The Dark Heart of Florence Tasha Alexander (novels for beginners .TXT) 📖

see I could never have what I wanted with him. As I told you, he is lazy and unambitious.”

“So after you met his brother, you waited barely more than a week before you threw over your fiancé for Marzo, whose ambition made him more desirable?”

“You make it sound worse than it was. Yes, Ridolfo and I were engaged, more or less, but there was never a firm plan for a wedding. Beyond that, I’d known Marzo for ages.”

“That’s not how Ridolfo tells it,” I said.

“Ridolfo knows nothing about it. When I first met Marzo—long before I ever knew Ridolfo—he never showed the slightest interest in me. My father had hired him to do some repairs to the shop. The front window was leaking. I liked him the moment I saw him, but it was clear I had no effect on him.”

“His indifference made you want him more?”

“Yes. He taught me that lesson well.”

“So you deployed the same tactic on his brother, thinking it would wound Marzo?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “It is not as if I had some grand scheme for revenge. It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t know at first Ridolfo and Marzo were brothers.”

“Were there specific plans for a wedding?”

“La smetti di rompere le scatole?”

I didn’t recognize the expression, so couldn’t respond.

She glared at me. “Will you please stop aggravating me? I did not intend for things to turn out as badly as they did. Why does it matter now, anyway? Marzo is dead and my only chance of happiness with him.”

“So you did love him?” I asked.

“From the moment I first saw him.”

“Why did you lie to me when we discussed this before?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was caught off guard, although I should have expected Ridolfo would tar me in any way he could.”

“Why do you care what he tells me about you?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said that Ridolfo knew Marzo was dead before your husband informed the family. Wouldn’t you be cautious, even deceptive, when a murderer might be on the loose?”

“I don’t see how your deception would have any bearing on your safety. You claimed it was impossible that Ridolfo would kill his brother. Has something happened to change your mind?”

“He’s a violent man, Ridolfo. I don’t believe he murdered his brother, but he very well might use Marzo’s death as an excuse to come after me.”

“When have you seen him behave violently?” I asked. She certainly hadn’t mentioned it in our previous conversation.

“The day I ended our engagement,” she said. “The bruises faded long ago, so I can’t show them to you.”

“I’m sorry.” I paused, not sure what to believe. She had lied to me about so many things, how could I ascertain when—or if—she was telling the truth? “Given that, how could you bear to suggest, as you did, that you’d pretend to care about him again to get information?”

“I don’t know. It might be worth it, not only if it led to the discovery of who killed Marzo but also for the satisfaction of seeing Ridolfo’s heart broken.”

“It would not be worth it if he hurt you again.”

“I’m too smart to let that happen. Not anymore.”

“Regardless, there’s no need for you to resort to such measures. The best thing for you to do is grieve your loss and forget all about Ridolfo.”

“I will consider your advice, Lady Emily, but in the end I must keep in mind that what is best for you is not necessarily best for me.” She crossed to the door and opened it. “If there’s nothing further to discuss, you ought to return to the shop.”

“Please take care, Lena,” I said. “Don’t be reckless. If anything happens that unsettles you, contact me at once. Not via Dante’s cenotaph but at the palazzo.”

“I can promise I will not do that,” she said, the haughty tone she’d adopted when suggesting I leave evaporating. “Something’s not right about Marzo’s death. I may not know what, but he died in your house. I will never go there. If you cannot find me, I hope at least then you will check the poet’s monument. That is the only place I will leave a message.”

After leaving the Piazza Santo Spirito, Cécile and I did not retrace our steps, instead crossing the river via the Ponte Vecchio. We had decided that each day we would allow ourselves one tourist activity, partly to continue deceiving Darius and partly to satisfy our desire to see Florence.

In the Middle Ages, butcher shops spanned the bridge. The river below made it easy for their owners to get rid of the foul refuse left from their bloody work. In the sixteenth century, Ferdinando I de’ Medici, deciding the smell was unseemly, ordered all the shops replaced by more genteel businesses. Specifically, jewelers and goldsmiths. These tradesmen still offer their wares, and Cécile and I browsed through their stores as we crossed the bridge.

The third shop we entered—they were all quite small, their space limited by their location—contained some of the most delicate jewelry I’d ever seen, as well as a handful of items made from florins, the gold coins minted by the Republic of Florence. The proprietor, an elderly man, his spine bent and his knuckles gnarled, explained in flawless English that his family, the di Nardos, had owned the shop from the days of Ferdinando.

“The descendants of the family of the butchers we replaced still harbor animosity, can you imagine? So long after the demise of the Medici, their enemies are still angry. We use the florin in some of our pieces as a nod to the old days, but now make replicas of the coins, as the originals are quite rare. For the rest of our collection, we employ the same techniques used in the Renaissance in order to create jewelry that, while appealing to fashionable ladies like you, would not have looked out of place adorning the wife of Lorenzo il Magnifico,” Signore di Nardo said. “I have two