DELUGE by Lisa T. Bergren Page A

livin’ a freakin’ dream ,” Lia whispered excitedly, as Luca helped her out of the boat and over the slippery little hop to a dry step. We all disembarked and made our way up the stairs, which widened into a grand entrance a story above us. Dad whistled under his breath. Above us, in nine domes nestled between marble pillars, were elaborate mosaics—teeny, tiny, bright-colored tiles that depicted ladies dancing and men lounging, animals of all sorts, and fish and more fish.
    “Marcello, my darling!” said a low, melodic voice. “Luca!”
    We turned to see a startlingly beautiful woman of about thirty coming our way. She was slender and impeccably clad in a silk gown with a complex weave I’d never seen before, and had a long neck, narrow nose and high cheekbones, giving her an exotic look. Two black servants appeared behind her, looking half like guards and half like butlers. They were dressed in flowing Turkish pants, belted at the waist, and light shirts, which looked startlingly white against their dark skin. They showed no emotion, no interest really, as if only a word from their mistress would gain their attention. They reminded me of the fierce guards in Lord Vivaro’s mansion down in Rome, and the memory made me shift uneasily.
    Our hostess reached out and took Marcello’s hands, kissing him on both cheeks—her eyes on me the whole while—and then Luca. I noticed Lia got a similar once-over, but what I sensed in the woman was more curiosity than anything dangerous. Besides, Marcello clearly liked this cousin, a young widow who enjoyed life far more now that her old tyrant of a husband was dead. Together, they turned to me, Lia and my parents.
    “Lady Caterina Brexiano, may I present my wife, Lady Gabriella Forelli?”
    She curtsied in a regal motion. She seemed taller than I, even if I had five inches on her. I did my best to mimic her movement, feeling like an elephant in comparison. But she smiled with genuine welcome in her eyes.
    “And may I present Gabriella’s sister,” Marcello continued, “Lady Evangelia, and their parents, Lord and Lady Betarrini?”
    “Welcome, welcome,” she said, when the introductions were complete. “My men will show your knights where they will lodge during your stay here,” she said, her eyes flicking over the gold tunics of the six men who traveled with us as guards. “And I shall show you to your lodgings. Please, follow me.”
    With that, she turned, her wide skirts in her hands, and we followed her across the main floor, a complex marble pattern of gorgeous squares and circles—in purple porphyry, olive green, harvest gold, midnight blue.
    “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s passing,” I said to her as we walked side by side.
    “Don’t be,” she said lightly, a wry grin on her wide lips. “It’s a blessing,” she said, crossing herself, “to be free of the old goat. He was as mean as he was rich.” Her heavy eyebrows lifted. “And now I am free to enjoy his wealth and run his businesses in my own way.”
    I laughed under my breath at her honesty. It was easy to see why Marcello and Luca remembered her fondly.
    “I am so glad you finally brought your bride to visit me,” Caterina said to Marcello. “You’ve been remiss, hoarding her in Toscana.”
    “Traveling conditions were hardly…optimal,” he said, giving her an indulgent smile. “If I was going to bring Gabriella and her family north, I wanted to be reasonably assured we’d be safe.”
    Caterina cocked a brow. “Wise, I’m certain, cousin. Lucky for you that the doge holds the pope—and his precious Fiorentini—in disdain. There are few in the city who dare to proclaim their allegiances to Firenze, and therefore, you’re likely as safe here as you were at home.”
    “May your words be prophecy,” Luca said.
    “Here you are,” Catarina said to my parents, opening two wide doors to show them a lovely room with a sprawling four-poster bed and a small balcony over the side