"How dare you!" the Doge exclaimed, slamming his hands on the armrest of his throne.

Matteo spun around. "I dare because of what this man has told me, connecting your son to his nephew."

"What does Niccolo have to do with a foreign brat?" asked the Doge as he looked between his son and his accuser.

Al Ameda stepped forward. "My nephew, Your Grace, is a doorman for one of the most noble families in Venice. He is honorable, but quite young, making him also susceptible to influence."

"Get on with it," growled the Doge.

"Giacomo—that is my nephew's name—he often heard the wearer of that pendant preaching his strange sermons in front of the basilica. In the past week, he followed an open invitation for the faithful to attend a more private service. In his quest to find answers to questions even he didn't know he had, he found himself in a warehouse in the Arsenale where he witnessed something that both spooked and intrigued him. He told me the wearer of that pendant spoke of immortality and made promises of heaven on earth. After that, he began to act oddly, as though the experienced changed his whole being. I haven't seen the boy now for a day and a half."

"How is that my problem?" Nicco asked, already turning on his heel to go. "Forgive me, Your Serenity, but if that is all then—"

"You wrote this note," Matteo cut him off, and Nicco stopped in his tracks. When he looked back, the boy was waving a crumpled, dirty paper in the air. "We've already established the validity of your handwriting through the evidence brought by Signore Al Amada, and I'm sure anyone with two eyes can plainly ascertain that the script in what I hold in my hand will match."

Nicco gasped. Everything was now falling into place: the Moor's nephew wasn't a servant in just any household, but rather at the Barozzi's. This placed him at the door yesterday morning when—

"Give that to me," demanded the Doge before taking the slip from Matteo. After examining it front and back, he returned it once again. "Even if my son were to have sent that message to either Don Matteo or Don Lorenzo, I see no reason for it to matter now."

Matteo's father stepped forward. "Your Grace, with all due respect, you see nothing implicit wrong with such a threat? If I recall correctly, the note says: cease your meddling or you shall pay."

The Doge laughed. "We're all grown men, here. When business is done with sharp words instead of a sharp blade, we're all better off."

"Oh, but I do believe it was done with a blade," Matteo said, pointing out the rip in the paper's center, from which a dark stain emanated. "Whether it was delivered by Don Niccolo's hand or someone else's is irrelevant, but the bloody scene that I found at my front doorstep yesterday proved that Giacomo's disappearance was somehow connected."

"Are you now accusing my son of attempted murder?" asked the Doge with a mix of incredulity and anger. "Because for that, you'd need a witness or a victim, and I see none presented here today."

Matteo nodded. "You are quite correct, Your Grace. I have no other evidence tying your son to Giacomo; however . . ." He trailed off, motioning once again to the girl at the door, who in turn let another visitor inside.

In fact, it was not one newcomer, but three who entered. Before the girl closed the door behind them, she peeked out. Looking back, she shook her head solemnly at the Barozzi boy.

"Signore Delfini!" exclaimed the Doge as the Councillor limped in, supported on one side by his daughter Clara and on the other by her former intended, Simone Falier. "News of your ill health appear to have been greatly exaggerated for I had already said a prayer to the Lord to peacefully deliver you to St. Peter's gates."

"Don't bury me quite yet, Your Serenity," said Delfini as he stopped and struggled to bow. When he looked up, he turned his head to Nicco, fully revealing his bruised and battered face. "My attackers may have tried, but they certainly didn't succeed in their mission."

Delfini's piercing gaze at Nicco left little doubt as to the object of his accusations, and this, the doge's son couldn't leave be. "Careful, Signore, for bearing false witness is an affront both to God and our honorable justice system," Nicco said, narrowing his eyes and tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

The old man coughed.

"Papa, perhaps we should—"

He wouldn't let his daughter finish. "No," he said, waving off her concern. "I am prepared to take a stand and will not be cowered into silence. For I had a clear view of all of my attackers and those are faces that I will remember until I die."

Nicco shook his head. This was what he was wasting his time on? The appearance of the councillor had initially caught him by surprise. He may have even feared somehow being tied to his violent ambush. But if the old man could only implicate the hired thugs who'd carried out the attack, then he might as well have gone on his way.

"Father, please," he pleaded for His Serenity to end this farce, and by the content smile on the Doge's face, it appeared he was ready to do just that. But that is when the Procurator stepped forward again.

"It is true that much of what we presented here this morning is conjecture or circumstantial at best, but a few indisputable pieces of evidence tie the threads together that link your son to things that a Ducal family would certainly not want made public," Lorenzo Barozzi said almost light-heartedly, addressing the Doge with a conclusion that would have gotten him laughed out of any Venetian court. Turning to Nicco, however, he became more serious. "Not least among these is the name of the man who paid to have Tommaso Delfini beaten, which his attacker whispered into the Councillor's ear before leaving him for dead."

Nicco drew in a sharp breath at the insinuation that one of his thugs would betray him. He had just composed himself for a denial when his father spoke.

"Let us say that Nicco was behind the attack on Signore Delfini—which he was not. Or that he had earlier threatened a member of the Barozzi family—which he did not. Or that he had something to do with your nephew's disappearance and is somehow connected to a now dead preacher—which he certainly does neither," said the Doge, summing up the accusations. "You yourself have just admitted that there is scant proof of any of this. So why are you then wasting all of our time focusing on my son, when it is yours who just admitted to torching our warehouse? Especially when your only witness—in Signore Delfini—is one who has publicly objected to the way I run this Republic. His word is therefore already tainted against my whole family."

Nicco smiled at his father's ingenuity. Using Delfini's own outburst in the Great Council chamber against the frail noble was poetic. Even if he had any credibility before, it was certainly erased now.

The Procurator seemed to agree as he nodded. "That is true, Your Grace. Which is why the final man I had called here today has no such shadow on his character," Lorenzo said, pointing to the door.

When it opened, Nicco's eyes widened at the sight of Bartolomeo Michiel. As the father of the woman he was promised to marry and as the man who had defended the Doge against Delfini's verbal lashing in the Council chamber, his word and opinion in the matter would be uncorrupted. Everything now hinged on this testimony, and Nicco suddenly felt ill.

"Good day to you all, gentlemen. Your Serenity," Michiel made his greetings, ignoring the two young women also in attendance. "I believe you had asked for an unbiased voice to make sense of all of these accusations, but I am afraid that I cannot give you one."

The Doge's annoyed expression turned curious. "Is that so?"

Michiel nodded and looked at Nicco. "It is, and my heart breaks at the reason, for today I have lost my only remaining daughter. And it's all Don Niccolo's fault!"

Nicco was taken aback. For every charge against him so far, this one made the least sense. Why would Don Bartolomeo claim the loss of Ottavia now when he'd been quite accepting of both their impending marriage and her confinement in the convent just days earlier? Unless of course . . .

"What has happened? Where is she?" Nicco asked, sensing that something foul had transpired.

"Gone," Michiel stated flatly as he threw up his hands in despair.

"Gone?" asked the Doge even as Nicco searched the others' faces. As he had suspected, unlike himself or his father, they bore no hint of surprise at the revelation. Even if they hadn't been in on it, they'd already received the news.

"I am assured by this letter from her own hand that she has willfully escaped Saints Cosma and Damiano. And given the prospect of a life with someone like you, Signore Grimani, perhaps she is better for it," Michiel continued waving around a note, but if he thought throwing a personal insult into the theatrics could make Nicco mourn Ottavia's supposed departure, the former ambassador was deeply mistaken. However, Don Bartolomeo wasn't done and as he turned back toward Nicco, he paused before delivering a final statement. "It is for this reason that my peers in the Council will believe me over you when I charge you with corruption, assassination, and conspiracy against the welfare of the Republic."

Nicco had his fill of insolence. "You have no standing!" he yelled. "Everything you accuse me of is a lie." This, of course, was not true. He was so used to denying his dishonesty, refuting petty accusations came as second nature. But he had nothing to worry about or at least nothing much.

The claims of his corruption were the most believable, for that was more or less an open secret in Venice that everyone just accepted. It was for this reason that they'd likely continue to turn a blind eye and dismiss the charges. What else were they going to do when the Doge's son was involved?

Assassination was a much stronger indictment. And while most could also believe that he'd wish physical harm on a political rival, the proof of such a crime had to be equally lofty. So again, this accusation had little chance to stick.

And while it was the most nefarious sounding and therefore the crime that could take the least effort to pin on him, there certainly was no conspiracy. There was no grand scheme. There was no clever plan against his beloved city. If there had been, he would have been the first to admit it. For such an endeavor would have been something to boast about in front of his father the Doge, a clever ruse to take credit for and not hide.

But Nicco could do no such thing, for everything that had connected him to the preacher—and had set him on his current path—had come by chance, and it was through sheer dumb luck that he himself did not fall prey to the ungodly folly.

No one had arranged for their initial meeting, and when Nicco found the man proselytizing in one of his warehouses, he was ready to call the night's watch and have him thrown in jail for trespassing. But in exchange for leniency, he was offered a curious deal. For the man who spoke of God's divine plan and paths to salvation said he had found a prophylactic to the plague. And the solution came in none other than a bite from his own daughter.

Nicco had naturally shown skepticism against such an absurd allegation, yet when the preacher's flock had uncovered small, scarred tooth-marks on their wrists and swore to the efficacy of the injury against the malady killing others around them, he began to listen. Not only that, but by the time he left the warehouse, he had ordered one of his most trusted sailors to get the bite, as well.

He had to see for himself.

For three days, his man worked the rowboats between Venice and Lazzaretto Vecchio, transporting the ill and the—mostly—dead. He had trembled when Nicco ordered that he remove his mask and gloves on the journey, but the sure threat of a dagger to his heart if he refused was even more frightening. And when the study had been completed and the sailor still did not show buboes or other signs of the plague, Nicco finally believed.

He had found something that his father could not only use to strengthen his standing within the Republic, but also which he could irrefutably attribute to his older son. And with that, Nicco could finally shake the yoke of disappointment that his path in life had often brought from the one man whose respect he could never earn. Never, until now.

In exchange for keeping the preacher's secret, he secured protection against the plague for all of his crew in Venice at the time. Ready to face the Doge with five ships' worth of men impervious to the ailment that could fell any others, Nicco instead watched as more than half withered away in just days. It was only then that he realized that he'd only seen the successes behind the preacher's dealings. For hidden away within the dark lofts of the shipyard, there were creatures who were once men, but now were something . . . very different.

Revolted—disgusted, even—Nicco had no choice, but to remain silent. Although his intentions had been good, his actions had not just led to the unnecessary deaths of good men, but the creation of ungodly abominations that, against all of his efforts, couldn't even be killed. It was then he decided to turn the tragic situation to his advantage, using the unfortunate souls as guard dogs to protect his merchandise. What else could he have done? He had only made the best of a bad situation. But now, he was indisputably involved, and there were too many who knew it.

"Don Niccolo, your reaction to everything that has been said here today is confirmation enough for me—and I believe for His Serenity—that we have uncovered your secrets, but these details will stay within the four walls of this room if you meet our demands," Michiel said with a smirk as he clutched his hands behind his back.

"Blackmail?" bellowed the Doge as he stood, unwittingly drawing the dogs to attention at his feet. "I would advise that you think before you threaten a Grimani in his own house, Signore."

Michiel waved his index finger in the air and clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. This fine palace is the heart of the Republic and belongs to no single man, Your Serenity. I would advise you to remember that."

"Guards!" The Doge's call summoned two, armed soldiers into the room, but before he got a chance to issue further orders, Lorenzo Barozzi took over.

"Your son Francisco has only just begun his appointment in Rome," said the procurator. "It would be a shame to bring scandal to his tenure as Cardinal so soon."

The Doge, still standing, huffed. "Why . . . why do you bring Francisco into this?" he asked with trepidation.

Nicco was just as curious at the turn, waiting eagerly—and with a newfound unease—for more.

"The Council was especially forgiving of the break in protocol regarding the Papal appointment of your younger son, Your Serenity," Barozzi continued. "That allowance was only made as a show of deference to the Grimani family because of the mutual benefit that you being in that throne brings to both of our sides. However—"

"However, if you do not willingly relinquish your position within seven days," interrupted Michiel, taking over. "We will begin proceedings to urge the Holy Father to recall Cardinal Francisco Grimani from his own seat in St. Peter's. The choice is yours. Give up one title in exchange for saving another. Cardinal or Doge: which one will it be?"

Nicco threaded his fingers together, squeezing so hard he thought his bones might break. The disrespect these men were showing his family was unbelievable! Only the thought of seeing them all thrown in prison any moment now kept him from storming out of the chamber.

But instead of instructing the guard, his father slumped back onto his throne, leaned on the armrest, and buried his face in his hand.

"No!" Nicco urged him to dispel any thoughts of submission.

With his father out of power, he could no longer continue his smuggling nor enjoy any of the other perks that came with a direct line to the Council of Ten. And with Ottavia's escape no doubt soon becoming the talk of the town, he'd become a laughingstock, as well. Nicco's future would be ruined and he couldn't—wouldn't—allow that.

For the first time since they'd started this circus, Matteo Barozzi—the man who'd seemingly put everything in motion—spoke up. "There are souls a lot more restless than yours roaming our alleys. If we do not act, they will overrun the city, destroying everything we and our forefathers worked centuries to build. But we have found a way to give peace to those lost spirits and promise to dispel each and every one of them. If you love Venice, you will take the deal."

Nicco needed a drink. He'd been cornered and he hadn't even seen it coming. Worse yet, the Barozzi boy knew of his undead problem and was now using it as the final bargaining chip in this complex game that he'd built around the Grimanis. Knowing he had a losing hand, Nicco did the only thing that would get him to a bottle of wine the fastest.

Turning his head, he nodded to his father in agreement.