Chapter Text
"Are you having trouble with the Medici, uncle?"
Francesco Foscari, Doge of Venice, raised his head toward the entrance of the private salon in the ducal palace where his nephew's daughter stood. It was very late, and Andrea clicked his tongue in disapproval. He had brought his daughter only reluctantly, knowing full well that his uncle would be delighted by Novella’s presence. And indeed, the old man smiled at the sight of the young woman, even though she had no real reason to be there. The Doge had only ever had sons and grandsons, and God alone knew that daughters — burdens though they could be in many ways — were the only ones truly capable of brightening a father’s life, in contrast to all the trouble boys could cause. He had tried to know such joy himself, but the Lord had not seen fit to grant him a daughter.
So, he had turned his affection toward the daughters of his nephew, the ambassador of the Serenissima, and the middle one, Novella, had always been his favorite. The eldest, Eleanora, was stubborn and cold; the youngest, Isabella, was spoiled and chaotic. But Novella — ah, Novella had always been a ray of sunshine.
One day, he had declared her being the “Sun of Venice”, during the ball he held for her sixteenth birthday, and ever since, the whole city had known her by that nickname. And God knows she deserved it. Always cheerful, always radiant, always incredibly clever and cunning in the most extraordinary way. As a child, she had only to whisper a word to her great-uncle, and he would bend all of Venice to grant her wish. Something that had always managed to both annoy and amuse her father.
"You spoil her far too much, uncle. You're going to turn her into a girl who will never be satisfied, and I’ll have the hardest time marrying her off."
"Nonsense! Any man would be the luckiest in Europe to marry Novella. And he’d better keep on spoiling her just as much. She deserves no less."
So, when Novella married a Florentine banker from a noble and ancient family — the Pazzi — and expressed her happiness in her cheerful letters, the Doge had been pleased. The marriage had strengthened a solid alliance with the city of Florence and their rulers, the Medici, and his little niece was happy with a man she loved. Prosperous affairs and a happy family, the Doge needed nothing more to feel content.
That contentment had vanished when his niece had been sent back to Venice, in tears, humiliated, for reasons that made no sense, by a husband who turned out to be a rival of the Medici family. The Doge had been furious and swore to reconsider his alliance with Florence. Andrea had smoothed things over in the name of the Medici, and Novella had shown no desire for revenge against the city of Florence. Which was fortunate for them. The Doge had been so enraged and humiliated on his niece’s behalf that he would not have hesitated to declare war on the Tuscan city and all the banking families it represented — Pazzi, Medici — if Novella had asked him to. God knows Francesco de Pazzi’s life had hung by a thread.
But no such thing had been done, and Venice’s banking accounts remained in the hands of the Medici family, which now caused the Doge no small amount of trouble. But he could hardly let such a burden fall on his young niece, who was already suffering more than enough. She must have overheard him raging against the Florentines upon her arrival.
Andrea watched his daughter step further into the room with a suspicious look but said nothing, while the Doge smiled at Novella. "Oh, nothing you need to worry about. What are you doing here, my little dove? Shouldn’t you be continuing with the carnival preparations? I’m counting on you to prepare the most extraordinary banquet for us."
Andrea had asked the Doge to entrust the organization of the annual banquet and ball for the carnival to Novella, mainly because the young woman had been wasting away in her father’s palace since her return from Florence — spending entire nights crying in her bed or moping in the library.
Novella had always adored the carnival, and she had already organized the event several times before her marriage, with the help of the city’s greatest artisans. And for once, her father had had a good idea, because the preparations had forced her to leave the palace and had helped take her mind off things.
But not as much as he had hoped, as he suspected now, watching Novella lazily let her hand drift across the table in a seemingly absent-minded gesture, while her eyes wandered over the papers spread out between her father and the Doge.
“Everything is ready, uncle, don’t worry,” she said, smiling at the Doge with complicity. “I’ve never disappointed you when it came to the carnival, have I?”
“You could never disappoint me in anything, my dear,” laughed the Doge, gently patting her hand.
“Oh, I know. I only wish the same could be said of all the men in my family,” Novella replied, picking up one of the letters on the table and reading its contents. “This is from Lorenzo de’ Medici, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but as your uncle said, it’s nothing for you to worry about,” Andrea replied, snatching Lorenzo’s letter from his daughter’s hands. “Forget the Florentines and focus on the joy the carnival will bring you.”
“Lorenzo is temporarily denying the loan you requested for the construction of additional ships to fight the Turks?” Novella asked, ignoring her father’s words and pointing to the letter.
“Damn those Florentines and their ways,” the Doge grumbled, slamming his fist on the table. “They care only for their petty internal squabbles, failing to see that the real threat lies out there, off the coast of our beautiful city. I’m truly beginning to consider moving our accounts to a Venetian bank.”
“That would be an unwise move, uncle,” sighed Novella, shaking her head as she sat in the chair between the Doge and her father. “Florentine bankers are the most efficient and the fastest. The ones in Venice don’t have the expertise needed to manage our finances properly.”
“Novella, I think it’s time for you to leave,” Andrea said sharply. “These are not matters for women.”
“Yes, my dear, your father is right,” the Doge added with a gentle smile, taking his niece’s hand. “You have enough on your mind as it is. Don’t burden yourself with politics on top of it.”
“And what burdens do I have, exactly?” Novella shot back, her tone cutting. “That of carrying the status of a wife rejected by her husband and sent back like a disgrace? I’ve had enough nightmares about that burden, uncle, you can be sure of it. But there is one truth no one here should ignore. I was married to a Florentine banker, and for a time, he trusted me enough to speak to me about the inner workings of the banks. I know things you don’t. I can help you make the right decisions — if you’ll let me. But perhaps I’m not worthy of that either. Perhaps I’m not worthy of much at all."
Novella was about to stand, looking dejected, when her uncle caught hold of her sleeve, and Andrea stifled a groan. His daughter was up to something — and he knew all too well how skillfully she could play her uncle. But he also knew that if he now insisted on sending her out of the room, he would only bring the Doge’s wrath down on himself.
Novella met her father’s gaze, and he saw her suppress a smile, which slightly softened his irritation. Of all his daughters, she was the one who reminded him most of his late wife. Both as clever as cats. Andrea shook his head, thinking back to all the times his beloved wife had led him around by the nose using the same tricks.
He would never understand how Francesco de’ Pazzi had found the strength to send his daughter away.
“Don’t say such things, Novella! I forbid it. You are the jewel of this city. Your husband is a fool, and I would have him hanged this instant if I had the power. But you’re right. You’ve seen things we’ve never laid eyes on. Come now, I can tell you want to speak. Go ahead.”
Novella sat back down on the table with a falsely humble expression, but Andrea caught the satisfied gleam in her eyes and crossed his arms, bracing for whatever words would follow. Something told him he already knew their nature, and he didn’t like it.
“Venice needs that money now,” she began. “The Medici bank can’t approve the loan because the Pazzi bank weakened their funds by taking the papal accounts. They’ll need time to stabilize — call in debts from a few wealthy borrowers to soften the blow — and I’ve no doubt that, in time, Lorenzo will grant the requested loan. But that could take months, even years, and we can’t afford to wait that long — not with the threat from the Turks. You’re right to want to move your accounts, uncle. But not to a Venetian bank. You need to transfer them to another Florentine bank capable of granting the loan immediately. The Pazzi bank, for example.”
Andrea let out a frustrated sound and stood up from his chair, while the Doge furrowed his brow, torn between the seasoned statesman within him — already analyzing the flaws in this proposal — and the confusion stirred by hearing such a suggestion come from his own niece.
“Could the Pazzi bank even provide such a loan so soon? They just granted one to the pope. Surely that weakened them as well.”
“The pope’s financial situation is far more fragile than Venice’s,” Novella countered, her tone firm. “Our city is richer than the Papal States. We may lack sufficient means right now, but it’s nothing compared to the sum the pope requested from the Pazzi. Our loan wouldn’t be nearly as expensive. And if the Pazzi were able to fund such an amount for the pope, there’s no doubt they’ve planned well. I know my husband — he’s cautious and calculating. The pope will take years to repay that loan — it’s a long-term investment. Ours would be short-term, and they would see returns much faster. Venice has always repaid its debts quickly. The carnival will bring a large sum into the city. I fully intend to make sure of it.”
The Doge shook his head at his niece’s fierceness. He sometimes forgot that she was no longer the young girl who used to dance on the gondolas under the fireworks, her dazzling smile shining behind her golden mask — but that she had in fact been the wife of a banker, caught up in the political intrigues of a cursed city that had left its mark on her.
He wasn’t quite as naïve as she seemed to think, though.
“I hear your arguments, Novella. But that would mean breaking our alliance with the Medici and insulting their family. I don’t believe making enemies of them would be wise.”
“It was the Medici who insulted us first,” Novella murmured, suddenly looking straight ahead. “Their son rejected me, as if I were beneath him. And then they convinced my father to give me in marriage to their worst enemy — without telling us a thing. Look at what came of it.”
“That’s true. But the Pazzi have shown no more respect for our name or our city, after the way they humiliated you. I’m not a fool, young lady — I can see well enough that you’re trying to help your husband’s affairs. What I don’t understand is why.”
“What benefits my husband is not necessarily a loss for Venice, uncle,” Novella protested, lowering her gaze. “I don’t claim to know what’s best for the city. Only you do. But I do know that the bond between Florence and Venice has been weakened because of what happened between my husband and me. And I can’t bear it. This would be a way to strengthen that alliance again. And the Medici will have no reason to feel insulted. They know what they’ve done. What they did to me.”
The Doge thought in silence. If he listened to his heart, he’d damn the whole cursed city of Florence, if only to do justice to the haunted look in his niece’s eyes. He had no desire to extend even the slightest alliance with Florence or its damned bankers. But there was one truth he couldn’t ignore: Venetian banks were incompetent, and Roman banks were thieves. Florence remained the most solid option — and he needed that loan.
“Uncle, angering the Medici is never a good idea,” Andrea protested.
“To hell with the Medici, Andrea,” the Doge grumbled, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You’ve always been their friend, but your daughter is right on this. They’re just as responsible as the Pazzi in this mess. And they can’t give me what I need. The carnival will bring in profit, yes —but I can’t afford to wait to ensure Venice’s safety. Novella’s suggestion isn’t perfect, but it’s not a bad one either.”
“It’s not guaranteed the Pazzi will agree to anything of the sort,” Andrea said stiffly. “Francesco believes he was deceived, and he thinks Novella and I were allies to the Medici in this.”
“He will agree,” Novella assured, her gaze distant. “At least, his uncle will, because it’s in the bank’s interest—and above all, because it will hurt the Medici. That’s all they care about.”
“Damn Florentines,” the Doge muttered, rising to stand by a window and gaze out over his city.
He remained silent for a moment, during which Andrea shot a reproachful glance at his daughter, who simply shrugged with a defiant look. Both knew well where the Doge’s thoughts were headed, and the Doge confirmed it by turning around with a determined expression “Andrea, send an official request to the Pazzi bank. Make it clear it’s a direct demand from me, and if they accept the loan, they may also require the Medici to hand over the accounts of the Doge of Venice. No doubt they will profit quickly from this.”
Novella adopted a humble expression and rose to kiss her great-uncle on the cheek. “Thank you for the honor of listening to me, my uncle. I promise you a splendid carnival.”
“You are very clever, my Novella,” the Doge smiled, pinching the young woman’s chin. “But be careful to whom you give your loyalty. Your devotion is admirable and makes me proud but know that if your idea hadn’t aligned with Venice’s interests, I would have gladly ruined your husband’s affairs. Maybe you forgive him for what he did to you, but I do not.”
“I forgive nothing,” Novella murmured, her tone dark.
On the way back, father and daughter walked side by side through the dim corridors of the Doge’s palace. Novella could feel her father’s exasperation but was surprised by his silence. Eventually, growing annoyed, she asked “I’m surprised you didn’t protest more against me, Father. For Lorenzo.”
“It was a lost battle from the start, and you knew it well enough,” Andrea growled. “The Doge was already furious with the Medici. You chose your moment well. Maybe I should have beaten you more often when you were a child — that might have taught you to hold back your impertinence.”
“You like my impertinence,” Novella smiled.
“Not today, my daughter,” Andrea replied sharply as they stopped at the palace entrance, the fresh sea breeze tossing Novella’s red curls. “You’ve put me in an awkward position with the Medici, and I’ll have to answer to Lorenzo. All this — for a husband who threw you out? If you hope to get back into his good graces that way…”
“That’s not the point, Father,” Novella sighed, gazing out at the dark ocean before them. “I don’t hope for anything. If Francesco doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him either. But I made a vow before God when I married him. And if he intends to dishonor himself by forgetting the words we spoke in the church, that will not be my case. I will have nothing to reproach myself for in this marriage. I honor my husband, my name, and my city. It is my duty. He alone is the one dishonoring himself.”
With those words, she didn’t give her father a chance to respond and headed toward the gondola that would take them back to their palace. He watched his daughter’s red hair disappear into the distance and sighed. Her mother’s daughter through and through. And no matter how much she embarrassed him, he loved her more for it.
Every man Novella had ever encountered had been enchanted by her, no matter what she did. What kind of monster could Francesco de Pazzi be to have rejected her so coldly?
Her father and the Doge didn’t know this, but she wasn’t done for the night. Once home, she spoke at length with her sister Eleanora, urging her to convince her husband — the Duke of Ferrara — who had taken a loan from the Pazzi bank years ago, to repay part of his debts now that his situation had stabilized. Convincing her sister had been harder than convincing the Doge, because her anger was real and came first, unlike the men in her family who, no matter how much they seemed to care for her, were mostly concerned with their reputation and money.
But Novella succeeded. She remembered Francesco’s complaints about certain debtors who should have paid long ago. The Pazzi bank had major branches in Verona, Mantua, Bologna, Ferrara, and Padua. She wrote many letters, using her name and the power of the Doge behind her to push the bank’s debtors to repay as quickly as possible, to ease things for her husband. Without him ever knowing, she continued working behind the scenes to help him.
“But why, Novella? Why do you still submit to him so much?”
Why indeed? It was true he deserved nothing. She still spent many nights cursing him. The very thought of him hurt so much. Sometimes she hated him so deeply she could have killed him with her own hands. That night was one of those times, after all her scheming to keep the Pazzi bank afloat, even though she felt guilty for causing trouble to the Medici, to Bianca — all just to enrich that coward of Jacopo who had done everything to ruin her marriage — all for Francesco, who had ignored his own warnings about his uncle and had let himself be manipulated so easily.
So, even though she should have been finalizing some details for the glorious upcoming carnival, she agreed to accompany her sister to a ball hosted by the Da Fogliani family — a sort of prelude to the carnival to come. She wore a sumptuous black and gold gown and donned her golden mask, which had become her signature in Venice over the years and which she had left behind when she went to Florence.
“Look at yourself, sister,” Eleanora whispered, standing behind her in front of the mirror. “I used to envy you so much for your beauty. We all did. The Sun of Venice. I understand what you’re trying to do for Francesco. But he doesn’t deserve it.”
“He doesn’t answer my letters, Ella. He sends them back unopened. He will never agree to speak to me. This is the only way I can communicate with him. To prove, over time, that he was wrong.”
“What a waste of energy,” she snapped. “What do you think he’s doing right now? Probably has a mistress sleeping in your bed at this very moment. You owe him nothing anymore, Novella. He lost all his rights the moment he threw you out. Show him what he’s lost instead. Dance at this ball. Have fun, laugh out loud, shine. Become the Sun of Venice again. Charm the men, take a lover. Your husband isn’t fulfilling his duties after all. No one can blame you for finding comfort elsewhere. A woman must find satisfaction somewhere.”
Novella had thought about it. She could have had her pick, indeed. Because it was true that all men wanted her. All men except the one she wanted. Except the one she already belonged to. Why should she deny herself? Why should she remain faithful to a man who had repudiated her without any valid reason? She owed Francesco nothing. Nothing at all.
She had danced at that ball that night. She had laughed, climbed on tables, swirled her skirts, and made heads turn. She blew kisses, let herself be spun around until she felt dizzy, and cursed herself for having only one image in her mind: Francesco wearing a mask reluctantly. Seeing him adopt the customs of her city, so different from who he was. That image had always made her laugh so much.
But she had tried, truly. Tried to push him out of her mind. While dancing in the arms of the Da Fogliani’s son, he whispered in her ear what he would like to do to her, and she couldn’t resist when he led her away from the palace, onto the docks opposite the Grand Canal. But when he tried to kiss her and take her by the hips, the only thing she saw was him. Again. The scent of the Da Fogliani’s son suddenly repelled her, and she tried to push him away, which made him growl “You’re not going to reject me now.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“Why?” he moaned, frustrated.
“I’m married. I can’t be unfaithful to my husband. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your husband’s an idiot to have left you behind. You don’t leave a woman so delicious unattended.”
“I can’t. I think I might be able to, but I just can’t. Please, let me go.”
He hadn’t wanted to hear a word of it. His hands had slipped under her skirt, and she had panicked, shoving him away with all her strength. The young man had toppled backward into the canal, triggering laughter from a few onlookers who had also wandered onto the dock. She realized, to her horror, that they had not been as alone as she’d thought. She recognized the delighted laugh of her younger sister Isabella, who was watching the scene unfold with amusement, and shame rushed over her like a wave.
Without thinking, she ran to the end of the wooden dock and jumped into the first gondola that passed. She rowed away, ignoring the teasing cries of her sister behind her “Oh, Novella, how I’ve missed you! You and your delicious scandals!”
But she hadn’t missed any of it. She could still feel Da Fogliani’s hands on her. She felt defiled. Tears welled in her eyes as she rowed down the dark Grand Canal, one thought repeating over and over in her head.
I want to go home. I want Francesco.
She wanted to curl up in his arms. She wanted to tell him what had happened. She wanted to see him gut that pig of Da Fogliani in defense of her honor. She knew he would have done it. But she couldn’t. Because he had rejected her. She had no home to return to.
Eventually, she let go of the oars, once she was sure she had gone far enough from the Da Fogliani palace. She lay down in the damp gondola and fell asleep, whispering the same words again and again “Damn you, Francesco. Damn you.”
Damn him for ruining her for every other man. She couldn’t even punish him by taking a lover—because the very idea repulsed her. She didn’t want to feel any hands but his. She didn’t want to taste any other mouth. She didn’t want to feel any other man inside her. They used to call her the Sun of Venice. That sun had long since gone dark. She had become his sun. And he had cast her into the shadows.
The only thing that brought her any comfort was the certainty that he would take no mistress, any more than she would take a lover. He hadn’t had any when she first met him. He liked women, but didn’t trust them. And after what he’d convinced himself about her, she was certain he would keep them all at arm’s length. That's what she hoped, at least.
“Do you know what they used to call me when I was younger?”
She had murmured those words one early morning, her voice sleepy, her face buried in his neck, fingers trailing idly across his skin, eyes fixed on his Adam’s apple. Her hips were still sore from the love they’d made, and he’d looked down at her with that tender gaze he reserved only for moments like this — when they were alone, completely theirs.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “The Arrowed Terror?”
Novella laughed and gave him a playful shove, but he tightened his arms around her, refusing to let her go. As if she ever truly wanted to escape.
“No, you idiot! You’re the only one who ever fell victim to my incredible archery skills.”
Francesco stared at her with a crooked smile before rolling her onto her back and capturing her mouth in a kiss. She sighed against his lips, and even though her body hadn’t yet recovered from the lovemaking they’d shared at dawn, she would have gladly taken him again. God, how she adored those mornings. Most nights, he came home so late from the bank — or from Lorenzo’s — that she was already asleep when he slipped into bed beside her. And he never disturbed her slumber. No, he waited until morning to claim his rights as a husband. And she always gave in willingly. She so desperately wanted to give him a child.
“Good,” he murmured against her skin, his lips wandering to her neck. “Because if you had ever aimed at someone else, I’d be forced to find him and kill him.”
Novella had smiled, barely registering the dark tone in his voice that revealed he was not joking. She wasn’t blind — she knew her husband was dangerous. But it was so easy to forget when he touched her like this. When he loved her like this.
“Well then? What did they call you?”
Oh, yes. She’d nearly forgotten. She always forgot everything, in his arms.
“The men called me the Sun of Venice.”
Francesco let out a small laugh as his hands gripped her thighs, forcing them apart. She had deliberately pointed out that it was men who had given her that nickname — and it was true. Sometimes, she liked provoking that possessive streak in him. She liked it when he reminded her who she belonged to. And she did belong to him. Entirely.
He took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him, eyes devouring her with a hunger that seemed never to be sated, no matter how much of her he had already consumed. And then a smile curved his lips as he brushed his fingers gently against her cheek, a gesture so soft, so achingly tender. “The Sun of Venice,” he said. “No other name could ever be worthy of you.”
“No other name would have been worthy of you…” Novella closed her eyes, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She would have thought she'd run out of tears by now. But the truth was, she cried every morning. Because mornings used to belong to them. Those were their moments. That was when he most often made love to her, when they talked — far from the afternoons he spent at the bank and she kept herself busy at the palace, or visited the Medici or the Vespucci. Far from the evenings taken up by endless dinners.
The mornings had been theirs.
Now, she woke up alone every day in a cold, empty bed — the same bed from her childhood, which now felt completely unnatural.
But not this morning. This morning, she had woken up in that same gondola, drifting aimlessly along the canals.
Novella forced herself to open her eyes. The true sun of La Serenissima was already high in the sky, and the salty air stung her nose. She didn’t have the strength to sit up and check exactly where she was. She could see buildings around her, so at least she hadn’t drifted out of the canals into open sea. That was all that mattered. As a daughter of Venice, she could always find her way back through the water streets of her city.
She had once adored Venice. She had been proud to be Venetian, proud to be a Foscari, proud to belong to the Doge’s family. After visiting Rome, Milan, Naples, and Bologna, she’d been convinced no city in Italy could rival her own. And truth be told, the first time she arrived in Florence, it hadn’t impressed her much either.
And yet now, she would trade the sight of the ocean and the wild freedom of her city just to find herself again among the Florentine charm. Where Venice had once given her a sense of freedom, today it felt like a prison.
Her hands came to rest on her lap, over her dress. It has been four months now. Four months since she’d been forced to leave Florence. Four months of trying to understand what had happened — of trying to figure out why. Four months of silence. Four months of wondering whether he ever regretted it. Whether he ever felt guilt.
She sat up slowly on her elbows and rested her chin on the edge of the gondola, making it tilt gently to the side. Her hand skimmed the water of the canal. She had often dreamed of bringing Francesco here. He had studied and worked in Rome in his youth but had never visited Venice. She would’ve loved to see him on a gondola. Something told her he wouldn’t have much of a sailor’s balance. The thought made her smile. That would never happen now.
What would become of her?
It was a question that haunted her constantly. A wife cast out with no valid explanation. She could never seem to tell her old friends why her husband had expelled her and sent her back to Venice. So, the rumor had spread — that she had shared Lorenzo de Medici’s bed and was the cause of the renewed enmity between the two men. The story was on every tongue in the city; Venetians always loved a scandal.
And the bitterness of it all made her sick. Maybe her efforts would eventually bear fruit. Maybe he would understand. Maybe not. She remembered the look in his eyes that night, when he had demanded answers she didn’t have. It had been the first time he’d ever truly frightened her. Sometimes, she wondered if she was right to want him back. She had seen something in him that night — something hidden and dark that she had never suspected was there.
She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see it again.
And yet… she remembered the man he had been with her. His gentleness. And she hated him even more for it.
Damn you, Francesco. Damn you.