“This is your home. And will be until I decide you are ready to move on.”

“And when will that be?”

Andros only shrugged. “There is no rush. We must complete your education first. You are very young, even for a human. You have not yet reached your prime. That is why I have chosen you to be my student.”

Jacopo may have been young, but he watched Andros with canny eyes. The boy had managed his uncle’s servants for many years and had been an observer of human nature for far longer. Jacopo had never mingled with the other young men at court or even the servants his own age. He had always felt most comfortable among his uncle’s books or in the company of Giovanni’s friends.

He sat up a little straighter. “I am already well-educated. My uncle saw to my education. You know this, Signore.”

“I do. That is why I chose you. You are extremely bright for a human.” Andros stepped back, examining Jacopo as if he was an animal for sale. “Of fine form. Healthy. Yes, I’m very satisfied with my choice.”

Jacopo cocked his head, and his mind began to spin. Andros had called him a “human,” as if there was some other option, and there remained a faint, dull ache at the base of his skull. He felt as if he had woken from a strange fever, but his body did not ache, only his mind. His memory flashed to the strange preachers on the streets of Paris, raving about demons and spirits. His uncle had dismissed them as lunatics.

“You are young,” Andros continued with a nod. “You will adapt nicely.”

“What do you want from me?”

The odd man smiled. “It is not what I want from you. It is what I want to give to you.

Instinct caused Jacopo’s stomach to churn, and his eyes darted around the room, searching for escape.

“Don’t panic.” Andros laughed. “I mean you no harm. Your uncle is dead. Florence continues its descent into madness.” He came and sat next to Jacopo on the small bed, but kept a comfortable distance. “You will be safe with me. Cared for.”

“Cared for?” The reality of his isolation hit him at last. Jacopo wondered what the servants thought had happened to him. His uncle had only been dead a few hours when the footman had announced that Signore Niccolo Andros had come to the villa. He remembered meeting the man in the study, but nothing else. “What has happened to my uncle?” Jacopo asked in a soft voice.

“Your uncle is dead,” Andros said. “His family will bury him. The servants have sent for them already.”

A slow ache twisted in his chest. “I am his family.”

“No, you aren’t.”

Jacopo’s eyes closed in pain. He was weary. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep. If he woke, perhaps this would be revealed to be a strange nightmare. If he woke, his uncle might be alive. His warm feather bed would be beneath him. He would hear the maid singing a lilting song in the courtyard.

Andros’s voice brought him back to reality. “As much as your uncle may have loved you, he was never really your family. Did he ever name you as his heir? Of course not. You were his brother’s bastard. He would have married eventually and, if you were very fortunate, he would have made you steward of some house or property. You, my dear boy, were never his family.”

Jacopo’s eyes furrowed in pain. He knew in his heart that his uncle had cared for him, but the twisted words of his captor needled his insecurities. “I was his family. I was.”

Andros rose, and Jacopo’s eyes followed him. At first glance, Niccolo Andros did not look exceptionally strong or powerful. He was black-haired and bore the even, Mediterranean features shared by most men of Jacopo’s acquaintance. He had a medium build, though his arms were thickly muscled, more like those of a laborer than a successful merchant. The only startling things about the man were his pale complexion and vivid blue gaze, which sparked with intelligence and calculation. When Jacopo looked into Andros’s eyes, they radiated a quiet menace.

“No, my boy, you weren’t his family, but you will be mine.” Andros stepped closer in the small room, towering over the tall, young man as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do what I say, and I promise you I shall call you my son. In front of a far more powerful court than the piddling salons of the Medici, I will stand up and call you my child.”

Jacopo frowned. “What do you speak of? What court is more powerful than the Medici? Are you a priest? Do you claim the Holy Father’s favor?”

The older man chuckled. “Oh, my dear boy, how your eyes will be opened! Your world has been so small, even with all your uncle’s travels. That which I speak of is beyond your comprehension. But you will understand. I promise, very soon, you will understand.” Andros’s voice grew gentle. “You have never truly had a home, a family. I will be your family. I will call you my son, and someday, all that I have will be yours, do you understand?”

Despite his fear, a strange kind of desire began to fill Jacopo. He had watched many men lie, and was more than proficient at the art himself, but Andros’s eyes held none of the telltale signs of a deceiver. In fact, despite the ridiculous promise of the words he spoke, Jacopo almost believed him.

“You would call me your son?”

Andros smiled and stepped forward, placing a cool hand on Jacopo’s cheek. “Trust me, my child. I am your family now.”

Los Angeles, California

March 2012

He woke suddenly, twitching his nose at the memory of the salt air. Giovanni blinked the sleep from his eyes and immediately searched the bedroom. As was her habit, Beatrice sat in the large chair by the fireplace, reading a journal and taking notes in a small book. Her forehead crinkled in thought as she puzzled over some mystery. He took a silent moment to examine her.