Merchants of Milan

by Edale Lane

  The seasoned master merchant clamped down on his emotions, willing himself to steadiness, but his heart still raced and his palms began to sweat. Why isn’t Stefano at the door? It could be nothing… it’s probably nothing. He just went in to show Zuane where to find my coat. Or he got hungry; you know Stefano–always thinking of his stomach.

  Nevertheless, every one of Benetto’s senses shot onto high alert as he placed a tentative hand on the door handle and pushed it. Cautiously, he nudged open the solid oak door, its copper hinges whining an indignant creak. The entry hall was bathed in pale light from a distant lamp. “Stefano?” he called out in a question, but it was the odor that struck terror through his heart. While he couldn’t name the ingredients in the pungent combination, he recognized it from one of his burning warehouses. At once his muscles tensed and he shoved hard at the door, whipping an alarmed gaze from side to side. All he caught was a black streak before a solid object hit him in the head. The sharp pain was accompanied by stars before his eyes.

  Instinctively, Benetto reached out his hands with the intent of grabbing something to steady himself, but a foot blocked his right leg from stretching forward. His advancing momentum ensured that he hit the floor with a solid thud sending a stunning shock through his aging body. Still trying to clear his vision, he placed his palms to the wooden planks attempting to push himself up, but his arms were shaky and he feared the worst fate for his missing brother. Then the door slam behind his splayed feet.

  “Who-” Benetto sputtered. A hand gripped his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He sensed pressure on his chest which he at first took to be the onset of a heart attack, until he discerned the cold, flat steel of a knife blade against his neck. He blinked his eyes several times and was finally able to see the masked face hovering above his.

  “Night Flyer,” he uttered and fell limp. He was still conscious but recognized nothing was to be gained by a vain attempt at struggle. “My brother?”

  “He’s alive,” the tenor voice clipped. “Can’t say the same for your other man.”

  He bested Zuane? A new wave of panic flowed through him as his enemy came into focus. The lean figure all in black had a knee crushed against his chest pinning him to the floor and his right hand pressed a dagger to his throat. He recognized the glare of loathing in the hard brown eyes that stared through him, and he realized he had lost.

  “My wife and daughter?” he choked out.

  “They are safe… for now. But that could change. They say confession is good for the soul, and seeing how near your soul is to being cleaved from your body, you are going to speak the names of all the men you have killed or had killed.”

  “What makes you think I’ve killed anyone?” he asked as he stalled and tried to assess the identity of this assassin.

  His eyes widened at the sharp prick of the honed blade and felt a little trickle of blood warm against his chilled skin. “I am not here to play games, Viscardi. Say their names,” the Night Flyer demanded.

  Benetto took a breath and swallowed carefully. “I am an important man, a respected man, powerful in this city. If you kill me the government and every watchman and constable will hunt you down.”

  This drew an unexpected response as the assailant in black actually laughed. “No one respects you,” he declared incredulously. “And you will not be missed for a moment. Do you honestly think the leaders of Milan will call out the guard to avenge you?”

  “But,” he protested, more horrified by the Night Flyer’s words than his steel. “I am respected. People-”

  “People fear you,” he interrupted. “Even your own wife and daughter are terrified of you, but fear is not respect. People will feel something at the news of your death–relief. They may even throw a party to celebrate.”

  “You impudent thug!” In the midst of the whirlwind of emotions anger managed to surface, most of all because Benetto supposed his words may actually be true. “Why should I do as you say? You will kill me anyway.”

  The Night Flyer titled his head to one side as if in contemplation. “There are many ways to die. A knife to the throat is quick with little pain. Burning, however, is neither quick nor painless.” A shiver ran down Benetto’s spine at the thought of the agony of such a death. “And there is the matter of your family members, or do you not care of their outcome?”

  He sighed, tortured misery lining his face and dully lighting his gray eyes. Then he began a list of names and an explanation of why each was deserving of his fate, ending with the careless spy, Iseppo.

  “Are you forgetting someone?” The Night Flyer’s voice took on a sharper tone. Benetto looked up through clueless eyes but said nothing. “What of Luigi de Bossi, the inventor?”

  “Oh, yes,” he recalled. He had forgotten about him. “He betrayed me, kept stringing me along taking my money but always had an excuse why the exploding cannon shells I was paying him to develop were not ready. It was obvious that he was secretly working for one of my competitors, pretending it was taking so long all the while never intending to deliver.”

  “And you had proof of this?”

  “Well, no.” Benetto drew his brows together. “Not exactly, but-”

  “You couldn’t have merely dismissed him?” the outlaw taunted angrily.

  Benetto drew in a breath and set his jaw, his eyes lighting with renewed fire. “No one makes a fool of Don Benetto Viscardi!”

  The Night Flyer sighed and shook his head, but the knife remained pressed to Benetto’s jugular and he was reminded that he was about to die. Did he deserve this? Had he been too quick to assume the role of judge and executioner over others? His heart sunk further into melancholy as he had harbored doubts, especially regarding de Bossi’s guilt or innocence. No one makes a fool of me, he pondered sullenly, except for me.

  “And what of Vergilio Carcano?”

  Benetto’s mouth slacked and confusion draped his expression. “Who?”

  The Night Flyer appeared aggravated and raised his voice. “The merchant Vergilio Carcano, Don Alessandro’s brother-in-law.”

  Now Benetto was genuinely confused. “I didn’t kill him,” he stated plainly. “I heard he fell from his horse.”

  “Come now, Viscardi,” the Night Flyer pressed. “Just one more confession.”

  “But, why would I kill him? He wasn’t important enough to kill. Honestly, I never gave him a thought.”

  Benetto read the mistrust in the masked man’s face. Was it a man’s face? A youth, perhaps. “He was very vocal with his political views,” his captor explained, “which were in opposition to yours. He strongly supported the Sforza family, and you ran to the French, eager to sell them arms.”

  “Well, yes,” Benetto replied innocently. “But I don’t care about politics; I saw a good business opportunity. I stood to make higher profits from the French. I’ve confessed to all the others; why not one more? Because I didn’t kill the man. But you have no room to judge me,” he spat changing timbre. “I know you are merely a hired killer sent by them. But I don’t understand why? Why not recruit me for your order? I could have been such an asset to your lords. Instead they want to be rid of me. I just don’t understand why?”

  Florentina looked down into pleading eyes and was thoroughly thrown aback at his words. After hearing all the other confessions, she believed him when he said he didn’t kill Madelena’s husband. But if he didn’t, who did, and why? How much did she not know?

  “Who?” she pressed as she twisted her knee over his ribs, discerning his discomfort and observing the distress in his eyes. “Who do you think sent me?”

  “Them,” he answered in a whisper, shuddering as he did. “The secret underground society, the sign of the horse. I know they are men of power and means. I don’t know what I did to draw their wrath.”

  This was definitely new information, and she needed to learn as much as she could. If he hadn’t killed Vergilio, perhaps this secret order had. She turned up the corners of her mouth and declared, “Perchance y
ou murdered someone they cared about.” But she required more information.

  “How did you attain knowledge about this group and their activities if they are so secret? Speak man; your life depends on your answer.”

  “I acquired the diary of… a madman, I think. It belonged to Galeazzo Monetario, a younger son of some lesser noble who indulged in too much wine, and God knows what else. It could be nothing more than the ravings of a lunatic. When his body was pulled from the canal last year, no one suspected foul play, but I came into possession of his writings. They mostly make no sense, but… if true there is a much more dangerous force than I working in Milan.”

  Florentina drew her brows together with concern and spoke briskly. “Give it to me.”

  She watched Benetto slide his eyes to the left and look back at her innocuously. “I don’t have it with me, but upstairs-”

  “No,” she snapped. “It is important and you are afraid of them. Slowly withdraw the volume from your pocket Don Benetto, and hand it to me now.” Her voice was low and commanding and he did as she required. Florentina slipped a small leather-bound book into a pouch on her belt, then returned her attention to the object of her vendetta, the man who not only had murdered her father but had deemed his death forgettable.

  Benetto sunk into the floor in defeat and Florentina took a minute to truly see him. He looked old; he looked weak. Was he a murderer? Yes. Was he the monster she thought him to be? Maybe not. But there he was, lying helpless beneath her blade, the moment she had waited over six months for. Removing him from the earth was justice; it was what he deserved. But after all of her planning, practicing, and preparation, after meticulously devising and carrying out her vendetta, after hearing the names of almost a dozen men he had sent to the grave over the years, Florentina’s heart spoke to her, and it said, it is enough.

  She gripped the dagger tighter and gritted her teeth, bitter eyes stabbing through his, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t who she was. When the final moment had come, Florentina discovered that she couldn’t carry out her judgment; she couldn’t execute a man sprawled helplessly beneath her, no matter what he had done.

  “You are finished, Don Benetto. Your wealth is gone, your position forfeited, your crimes laid bare.” She raised her blade and saw him flinch, the shadow of fear race over his face. “And it is enough.” He didn’t move. She felt the uncertainty, detected the disbelief in him, and she continued. “You have twenty-four hours to leave Milan, which won’t be an imposition since I am about to burn your mansion to the ground. You may retreat to your vineyard and live out your days.”

  Then she drew the knife in a quick slice across his chin. “That is to remind you. Every time you look in the mirror and see that scar, remember that you were given a second chance.”

  She heard a noise from the back of the house and concluded that Stefano was conscious again. “Your brother is coming and you can find the rest of your family at the nearby church. Do not think you will get another pass from me, Viscardi. If you are not out of the city by tomorrow night, I will finish what I began.”

  Benetto reached a hand to wipe the blood from his chin and nodded. The Night Flyer straightened up, took two strides from him, and withdrew her matchbox. “Zuane?” a groggy Stefano called.

  “In the front hall!” shouted Benetto. “Hurry!” Florentina struck the match and dropped it into a pool of Greek Fire, then stepped back as a plume of flame flashed toward the high ceiling. She was exiting the front door as Stefano reached his brother. They would both have time to get out.

  While a part of her felt as if she had failed her father and failed in her mission, her heart knew she had done the right thing. He may not be dead, but perhaps losing all of his wealth and power was a fate worse than death, and maybe–just maybe–he would consider this close encounter with eternity and change his ways.

  Outside in the cold, wet, fiery night, men worked feverishly to extinguish flames, guards looked everywhere except the master’s house for the culprit, and the Night Flyer slipped silently into the shadows.

  Chapter 26

  Madelena rolled over in bed, readjusting her covers. The fire in the hearth was nothing more than a smoldering log that had broken in the middle leaving two charred ends framing a pile of ashes. The coals in her brass bed-warmer emitted just enough heat to register its existence. She missed the warmth of another human being lying beside her. Even if Vergilio had not often been emotionally intimate, his physical nearness had been a comfort. How I would love to have Fiore in my bed every night, she mused. That set her brain to work trying to figure a way to achieve that goal without creating a scandal. Slowly sleep eased away, though she realized she should let the thoughts go and drift back into dreams. She rolled again, this time toward the windowed balcony doors. An eyelid lifted. Instead of the stark darkness she expected, there was a reddish-orange glow in the sky outside.

  It can’t be dawn already, Madelena grumbled with a sullen frown. I haven’t had a proper rest yet. But as the veil of sleep fell farther from her rousing consciousness, she realized the light did not hail from the east, but illuminated the western sky.

  Sudden alarm jolted her in to full alert, and Maddie threw her legs over the side of the bed, slid her feet into padded, satin slippers, and reached for her warm, lamb’s wool winter robe. She rushed toward her balcony doors while tying the sash around her wrap.

  A rush of frigid air sought to dissuade her from venturing out, but adrenaline surged through Madelena’s veins and anxious speculation filled her mind. She stepped through the door and her foot began to slide on the slick wood. The black iron railing was adorned with a trickle of icing along its top and tiny frozen stalactites hanging down from its underside; she grabbed it with bare hands.

  She could smell the smoke and at first panic seized her emotions. Every city dweller knew of the great fires of London in 1135 and 1212. Thousands had died in massive infernos that had consumed half of the great city. Not only London, but in Lübeck, Germany and Amsterdam as well as other historic devastations. The major Italian cities of modern times were less vulnerable to wide spreading fires because they did not use straw thatch and few structures were built entirely of wood. Their brick and stucco edifices with their clay tile roofs were much safer; still, the idea of a sweeping conflagration was enough to strike terror into any urban resident.

  Madelena stared at the smoke and flame judging its distance away, the part of town it was in, and something clicked in her brain. That is Don Benetto’s district. She watched for some time noting that the blaze was getting smaller, not larger, and a wry smile crossed her lips. It seems the Night Flyer is busy this evening, and if so, he will not allow such a fire to get out of control.

  She pulled her robe tighter and hugged herself against the wet chill as a gust lifted her long, loose, red locks and billowed them like an unfurled sail. The earlier gale had died down and as the temperature dropped rain had turned to sleet, then ice, and finally snow. Now the sky was filled with powdery crystalline flakes tossed about like goose down from a torn pillow.

  Convinced that her home was safe, Madelena decided to return to the relative warmth of her empty bed when something caught her eye. A dark shadow was descending toward her rooftop across the courtyard, back-lit by the hellish glow and partly obscured in front by a swirl of white. Fixing her eyes on the opaque object, she watched it come closer until she recognized the outstretched wings of an obsidian kite and saw the Night Flyer’s feet touch the terracotta tiles. Without missing a stride, he ran along the apex of the roof and pulled in the wings until they seemed to disappear, then slowed his pace to a trot.

  Excitement rose into her throat and beamed on her ivory face, cheeks now rosy from the frost. She didn’t understand why he evoked such strong emotion in her, nor why she could scarcely catch her breath the few times she had seen him. Was it the mystery of his identity, the skill and prowess he displayed, or the raw courage of his actions? She didn’t know and at this moment didn’t care
. The enigmatic vigilante was striding toward her with haste. She was not afraid; he would not hurt her. But why did he come to see her? Did he share a similar fascination with her?

  “Viscardi’s warehouses?” she called out as the figure in black slowed and stopped on the roof above her.

  “And his mansion,” returned a steady reply.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. He lives, but he is destroyed. He will have left Milan by tomorrow night.”

  Maddie nodded. “That will do.”

  The Night Flyer squatted down, regarding her with serious eyes. “I came to tell you he did not murder your husband.”

  That was a surprise! Madelena’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Are you certain? How do you know?”

  In an unemotional tone, he explained. “I forced him to confess his crimes, and he named plenty of men he had killed, but Vergilio was not among them. When I pressed him about it, he was honestly bewildered, replying that he was not important enough to kill. I believe him.”

  “I see,” she answered with deep, troubling concern.

  “However, I am pursuing a lead. Viscardi told me of an underground order of powerful men, dangerous men. Perhaps they are connected to his death. I can’t tell you more at this time, but you should inform your brother, and get out of this freezing cold before you catch your death.”

  Maddie smiled at the concern in his voice. It did seem somewhat familiar, but she had no acquaintances from Venice. She nodded. “Shall I see you again?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  “Time will tell.” He rose, bowed his head to her, then shifted and scampered across the roof and out of sight.