Page 57 of Just for a Taste

Looming behind the stranger was a beautiful man—a boy, really. The Spaniard must have been in his early twenties at most, with the last remnants of baby fat still rounding what would soon become a sharp jawline and a thin frame that had yet to fill out entirely. Despite his youthfulness, his eyes were devoid of anything but weariness.

“My apologies, Barone Sforza!” Zeno let out a practiced laugh. “I did not realize that my invitation was for yet anotherritus sanguinous. How many have you had now?”

The other vampire mirrored his mirth. “Pah, just three! And I promise, this was the last. Regardless, this is Rafael.”

“Of what family?” Zeno countered.

“He is from the Borgia family. Second-born.”

“I see!” Zeno spoke with a voice so genial, I hesitated to believe it was him speaking. “They are stockbrokers, correct? If memory serves, I believe the eldest Contessa Visconti has abeniaminofrom the family as well.”

“Yes, Rafael’s younger brother. I had hoped to make a deal with the family for him, but this creature is lovely enough!” Sforza slapped the back of the boy in a gesture I knew was meant to register as playful but filled me with dread. The Spaniard was limp and expressionless. It was unusual but not unheard of, I knew, for some vampires to have multiplebeniamini, or even to share them, mostly because of the practical need for multiple donors. With the way Barone Sforza’s hand lingered along Rafael’s lower back, I felt his intentions were more pederastic than pragmatic.

How many years, I wondered, had Rafael prepared to be abeniamino? What did life look like for him? And what had happened to Sforza’s previous two?

Could it happen to me?

As I stared at his hand, my stomach turning, Sforza’s rambling faded into the background. It wasn’t until someone said my name that the conversation came back into focus.

“Signorina Bowling has made for quite the stimulating interlocutor,” Zeno said. “In fact, she’s gormandized the entirety of my library. Why, I fear the poor thing will become ennuied!”

“Dear Medici, if you came to my estate more often, you would know that I have quite a grand library myself! Perchance our librarians can get in contact and share inventories? Oh, and youmustattend my Christmas party!”

Zeno clasped his hands together in faux jubilance. “What a brilliant idea!”

While Rafael and I stared at one another in silence, Zeno managed to pivot the conversation elsewhere and then end it entirely.

“Thank you again, Barone Sforza. I would love to speak with you longer, but I can’t be rude to my other guests. My people will be in contact with you next week regarding that proposition of yours with the library.”

Barone Sforza said his own parting words and gave me a bow before Zeno introduced me to more names. I knew many from my studies—Medici, Sforza, Visconti, and countless other ancient families. Zeno’s conversations echoed that initial one with Barone Sforza, with nearly identical greetings and repeated small talk.

When possible, I stood on the sidelines. I had shown up to a masquerade without a mask or a script. Occasionally, I would be asked a few simple questions, such as what my family did (“Nothing”), how I could tolerate such a remote abbey (“Quite well, thank you”), and what my accomplishments were (“I have very few”). Zeno would help me dodge invites while collecting literary inventory. As often as I could, I snuck off to the hors d’oeuvres table to try and eat a cube of cheese or a small sweet, but I wasn’t able to swallow anything with such anxiety.

The butterflies in my stomach proliferated by the minute as stressors piled up. There was theritus sanguinous, of course, persistent in the back of my mind, plus the fact that I was not at the abbey and was instead thrust into this bizarre environment, straight out of a historical drama. And finally, there was the familiar face that lingered in the periphery of my vision, a fox waiting for a moment to strike.

Basilio finally cornered me at the table with a macaron in my mouth. To my horror, Zeno was off talking with some Visconti nobleman.

“Hello again.”

I mumbled a hello, crumbs jetting from my mouth. I wiped my lips roughly with a handkerchief.

“Careful,” was his smooth response. “You don’t want to ruin your makeup.”

“Oh.” As anticipated, the handkerchief was covered in a thin layer of vermillion.

“It’s a shame Zeno absconded with you so, signorina,” Basilio stated, broadening his shoulders. “I meant to speak with you further.”

I tightened my lips into a line. “About?”

“Zeno, of course. You managed to bring him out of the shadows, and I wanted to thank you for that. We did, actually.”

“We?”

“Yes, myself and my guest, as it were. What a pity she’s running behind.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, then widened his eyes as he looked past me. “Ah, speak of the devil!”

Chapter 28: Nessun Dorma

Even if I hadn’t seen photos of the woman with those unmistakable heart-shaped lips and ethereal profile, I would have recognized her from her magnetism alone. Serafina Rosa Salviati, the woman who had shown up to my wedding in a white dress.

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