The Romeo Catchers (Book 2)

CHAPTER 5 Casa Medici

I accidentally let the quill rest while thinking on the last stanza I wrote, and a stain of ink forms on the page. The porous parchment absorbs the glossy pigment until the blotch has grown from the size of a pebble to a ducat, encroaching on the nearest word, but instead of making an effort to stop it, I just stare at the letters about to be engulfed.

The words leap off the page, taunting me. The verse is so terrible, so shallow and meaningless, that even the ink is trying to absorb it back into nothingness. I want to tear the page from the sheaf of papers and shred it to a thousand pieces, but instead I force myself to read the words over and over in the hopes that I will discover what is wrong with the poem and see a way to bring to life the feeling I'm so desperately trying to convey. A thought even more melancholic crosses my mind: maybe I have not lived enough of life in my fourteen years to express anything worth reading.

"Dannazione! I don't deserve the attention of these words. Sta venendo uno schifo . . ."

The pile of crumbled papers on the floor only fuels my frustration. Everything in the room represents my year's worth of nothingness—a multitude of failed experiments to find my calling: An instrument used to view the stars, built by my tutor, sits next to the stone window. A smattering of scales, vials, and an apparatus for containing flames covers a table on the far side of the room. Two mandolas, a viola da gamba, and a flute lay on top of a litter of sketches and paintings on the floor. Despite having so many interests, I've yet to figure out my purpose in life.

Beauty versus reason has become my great struggle.

From my lips escapes a sigh so pitiful I become grateful for my solitude. No one should witness such an expression of lament, and especially not my brothers nor my sister, though sometimes I think she, unlike them, is capable of compassion.

By the time Emilio reached fourteen years, he had already killed a man in defense of our father and become a hero. It was four years ago, but I still remember the parade thrown in his honor as if it were yesterday. Now he is well on his way to being handed the key to the Florentine Guard. My heart tremors at the idea of Emilio having an arsenal of weapons at his disposal, but he has been primed since birth to become the best man to defend the city.

When Gabriel was fourteen, he became the youngest foreign diplomat in the history of Firenze, in all the kingdoms of Italia, and now he's a key ambassador in Roma, Milano, and Venezia—an integral part of the family business. I possess neither the brutality nor the charm necessary to join either of my brothers on their paths to greatness on the battlefield or in politics. However, it is not their qualities that I covet, but rather their confidence in knowing their own destinies, enabling them to hurl themselves forward.

And, of course, my sweet Giovanna, whose upcoming marriage is destined to create one of the greatest alliances in Florentine history. Perhaps greater than anything my brothers could achieve through negotiation or force.

I have no burning desire for greatness, and I seek neither the attention my brothers demand nor the acclamation they crave, but every day the giant clock sitting on my shoulders ticks louder in my ears, telling me that if I don't carve my own path, one will certainly be carved for me. And as my brothers are so keen to remind me, there are far worse things than the army or politics.

"Sword, coin, or cross," I mumble, dragging my fingers through my hair. I beg the spirit of our grandfather to guide me.

Scuffles come from the hallway, and my fingers rest on the dagger tucked at my waist.

"From here on out," a familiar voice says, "you will be a Medici. Do you understand the importance?"

"Father!" I cry, leaping to my feet. But who is he speaking to?