child, or a wife. “No matter where you go, you will do nothing foolish. I know what her disappearance must mean to you, how kindly she looks upon you, but you must do nothing to put yourself in harm’s way.”
“We…I…must do what I can,” she argued. “Surely, you know I must.”
He shook his head, but said, “Of course, I would expect nothing less of you.” He kissed the top of her head, pulling back again, quickly. “But you must do it ever so carefully. You could be hurt, imprisoned. I cannot lose you t—”
Mattea took his mouth, took his fear, until she felt the tense, tight muscles of his body relax once more.
“Promise me,” he demanded. “Promise me you will be careful.”
Mattea smiled then; her compliance, her gratitude, and her lust lived in the small expression.
“I promise,” she vowed, and pulled him to her, unable to bear his lips not upon her.
He groaned at her brazenness, his kisses growing hard, forceful. He grabbed her by the back of her hair, opening her mouth to him with unfettered abandon. As he lifted her skirts, his hands slid so slowly up her thighs, a tantalizing tease, knowing what it would do to her. Mattea ached to grab them, to put his hands where they would do the most good. She clutched at them and he laughed in her mouth as his tongue played with hers.
Grabbing each of her thighs with a powerful hand, he bent ever so slightly, only to straighten, lift her off the ground, and pin her against the wall. Holding her there with the force of his body, he drew his cape around them to create a secret haven for their bodies should anyone wander into this forsaken garden. Within the confines of his concealing garb, their bodies pressed close, their need urgent.
Mattea could think no more; she could but feel and do.
• • •
He brought her along the outer edge of the city, for he would not allow her to walk home in the gloaming, no matter the danger of being seen together. Only at the edge of the row of small houses did he part, with a last fluttering kiss upon her swollen mouth. From there he could watch in the shadows, watch as she traveled the last few steps to her door.
Mattea held the tears, as she always did, until she had turned fully from him, holding her shoulders straight, walking swiftly so he would not need to dally overlong.
She cried not at his parting, for she knew she would see him again, as soon as he could. She cried not for his presence in her life, for she would be bereft at its loss. Mattea cried silent tears of confusion, not knowing how life could be so magnificent and so brutal at the same time.