Lorenzo spoke over him. “Guards, take the humans away. I’ll decide what’s to be done with them later.”
“No!” Raven cried, clinging to William. Two large vampyres grabbed her by the arms.
“No,” she begged again, but the soldiers pulled her away.
Two more soldiers approached William cautiously, eyeing the woman in his arms.
“You’d condemn us all to death at the hands of the Curia because of your vanity?” William lifted his voice incredulously. “You are a coward.”
Lorenzo opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak the doors to the chamber crashed open.
A lone figure appeared in the doorway, his clothes spattered with blood.
Chapter Fifty-three
“Next time you send a detachment to kill me, double their numbers.” Niccolò swept into the chamber, his torn robes fluttering behind him.
Lorenzo stared in shock.
The former head of intelligence strode up the aisle, nodding stiffly at Aoibhe. “I see you survived execution. What a pity.”
“Go to hell,” she snarled.
Niccolò gazed around the council chamber. “It would appear I am already there.”
“Guards.” Lorenzo pointed at his rival. “Remove Machiavelli and kill him.”
“A moment, please.” Niccolò lifted his hands in surrender. “It appears I’m interrupting something important. Does anyone care to enlighten me before my execution?”
Aoibhe angled her head in the direction of Raven and her sister. “The Curia wants the human females. Lorenzo is refusing to give them up.”
“Ah,” said Niccolò. “Another tactical error on the part of the new prince. It isn’t his first and, sadly, it won’t be his last.”
“Guards!” Lorenzo barked.
“Just a moment.” Niccolò stood to Aoibhe’s left, facing the throne. He observed Raven and Cara, then shifted his attention to the new prince. “The black-haired one is sweet enough, but hardly worth a war. Why not give them to the Curia in exchange for a peace treaty?”
“If I’d wanted your opinion, old man, I wouldn’t have sent a hunting party after you.”
“Centuries of opportunities came and went and you learned nothing.” Niccolò sighed. “You’re the last of your family—the last of the famed Medici. You’ve disgraced them with a sloppy coup, leaving the old prince still alive and courting disaster with the Curia.”
“What’s happening?” Raven whispered, lifting fearful eyes to William.
“When one’s enemies are at war with one another, it’s best to be silent,” he murmured. The edge of his mouth turned up slightly.
Raven bit at her lip, struggling to remain calm.
Niccolò moved to address the soldiers. “This one is not worthy of allegiance. He attempted to unseat his rival, while leaving him alive. Now he risks the ire of our most powerful enemy.”
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
“I said, enough!” Lorenzo shouted. “I am prince here, by birth and by power. Guards, seize Machiavelli and take off his head.”
At this Niccolò smiled. “You’re just like your ancestors—arrogant, small-minded, and ignorant. You wouldn’t recognize greatness if it ran you through with a sword.”
Lorenzo began to clap, exaggeratedly. “Pontificating even at the end. I’ve never met a man who loves the sound of his own voice more than you.”
“A voice you ignored.”
“You had every opportunity to seize the throne for yourself but were too cowardly to do so. What’s the old adage? Ah, yes. Fortune favors the brave. Today, I am favored and you are dead.”
Niccolò’s smile widened.
“Yes, fortune favors the brave. If you’d paid attention to the history of your family, you’d know that fortune abandoned them long ago. I witnessed the exile of your family in 1494. I saw them return to power only to lose it. I learned my lesson—never pin your political aspirations on a Medici.”
He made a low, slashing motion with his hand, and a long line of soldiers entered the chamber, marching down the aisle and assembling behind the chairs that were reserved for the Consilium members.
Lorenzo appeared confused. “Guards, seize him.”
One of the soldiers stepped out from behind the throne, sword raised. Lorenzo caught sight of the sword and moved to the side, but another soldier slashed at his head.
His corpse fell to the ground.
“Someone should have read The Art of War.” Niccolò stepped over the head with distaste, lifting his robes as he kicked the headless body.
Soldiers continued to file into the chamber until it was full. It appeared that the entire Florentine army had been assembled—all three hundred of them.
Machiavelli nodded at the commanding officer, who bowed to him.
“You there.” He gestured to the soldiers who were holding Raven. “Release her. Take three of your brethren and carry the Medici dog’s body outside the city. Burn everything and report back here.”
The soldiers bowed and obeyed.
Raven pressed herself close to William and Cara, eyes wide.
“I didn’t expect that,” Aoibhe muttered, cursing in Irish.
“I didn’t live this long to have my life ended by a Medici.” Niccolò favored her with his back as he ascended the throne.
He arranged his robes and looked down at Raven and William.