Page 89 of Fiorenzo

Enzo restrained his astonishment to a single blink, which Fiore appreciated. “Whomst?”

Despite his nerves, a smile tugged at Fiore’s mouth at the thought of the wonderful surprise he was about to give him, and how Enzo would appreciate it. Years of happiness spread out before them both—decades, if they were lucky. He had but to speak the word. His lips parted to set it free.

And his eyes fell upon a figure over Enzo’s shoulder.

A shadow none so tall as Enzo, though it wore a similar tabarro cloak, conversed with a lady in a sapphire velvet gown. The red domino mask did little to disguise the features of the middling-aged gentleman who wore it. Nothing particularly remarkable in them; a small nose, a severe mouth, a smooth jaw, and eyes which shone for music alone.

Features which perpetually flashed through Fiore’s nightmares.

It couldn’t be him. It mustn’t. And it was with this desperate hope that Fiore forced his heart out of his throat long enough to croak, “Who is that?”

Enzo turned to follow his line of sight. “The fellow in the red domino?”

“Yes,” said Fiore, hardly able to gather breath enough for the word. “Him.”

“Nascimbene,” Enzo replied, returning to face Fiore. “Impresario of Teatro Novissimo.”

Fiore couldn’t leave off staring long enough to meet Enzo’s gaze. From conservatorio singing instructor to lord over the city’s premiere opera house. Nascimbene had certainly risen far in a mere decade.

“I don’t know if he has any interest in beautiful young men,” Enzo continued regardless of the wheels in Fiore’s mind whirling so rapidly they felt as though they’d burst into flame. “But I might ask—”

“No,” Fiore hissed. “It’s not that, it’s—”

Enzo stared down at him in utter bewilderment as Fiore struggled to force words out past the weight of what he must tell.

Over Enzo’s shoulder, Nascimbene concluded his conversation with the lady with an elegant bow. He turned—away from Enzo and Fiore, Bellenos be praised—and strode off toward the banquet.

His retreat ought to have eased Fiore’s fears. Instead, with the monster out of sight, he found himself imagining him behind every pillar, around every corner, lurking in every shadow.

Fiore twined his fingers through Enzo’s hair. He retained his pasted-on smile even as he drew Enzo down so he might whisper in his ear.

“He killed Eliodoro.”

~

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Enzo’s first instinct bid him challenge the impresario to a duel.

He reined in the idea the instant it arose. As satisfying as it might prove to plunge his blade through the monster’s heart, to do so now would hardly aid Fiore in this moment. At present the thing to do was whatever Fiore asked of him.

But Fiore seemed hardly able to ask anything.

Enzo had glimpsed Fiore’s fear before. In the throes of infection, with more dread of the chirurgeon than the disease. And again at the hunting lodge, whenever the chirurgeon came to tend Enzo’s wounds—but then it was fear tinged with a sort of protective rage, a bestial thing which made Fiore as fearsome as his foes and far more beautiful. It’d taken a more gentle form when they were again alone together and Enzo’s coughing fits overtook him. Then it’d shown itself in a glance Fiore quickly hid behind a smile, but said smile had never quite reached his eyes.

And now, while Fiore’s beautiful bare lips smiled up at Enzo, his domino-masked eyes were frantic.

Renewed determination seized Enzo’s heart. He would make Fiore safe again, whatever the cost. He mirrored Fiore’s casual tone and replied, “Shall we be off?”

But Fiore shook his head. The infinitesimal tremble hardly tousled a single curl, with smile still firmly fixed in place. “It wouldn’t do to leave now. People might notice—draw conclusions—talk—” He gasped in a steadying breath and forced it out in a laugh; a sound no doubt charming to the ears of a stranger but horrific to Enzo’s hearing. “We have to stay just a little while longer. One more dance at least. Then we may go.”

Enzo didn’t quite follow his logic but resolved to obey it nonetheless. Fiore’s hand had clenched tight in his, a desperate grasp that begged him without words to understand.

“Another dance with me?” Enzo suggested.

A touch of sincerity approached Fiore’s smile. “If you would be so kind.”

Enzo took in the pallor cast over Fiore’s face, his panicked gasps, the faint shiver of his arm in Enzo’s own. “Canyou dance?”

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