Chapter 10
The final tape was addressed to me.
Bianca.
My father’s voice.
Older.
Breathing heavily.
“If Lorenzo returns claiming blood gives him something I denied him, don’t fight the story with another story.”
Pause.
“Show him himself.”
That was my father.
Cruel when concise.
He explained why he staged Lorenzo’s death.
A choice I hated.
Antonio believed public exile would create permanent factions.
Fake death allowed loyalists to grieve instead of mobilize.
Clever.
Cowardly.
Both.
Then my father admitted it.
“I should have told the family the truth.”
Good.
Dead men do not become wise merely because they died.
His secrecy preserved peace temporarily.
It also gave Lorenzo eleven years to invent martyrdom.
Another lesson.
Then:
“Do not inherit my solution.”
I looked at Agnes.
She began crying.
Antonio knew.
The last line:
“If Rinaldi needs a coffin to keep power, let the old version die instead.”
I stopped the tape.
Lorenzo laughed bitterly.
“He always loved speeches.”
I looked at him.
“You came here to reclaim a rule you never believed.”
His jaw tightened.
“People change.”
“Yes.”
“So can principles.”
“Principles?”
I held up his letter.
“You supported my consideration until Mother’s influence threatened yours.”
Silence.
“You lost access.”
Silence.
“Then suddenly God, blood, history, and masculinity all agreed with you.”
Luca almost smiled.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Careful, boy.”
My nephew answered:
“No.”
One word.
Beautiful.
Lorenzo looked at me.
“What now?”
I thought about the chapel.
My portrait.
Agnes bracing both hands against a descending lid.
Then answered:
“You live.”
He seemed surprised.
“Without command.”
Anger returned.
“Without a faction funded through Rinaldi.”
Worse.
“Without being allowed to use my father’s name as proof of a lie he documented himself.”
That hurt most.
Good.
May you like
I did not need his death.
I needed his myth dead.
