by Belle Ami
“I am asking for your kindness and forgiveness, Signora. I will not live out the hour. I would plead with you to take your grandchild and raise him as your own. Let him take his rightful place as a Medici.”
Lucrezia didn’t answer. Her eyes roamed the room, resting, again, on Leonardo’s portrait. She moved closer to examine the painting. “Is this your wedding portrait?”
“Yes. Giuliano commissioned it from the Maestro, Leonardo da Vinci.” Fioretta wiped the tears that blinded her. “He said it was our immortality.”
“May I have it?”
“Will you care for my son and raise him as a Medici?”
Lucrezia gazed in the direction of the portrait. “My son loved you well.”
“Your son is waiting for me. He promised we would be together for eternity. Ours was a love out of time. Eternal.”
“Your marriage must be kept secret. It will not be recognized, and the child will grow up believing he’s a bastard. There are alliances to consider.”
“That doesn’t matter to me. He’s still a Medici. In God’s eyes, we were married. What matters is Giulio Medici, mio figlio. What matters is that Giuliano’s son grows to be a man of consequence within the arms of his family.”
Lucrezia sat on the edge of Fioretta’s bed and caressed the infant’s face. “I loved my son. Perhaps your child will heal our family’s heart. He looks just like Giuliano.” She smiled.
Fioretta pressed her lips to Giulio’s head, kissing him. “Addio cuore mio.” Tears blinded her as she gazed at her baby for the last time. “Take my son and go. Come for the painting when I’m gone. I wish it to be the last thing I gaze upon. Thank you, Signora.”
Lucrezia lifted the sleeping infant. “Go in peace, Fioretta. May God be with you.”
“It is not God who will be with me. It is Giuliano.”
There would be no sleep for him tonight. Alex’s senses were on alert, knowing that Angela was in the next room. Since the moment he laid eyes on her, he felt driven to protect her. Finding out he was the reincarnation of Giuliano Medici only magnified his determination to keep her safe, hell it was more than that. It was a need right down to his core. Slipping out of bed, he padded on bare feet to the balcony and gazed out at the flickering lights of the city he called home. Clad only in his boxers, the night breeze tickled his skin. Florence had been good to him. He hoped it would continue to be so.
A mournful cry down the hall made him bolt inside. Rushing into Angela’s room, he gathered her thrashing form in his arms and held her tight.
She wept in her sleep. He didn’t know whether to wake her or just hold her until she stopped Her eyes fluttered open and her words sent a chill down his spine. “Giuliano, amore mio, you waited for me. I told your mother that you would.”
She was trembling against him and it was driving his imagination to places he shouldn’t go. He tried to put a few inches between them, but Angela pressed deeper into his embrace. It took every ounce of his strength not to kiss her. “Angela, you had a nightmare. I’m Alex Caine, you’re in Florence at my apartment. Do you remember?”
Her eyes cleared, but she was still gripping his arms. “Alex, I’m sorry.” She released him and lay back on the bed. “I guess it was another nightmare.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“I gave birth to my son and then I died.”
She began to shake again, tears flowing anew. He held her in his arms as she told him everything from her dream. My God, first she experiences the murder of her husband then the agonizing birth of her son, only to bleed to death. He couldn’t keep his own knowledge from her any longer. He needed to tell her about his experience at the Getty and his extraordinary conversation with Giuliano.
He was already half in love with her… Fuck, who are you trying to fool? He loved her. He never believed in love at first sight, but this was different—he knew her—it was inexplicable. He’d always known her in his soul. Tomorrow. He would tell her tomorrow after their visit to the Uffizi. She was exhausted, he wouldn’t add to her burden.
He held her through the night. Eventually, she fell asleep and he soon joined her in slumber, his arms still wrapped around her.
Chapter 9
Florence, Italy
Uffizi Gallery
August 7, 2018
“First, we’ll have a tour and then we’ll enjoy a nice espresso.”
Celestine Marchesi was dressed in a beige suit, elegant but understated. Her thick dark hair swept up into a French roll. She’d welcomed Alex and Angela with exuberant kisses on both cheeks. Leading them through the Lorraine Atrium, where marble busts of members of the Medici family greeted them, they proceeded down the hallway to the Eastern Corridor where the museum rooms dedicated to art periods and specific artists were found.
“I know you are mainly interested in those artists who painted during the lifetime of Giuliano and Lorenzo Medici, so I will, if you don’t mind, dedicate our time to them.” Celestine exuded an attractive mix of Italian charm and smooth confidence.
“Excellent, that is exactly what I had in mind,” Alex said.
Outside Botticelli’s gallery, Angela froze. Placing her hand on the wall, she smoothed it down the flat panel. “There’s a door here that leads to Vasari’s Corridor.”
“How do you know that?” Celestine’s voice switched from warmth to suspicion.
“I don’t know.” She flushed. “Maybe I read it somewhere?”
“You know I recall a BBC documentary about it some time ago,” Alex piped up, attempting to diffuse the tension.
“I don’t recall this entrance ever being filmed, but it’s possible… There have been many film crews here over the years. It is difficult to keep track of everything.” Celestine shrugged and continued down the hall.
“Crisis averted,” he whispered in Angela’s ear as they followed behind.
She blew out a breath. “Thanks for that.”
“I got your back baby.” He winked. “And a very fine back it is.”
She shook her head and wagged her finger at him as they continued down the hall.
“Above us is the original wood beam ceiling of the Medicean theater. Rooms ten through fourteen hold the collections I think you will be most interested in.”
They stood before Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and The Primavera.
At her gasp, Alex slipped his arm around her waist. “Angel, are you all right?”
She looked up at him and he saw forest-green eyes filled with sadness—Fioretta’s eyes.
Sorrowfully, she whispered in Italian. “La mia amica, Simonetta. O Dio, Sandro l’adorava, la sua morte lo ha distrutto.”
Celestine’s eyes grew wide. “Am I hearing correctly? Did she just say my beautiful friend Simonetta? How could she know that Sandro Botticelli adored Simonetta and was crushed by her death? That’s just romantic speculation.”
“Angela has been studying the painting in great detail for months, as part of her research,” Alex said smoothly, wrapping an arm around Angela’s shoulders and drawing her close so that Celestine couldn’t see her eyes. I’m sure it’s just exhaustion and jet lag,” Alex lied. “Can you give us a few minutes of privacy?”
“Of course. I’ll wait for you in the da Vinci gallery.” Celestine walked ahead. He hoped she wouldn’t grill him on his flimsy explanation of Angela’s behavior. The fewer people who knew about her past lives regression, the better.
Angela sank into his arms and wept against his chest. When she finally looked up at him, her face inches from his, her expressive eyes kindled his desire. All thoughts of trying to calm her were swept away and, unable to stop himself, he claimed her mouth, his tongue delving deep inside her parted lips. The room spun around him as if they were on a merry-go-round. Reality and the present were lost in a passion that roared through him like a summer brush fire. Fighting to regain con
trol, he broke the kiss and was relieved to see the beguiling, brown eyes of Angela once more.
A deep red blush colored her cheeks. “Alex, why are you kissing me in the middle of the museum? Where’s Celestine?”
He scrubbed a hand up and down his face. “I’ll explain later. Right now we have to meet her in room fifteen, Da Vinci’s room.”
He held her elbow. “After we see the da Vinci paintings, I’m going to ask Celestine to show us some paintings by Leonardo’s assistants, particularly Salai and Boltraffio. The wedding portrait was most likely attributed to one of them. Maybe when you take a look at their work up close, you might be able to determine if the painting we’re hunting is a da Vinci or one of theirs.”
“Boltraffio was the better artist of the two, but I’m certain now that the portrait is a Leonardo da Vinci.”
Alex nodded. “It’s possible Lorenzo Medici himself created the cover-up. If he didn’t want the world to know about Giuliano and Fioretta’s marriage, what better way to make sure than attributing the portrait to an unknown artist. It would guarantee that the painting would remain in the shadows of history.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she said. “It kind of makes for a very challenging search. Not only the painting but revealing the hidden historical truth. It makes you wonder how many other things we consider true about the past are shadowed in misconceptions and cover-ups.”
“Room fifteen contains da Vinci’s Annunciation and his unfinished Adoration of the Magi. It also contains Verrocchio’s Baptism of Christ,” Alex said.
Angela’s eyes lit up. “Leonardo helped paint the Baptism of Christ. He was one of Verrocchio’s assistants at his atelier.”
They joined Celestine, who, thankfully, didn’t mention what had occurred in Botticelli’s rooms.
Eyeing the painting, Celestine asked, “Angela, what do you think? Most historians believe this angel was painted by da Vinci’s hand, which is distinct from his master’s. It is said that it resembles Leonardo as a boy.”
Angela nodded. “It does look like him. Leonardo told me he often painted his own image in his work. He considered it his signature.”
Celestine gaped at her. Alex cleared his throat.
“I mean, from the descriptions I’ve read… apparently, Leonardo was very handsome as a youth. Many of those who knew him have written of his physical beauty. I see his hand in the sweetness and empathy of the face, and the luminescent curls on the angel. Leonardo was obsessed with hair and was meticulous in reproducing it. He probably worked on a lot of the background, too, because the brushwork bears his signature style.”
Celestine smiled. “You have a discerning eye, Angela. Shall we continue, and then have our coffee?”
The rest of the morning was spent admiring the sculptures in the connecting hallway with its grottoesque ceiling painted with bizarre arabesques of animals and plants. They spent time viewing Raphael, Titian, and Parmigianino’s Madonna of the Long Neck.
Celestine and Angela continued their discussion of Leonardo’s meager, but extraordinary output. Alex enjoyed hearing Angela expound on her expertise of the period. Not only was he magnetically attracted to her, but he was also impressed with her mind. Her insights into da Vinci’s battle between his scientific and artistic endeavors were perceptive and exemplified her depth of knowledge of the genius.
After their gallery tour was completed, Celestine served them rich, dark espresso in her spacious office. She shared some insights about the Medici Chapels and the Church of San Lorenzo, which they planned on visiting after lunch.
Angela excused herself to go to the restroom. She didn’t want to alarm Alex, but her head was throbbing, and there was a whirring sound in her ears. One breakdown in front of the director of the Uffizi was enough. She followed Celestine’s instructions down the hallway, pausing once to brace herself against the wall across from a closed door. She’d been hearing voices all throughout the tour. Sometimes loud, sometimes faint, like a radio tuner. It had been all she could do to remain calm and alert.
Voices floated out to her from the other side of the door. She tried to make her feet move away but she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop herself. I recognize those voices… Raising her hand to knock, the door swung open and a gust of wind pushed her inside.
It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The blinds were drawn and there was very little light. A man was arguing with a woman. They spoke Italian. Angela could read Italian, but speaking it was another matter. The couple ignored her as if she were invisible. Her heart was beating so loudly it sounded like cymbals crashing in her ears. The room spun around her. The door shut behind her and she shuddered, sensing the past was once again supplanting the present.
Focusing her attention, she realized that the man wore a German army officer’s uniform from World War II and the woman had on a dress with padded shoulders and a narrow waist. They were young and very attractive, he fair and blond, she dark and doe-eyed.
Her instincts on high alert, Angela sensed that the Italian woman was her in a past life. Just as Fioretta was. But why was she being shown this woman and this man? All she could do was stand and watch…
The man paused, his polished, high boots reflecting the sunshine streaming through the blinds, which somehow were now open.
“Sophia, the allies are advancing and we will be evacuating Florence in the next few days. I will not leave the painting here in Florence. I’ll keep it safe and return it after this madness ends.”
Sophia frowned, her arms stiffly folded above her waist. “Gerhard, you can’t just take something that isn’t yours. That’s stealing, it’s too dangerous. It’s bad enough that if we’re caught by the Germans, it will be death by firing squad, but if we’re caught by the partisans we’ll fare no better. We’ll be accused of stealing Italian patrimony and God only knows what they’ll do to us.”
“We won’t be caught. These fools don’t know what they have. The first time I laid eyes on this portrait, I knew it was a Leonardo da Vinci. This painting haunts my dreams and I will not leave it in the path of war. It isn’t safe here. What if someone takes a liking to it and steals it? What if a bomb falls and accidentally hits the Uffizi? If I could, I’d take them all. Anything to keep these priceless treasures safe and out of harm’s way.”
“Gerhard, Florence will not be razed. The priceless works of art will be safe.”
“Not from thieves, Sophia. This is a seemingly worthless, unattributed painting that could easily be taken and sold on the black-market. I will not let that happen.”
The man wrapped his hands around the woman’s waist and pulled her toward him. She didn’t fight, but ran her fingers through his blond hair. “Come with me, Sophia. We belong together. It’s summer, we’ll make our way to the Apennines and find a small village where we can wait out this war. We’ll hide the painting and retrieve it when there’s peace. We can return it, if you like, or, if we’re smart we’ll keep it. It’s worthless in their eyes, just some inferior student’s work. They won’t miss it.”
“And, what if I say no?”
He laughed. “You always say no.” He brushed his mouth over hers, his tongue flicking against her lips. “And then you say yes.” He kissed her, ferociously, passionately, and she returned his kiss with feverish abandon.
“My little minx, you know you can’t live without me.” His hands roved her body, his fingers pressing her skin as if he were a sculptor and she a mound of clay. “I need you—I have, since the first time I laid eyes on you.”
Angela watched, mesmerized, unable to move. Her heart hammered and adrenaline pumped through her veins. The temperature in the room climbed from the heat of Sophia and Gerhard’s kissing, and Angela felt a bead of sweat trickle down between her breasts. She was embarrassed and aroused at the same time. She didn’t want to watch, but she was incapable of stopping. This wasn’t anyt
hing like travelling through time and astral-projecting inside another person’s body. This was like watching a movie.
Gerhard’s hand cupped Sophia’s breast, his thumb circling her nipple and she moaned, whispering, “Caro, I want you. Here. Now. There’s no one here, just us.”
Gerhard groaned, and his hand swept everything off the desk. Pushing her against the desk, he lifted her skirt and began touching her in ways that elicited soft moans of pleasure.
Angela’s feet were anchored to the floor. Her cheeks burned as if a fever were consuming her. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her legs together, trying to stop the throbbing.
Sophia’s fingers loosened Gerhard’s belt and unzipped his fly, yanking his pants to the ground. She wantonly begged. “I want you inside me. I need you. Now!”
It was all the encouragement Gerhard needed. He shoved Sophia down on the desk. “Spread your legs,” he commanded.
She didn’t move. A whisper of a smile played upon her lips.
“Sophia, do as I say. You want this and I want it, too. Spread your legs.”
“I do want it, amore mio. But I love when you take control.”
He grabbed hold of her legs and wrenched them apart. Leaning over her, he grabbed a fist of hair and pulled her head back. He licked her neck, and like a soldier who’d found his enemy’s weakness, he drove himself into her with thrusts that made her cry out. “Are you happy now, cara? Is this the way you like it?”
“Yes… yes… yes… don’t stop.”
Dizzy and weak, Angela sank to her knees.
Gerhard quickened his rhythm, plunging deeper and faster until Sophia stiffened, digging her nails into his back, and cried out his name. With a burst of hyper thrusts, he stiffened and roared, “Dio mio, I love you.” Collapsing on top of her, his lips found hers.
She threaded her fingers through his hair as he kissed her. She struggled to gather her breath. “I think this is the only room in the museum we haven’t made love in. Another notch on your belt my love.”
