Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Salvatore rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword and leaned toward Francesco. His lips formed a word: Soon.

As he did so, my assassin leaned in instantly, smoothly, stepping upon my train so that I could not bolt, and pressed his lips to my ear.

“Monna Lisa,” he whispered. Had he not uttered those two words, I would have taken up the dagger. “When I signal, fall.”

I could not breathe. I parted my lips and took in air through my mouth and watched as the priest’s assistant moved to the altar and began to fill the chalice with wine. Francesco’s hand hovered at his hip.

The second assistant stepped forward with a decanter of water.

“Now,” Salai whispered, and pressed something hard and blunt against my back, beneath the ribs, to make it appear as though he were delivering a fatal thrust.

Wordless, I sank to the cool marble.

Beside me, Francesco cried out and dropped to his knees just as he drew his knife; it clattered beside him on the floor. I pushed myself up to sit. Salai’s army of street urchins streamed forward, surrounding the soldier. One knifed him in the back and pulled him down so that a second could slash his throat.

The world erupted in a chorus of shrieks. I clawed to my feet, screaming Matteo’s name, cursing my tangled skirts. The orphans had swarmed him and his nursemaid; I pulled my father’s stiletto free and lurched toward them. My son was nestled in the arms of one of the monks from the Ospedale degli Innocenti.

“Lisa!” he cried. “Lisa, come with us.”

The bells in the campanile began to ring. A frantic nobleman and his wife ran past, almost knocking me down. I stayed on my feet as a wave of other panicked worshipers followed. “Leonardo, take him!” I shouted. “I will follow, I will follow-only go!”

He turned reluctantly and ran. I held my ground despite the fleeing crowd, and turned back to Francesco.

He had fallen onto his side and hip; Salai had wounded him and kicked his knife away. He was helpless.

“Lisa,” he said. His eyes were feral, terrified. “What good will it serve? What good?”

What good, indeed? I crouched down and approached him with the dagger raised overhand-the wrong way. Salai would not have approved. But I wanted to bring it down the way Francesco de’ Pazzi had brought his weapon down on Lorenzo’s brother: wildly, carelessly, with a spasm of fury, with a spray of crimson, with a thousand blows for each wrong done. I would have spared no piece of his flesh.

Entrapped my father

Murdered my loved ones

Stole my life and my child

“You aren’t my husband,” I said bitterly. “You never were. For the sake of my true husband, I will kill you.” I leaned down.

And he struck first. With a small blade, hidden in his fist. It bit into the flesh just beneath my left ear and would have sliced quickly to my right. But before it reached center I pulled away, astonished, and sat back on my haunches.

“Bitch,” he croaked. “Did you think I would let you ruin it all?” He sagged to the floor, still alive, and glared at me with hatred.

I put a hand to my throat and drew it away. It was the color of garnets-a dark necklace, Francesco’s final gift.

I can bleed to death here, I thought. I can have my revenge. I can kill Francesco now and bleed to death and they will find me later, here, dead atop his corpse.

I chose not to kill him.

I heard a roaring in my ears, the sound of the tide. Like Giuliano in Francesco’s lie, I was drowning, as surely as if I had fallen into the Arno from the Ponte Santa Trinita. Fallen, and sunk deep. And I had descended to a place, finally, where my emotions were still.

I did not worry for Matteo. I knew he was safe in his grandfather’s arms. I did not worry for myself, I did not try to flee my attackers; I knew that I was no longer their target. I did not worry about Francesco or my hatred of him. I would let God and the authorities deal with him; it was not my place. I knew my place now.

Dear God, I prayed. Let me rescue Giuliano.

Through a miracle, I rose.

My body was agonizingly leaden, moving as if through water, but I willed it to do the impossible: I moved in the direction Salvatore de’ Pazzi had gone, to go in search of my beloved. The stiletto was heavy; my hand trembled with the effort to hold it.

I heard his voice.

Lisa! Lisa, where are you?

Husband, I am coming. I opened my mouth to cry out, but my voice was no more than an anguished wheeze, lost in the roar of the flood.

The waters inside the cathedral were murky; I could scarcely see the wavering images of fighters against a dizzying backdrop of innocents in flight. There were orphans here-filthy lads with small glinting blades-and men with wielded swords, peasants and priests and noblemen, but I could make no sense of it. My hearing faded until the frenzied chiming of the bells sank to nothingness. In the river, all was silent.

Sunlight streamed in from the open door leading to the Via de’ Servi, and in its shaft, I saw him: Giuliano. He wore a monk’s robes. His cowl was thrown back, revealing his dark curling hair and a beard I had never seen. In his hand was a long sword, the point tilted toward the ground as he rushed forward. He was entirely a man; in my absence, he had aged. His features, pleasingly irregular, were taut and limned with faint bitterness.

He was amazing, and beautiful, and gave me back my heart.

But I was no longer here to surrender to emotion: I was here to redeem the transgressions of others. I was here to accomplish what should have been done almost two decades ago: stop the murder of innocents.

And I saw him, Salvatore, Francesco de’ Pazzi’s son, fighting his way through the onslaught of fleeing worshipers, holding his sword at his side. He was moving toward Giuliano.

But Giuliano did not see him. Giuliano saw only me. His eyes were lights from a distant shore; his face was a beacon. He mouthed my name.

I yearned to go to him, but I could not make the mistakes Anna Lucrezia, Leonardo, the elder Giuliano, made. I could not yield to my passion. I forced my gaze from Giuliano’s face and kept it fastened on Salvatore. It was impossible to walk, yet I staggered behind him. I stayed on my feet, despite the pull of the escaping crowd. God granted a miracle: I did not fall. I did not faint or die. I half ran.

As I neared both men, Giuliano’s joyous brilliance faded to concern, then alarm. He now saw the blood spilling from my throat, soaking my bodice. He did not see Salvatore approaching from the side; he saw only me, following. He did not see Salvatore an arm’s length away, raising his sword, ready to bring it down, to kill Lorenzo’s most loved son.

But I saw. And had I possessed the strength, I would have thrown my body between the two men. I would have taken the blow meant for my beloved. But I could not reach him in time; I could not step between the two men. I could only surge forward, using all the air that remained in my lungs, and close in on Salvatore from behind.

And in the instant that Salvatore raised his blade, in the instant before he brought it down upon Giuliano, I reached farther than was possible. With the dagger, I found the soft spot beneath Salvatore’s ribs and buried it there.

I remembered the painting on the wall of the Bargello of Bernardo Baroncelli. I remembered the ink drawing of him dangling from the rope, his dead face downcast, still stamped with remorse. And I whispered:

“Here, traitor.”

Relieved, I let go a sigh. Giuliano was alive, standing in dappled sunlight on the banks of the Arno, waiting with his arms open. I sank into them and down, down where the waters are deepest and black.