Merchants of Milan

by Edale Lane

  Madelena eye’s trailed after him until he was gone. She sighed wistfully and turned back into her bed chamber closing the doors behind her. Florentina will be jealous again, she thought, shaking her head. It was silly to imagine she may have a future with this prowler of the night.

  She was on her way down the hall toward Alessandro’s room when she heard his voice coming from downstairs. I should have known he would be awake, too. She turned down the main staircase, pausing to watch him bid farewell to Salvador Sfondrati, the city watchman who had been indebted to their father. He pulled a red felt beret over his thin, short, graying hair and stepped back out into the wintry night. Madelena considered that their long-time friend looked old and tired, the lines in his square face so deep and pronounced and a stiffness to his gait.

  “What did Salvador have to say?” she inquired as she took up her position beside her brother, who even in his slippers and robe towered over her. He turned toward her, leaned against the closed solid oak door, and ran a hand through his tousled brown tresses.

  “You were awakened by the fire as well?” he asked the obvious, and shook his head. “It would appear that the Night Flyer has finally finished off our rival.”

  “No,” she corrected. “He isn’t dead, if that’s what you mean.”

  His umber eyes widened, and he replied in surprise. “But Salvador reported that not only the warehouses, but Casa de Viscardi burned as well.” Then he narrowed those compelling eyes at her. “What do you know and from whom?”

  “The Night Flyer saw me on my balcony and stopped for a moment. He didn’t kill Benetto, just ruined him.” She stepped into Ally’s personal space, looking up at him with eyes like a tempest sea, and reached to take hold of his thick upper arm. “He said Benetto did not murder Vergilio.” She watched her brother’s surprise darken into concern. “He said he forced Benetto to confess his crimes, and he did, but swore he had nothing to do with Vergilio’s death and the Night Flyer believed him.”

  Alessandro brought a hand to her shoulder and rubbed it gently while a far-away look captured his face. “There’s more,” she continued. “Benetto told him about a secret society of rich and powerful men who are very dangerous and the Night Flyer is going to try to find out who they are and if they killed my husband.”

  As if coming back from a dream, Ally’s eyes lit and he flashed a bemused smile. “Secret societies? Really? Surely you don’t accept such a thing as true.”

  “Well,” she offered defensibly. “The Freemasons are very secretive, and I’ve heard rumors of a group called the Rosicrucians–supposedly they dabble in the occult. And we all know about the Knights Templar, except we all know practically nothing about the Knights Templar, so it isn’t unheard of. Besides, how could an order actually be secret, if everyone knows about them?”

  “Sweet Maddie,” he chided and placed a kiss to her forehead. “I suppose it is possible that Benetto imagines there is some deep, dark, unground cult in Milan; after all, he can be quite paranoid. But isn’t it equally possible that Vergilio simply fell from his horse?”

  She sighed and slumped her shoulders, a wave of defeat washing over her. Then strengthened in the knowledge that the Night Flyer was seeking them out, she straightened and raised her chin. “I will not stop searching until I have found the truth, and if it turns out to be that it was an accident, then fine. But if there is a clandestine order, the Night Flyer will find them.”

  Alessandro gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “I suspect there is very little that this Night Flyer cannot do. But come, now,” he said taking her arm. “We should be getting back to bed.”

  “Yes, you are right,” she concurred.

  As they strolled toward the grand staircase Alessandro asked, “Wasn’t there something you wished to speak with me about the finances? Is anything amiss?”

  “Oh, yes!” Madelena brightened. “Nothing is wrong.” She paused to consider how to word her request and assumed a more businesslike tone. “I wish to purchase a building that is for sale in the Vittore district. It was once a shop with apartments on the upper floors.”

  Alessandro stopped at the foot of the stairs, a puzzled look on his face. “That is a poor, run down area of town. What would you do with a building there?”

  “I want it as an investment,” she explained. “Not for monetary profit, rather to invest in the lives of people. We have been so blessed,” she expounded passionately, “and I have come to discover that there are many in our rich city who have no home, no food, and no medical assistance.”

  “But don’t the charity houses take care of them?”

  “Some, yes, but not all. When I went over to Slues Street-”

  “You did what?” he proclaimed in a louder astonished tone.

  She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Florentina was with me, and she can be quite intimidating when she wishes. There is no need to bother now. I was perfectly safe with her. Florentina knows how to handle herself.”

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he quipped, “I’m sure she does.”

  “Oh, Ally!” Maddie swatted him on the shoulder, color rising in her cheeks. “You’re incorrigible!” Then she added in a whisper, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  He laughed like a school boy and she brimmed with embarrassment. “Anyway, there are men and women, young and old, who have been left out of Milan’s bounty and not all because they are drunks or sloths. Many are the victims of unfortunate circumstances and need a helping hand. I want to convert the building into a house of hope, a place they can have a roof over their heads, a warm bed, and a hot meal. We could provide training in marketable skills and assist them in finding jobs. Once they get a few months’ pay in their purses, they can move into their own accommodations and make room for new residents. I am aware we give to the church and patron the arts, but with our wealth it seems we could do more. Oh, Ally, you should have seen their sallow faces, the sores on their lips and hands. No one cares if they live or die and that simply shouldn’t be,” she pleaded.

  Alessandro had stopped laughing and looked at her earnestly. “You are wrong,” he stated and her countenance fell. He paused, but she found she had nothing else to say. Then his elegant voice proceeded to add, “Someone does care if they live or die; you.” Instantly her heart soared, and the sparkle returned to her eyes. “You will have to be in charge of this project, hire builders to remodel, secure a steward to oversee the property and residents, devise a system to determine how many and who you can take in and who will have to wait. You must acquire craftsmen to teach them skills, physicians to tend to their illnesses, and no doubt a priest to bring them prayers and sacraments. It shall be a huge undertaking and I expect you to keep up your part in our primary business affairs.”

  She beamed the whole time he lectured then pushed to her tiptoes to give him a gigantic hug around the neck and kiss his cheek. “I know I don’t say it often enough, but I love you. I have been so blessed to have you both as a big brother and the head of my House. You are truly a treasure.”

  “Remember those gushing words of praise the next time I say no to one of your schemes,” he pronounced humorously. For a moment he reverted to that earlier distant look as though he was deep in serious thought that transported him to another place and time.

  With concern she drew back to put a foot of space between them. “What is wrong?”

  He shook his head, the spell broken, and the smiling brother returned. “Nothing. But I would ask you to name the place Margarita’s Hope House after our dear mother.”

  Madelena took a deep breath and pressed her head into his shoulder. “I can think of nothing more perfect.”

  “What a night,” he observed aloud. “The mighty has fallen and the humble will rise. Come, now; ‘tis only a few hours until breakfast. And in case I don’t tell you often enough, I love you, too.”

  Chapter 27

  The Torelli household was all abuzz the next morning when Florentina entered
the dining room for breakfast. Bernardo could scarcely sit still in his chair as Angela set out bowls of porridge and Madelena’s eyes held a sleepy, dreamy quality. Alessandro was as unflappable as ever as he buttered his bread. “It would seem that Milan is saying goodbye and good-riddance to one unscrupulous merchant today.”

  “Which leaves my upstanding and well-deserving husband at the pinnacle!” Portia beamed at him.

  But Alessandro held up a hand and bowed his head. “Now my Dearest, we don’t want our rise to be because of a competitor’s misfortune. However, in this case…” His voice trailed off, and he gave her a knowing look. “Anyway, it is likely House Torelli will not be the wealthiest for long. Don Giovanni is the one who stands to profit most as he will likely take on most of Viscardi’s arms contracts. Besides, we are comfortable and have enough to sustain several generations of our progeny.”

  The storm had passed and the morning sun shone brilliantly through the windows lining the exterior wall of the dining room, the light outside dancing and glistening merrily across the melting icicles. “I can’t believe Florentina slept through it all!” Bernardo declared and proceeded to spoon steamy breakfast cereal into his mouth.

  “It’s alright,” Betta offered in a comforting tone. “I didn’t wake up either.”

  Florentina smiled at the child and gave her a wink. Then Matteo joined in. “I would have gotten up to see the fire, but no one bothered to come and tell me about it.”

  Maddie tousled his hair and grinned at him. “You two were supposed to be in bed getting your sleep. Besides, you couldn’t see anything from here but a big cloud of smoke, so it wasn’t that exciting.”

  “I think it would be appropriate to amend today’s lessons to include how to start a fire, how to put out a fire, and proper fire safety,” Florentina said.

  “I approve,” Alessandro confirmed and winked at her. Florentina was certain that color rose in her cheeks and she wondered what that sly look of his was about. He was aware of her relationship with Maddie, but was that all he had discovered about her? She looked back to her food.

  “Hurray!” Matteo cheered pumping a fist in the air and grinning through his too large front teeth. “This will be a fun day.”

  “Every day that we learn something new is a fun day,” Florentina declared. “Fire safety is serious business. Way back in the time of cave men when humans first learned how to harness that peculiar element, they discovered–sometimes the hard way–that fire could create but also destroy; it could protect them from predators or become its own predator. It is a valuable tool and a treacherous weapon. Just like learning to swim, mastering fire is a skill every person should acquire for their own benefit.”

  “I don’t know how to swim,” Betta admitted with an anxious, scrunched-up face.

  Madelena smiled at her daughter and said, “Next summer when the weather is warm, Florentina will teach you. You’ll be able to swim like a fish!”

  At that assurance, Betta beamed up proudly at her mother. Florentina’s heart was warmed through and through. She loved her new family so much. She had truly hoped that the Night Flyer had completed her final flight, freeing her to put the deception away and focus all of her time and energy on Maddie and the children, but… should she pursue the notion of an underground order, a covert, possibly criminal organization, or let it go? At last, she had found the life she had always dreamed of; wasn’t that enough? Must she solve every puzzle?

  Florentina looked around the table and listened to the excited chatter. She noted the fond expressions pass between Portia and Alessandro and thrilled at the smile and batted eyelashes Madelena sent her way. She was a teacher, whose sole job was to obtain knowledge and pass it on to others–what calling presumed to be higher than that? Dare she risk everything to continue putting on her disguise and scampering across rooftops simply to chase after Benetto’s mystery? No. Tonight would be the Night Flyer’s last flight. Besides, even if she tried to find this obscure covey, it was just as likely they had not killed Vergilio and that he actually did meet with an unfortunate accident. She would be certain Viscardi vacated Milan, and that would be the end of it. She sighed and smiled to herself at a decision well made.

  Florentina’s spirits rose with the outstretched wings of her miniature flying device. A plethora of stars shone above, and the cool, crisp air streaming across her face as she glided over the city made her feel alive. Here in the sky, she was invincible! An updraft caught the silk and lifted her higher and the thrill sent tingles throughout her body. Angling her wings, she soared over the burnt out remains of Viscardi’s property. It still smoldered, and would for days.

  Pulling on the handles, she brought herself down to a nearby rooftop and folded in the wings, careful to tuck them into her pack. Then in stealth black she shimmied down a corner of the building and crept about through the deserted neighborhood. A few youths stood around the heap of rubble and smoking coals that was once the great Casa de Viscardi.

  “Come on,” one prodded to his companion. “I dare you.”

  “I’m not poking around in there,” he answered indignantly. “There’s hot coals and burning tar. You go look for treasure if you want.”

  “I’m not stepping toe in that pitch,” he echoed with a laugh. “What about you, Francesco?” he said turning to a third boy.

  “What if Don Benetto returns and finds us trying to steal his stuff?” he asked nervously, shifting his slight weight from one foot to the other.

  “He won’t,” declared the first young man. “I saw them all ride out of town in carriages this afternoon. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”

  “Still,” Francesco hesitated. “I don’t think there’s anything left that hasn’t burned or melted. It’s just davvero forte to stand here and see it.”

  “Here’s something!” a female voice called out. She stepped over broken bricks and roof tiles to join the group of boys carrying an object in her hands.

  “What is it?” one of them asked in anticipation.

  “I think it used to be a brass clock,” she said holding it out for inspection. With light from the coals, moon, stars, and street lights it wasn’t hard for them to see. Florentina even caught a glimpse of it from her hiding place across the lane.

  “It’s a little melted and scorched but it looks like a clock. You are probably right,” the first young man concluded.

  Florentina felt a prick to her heartstrings and tears began to roll down her face uncontrollably. She was able to stay quiet and refrain from sobbing, but she recognized what they had found in the burned out mansion–a clock her father had made for Don Benetto. It was not as artistically crafted as the one that showcased Alessandro’s main hall, but it had been a precise timepiece with the same new spring action design.

  It was silly to stand here crying. She knew it. It was only a clock. But… Florentina had been so busy planning her revenge that she hadn’t taken the time to grieve the loss of her beloved father, and now all that emotion came rushing in and crashing against her senses like sea billows against a rocky shore driven by a mighty storm. She trotted further down the alley, then sat on an old, empty crate and buried her face in her hands.

  She wasn’t sure how long she remained in that state, allowing wave after wave of sorrow and loss to flow through her, but after a while the flood began to subside. Florentina loved her father, and he had loved her, but he was gone now. Luigi had lived a good life–a life of knowledge and creativity, science and art. He had been a kind, good humored man. He had not been truly old, but neither had he died young like Maddie’s Vergilio. His had been a full, abundant life, not without its tragedies, but considering all, a satisfying one. It was time to let him go. Her father would always be with her, she believed, but that night in that alley near the scorched ruins of his killer’s domain, she finally said her goodbyes.

  Florentina treasured the final flight of her alter-ego. Despite the serious nature of her mission, it had been exhilarating! And she had done some
good for the poor of the city, prevented a few crimes, and become a living legend. She would miss the thrill of lifting off into the wind, soaring over treetops and edifices, and experiencing the ultimate freedom that it produced. Steering to her right, she glanced down at the streets below, empty in the dead of night.

  Raising her head she then looked skyward at the multitude of stars lighting the sky. She was familiar with Ptolemy and Aristotle’s writings on heavenly bodies and had once attended a lecture by the famous Italian astronomer Domenico Maria Novara da Ferrara, professor at the University of Bologna. Many a night as a child, Florentina lay on her rooftop gazing up at the stars wondering about them. She was able to calculate the phases of the moon and follow the major constellations through their courses, but there was so much about the shining lights in the sky that were yet to be discovered.

  The wind was waning now and Florentina had to be careful that she not drift into a tree or building on her descent, so she returned her attention to directing her flight toward Casa de Torelli. She sighed blissfully as she lighted atop the Torelli production house, her final voyage at an end. She had experienced a rare thing indeed, one that to her knowledge no other human actually had–the wonder of flight!

  Folding in her wings was a bittersweet moment, and she wondered what she would do with her singular device. It was too risky to keep hiding it in her trunk, but she couldn’t bear to destroy it. She would think of something. The black costume was of no great consequence, however, and she might discard it after a few days. No one would ever discover the identity of the Night Flyer, nor why he suddenly appeared and just as suddenly vanished from the skies over Milan.

  Florentina sprinted across the street, keeping out of direct lamp light, and down the alley leading toward the back of the mansion. She took hold of the drain pipe stretching from a few feet off the ground up three stories to the eave of the roof and gave it a slight tug. She had climbed down it before, but not often up the metal tubing. It was not a strenuous task for one with her body build and youth, but she worried about it clanging against the wall if any fasteners were loose. Within little more than a minute her palms were pressed to the edge of the roof; she pushed, lifted one leg tucking her knee under her torso and then bringing the other foot up, she was on top.