Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

I resolved only one thing, that we three-Zalumma, Matteo, and I-would leave in the hours before dawn, after Francesco had returned from his revels, so that I could kill him as he lay drunk in his bed.

In the quiet of morning, when everyone was still asleep, the time came for Zalumma to go. I took her hands and kissed her cheek.

“You will see me again,” she promised, “no later than your father’s burial. If I am late, I will find you at the church.” She moved to the door, her step light; and then a thought stopped her and made her look back over her shoulder at me. “You forgave your father many things,” she said. “Too many. But perhaps I will try to forgive him, too.”

Once she was gone, I went into my father’s bedroom. He looked cold and unhappy in his white linen shift, with his hands folded around a little red cross. I took it from his grasp and hid it in the wardrobe, under a pile of tunics where Loretta would not find it; and when I did so, I came across a gold-handled stiletto-neat and deadly-and hid it in my belt.

The funeral was just after none , mid-afternoon, at Santo Spirito. Loretta had gone early to make the arrangements; since the plague was no longer widespread, it had been easier than she expected to hire gravediggers.

The Mass said for my father was short and sad. Francesco came and sat impatiently through the service, then left abruptly, saying there was an emergency at the Signoria. I was relieved; it had grown almost impossible to hide my infinite loathing for him.

Few stood at my father’s graveside: only Uncle Lauro, his wife and children, Loretta, my father’s stablehand, my father’s cook, and me. Matteo remained at home with the nursemaid. As I cast the first handful of earth onto my father’s coffin-nestled beside my mother’s sweet stone cherubs-I shed no tears.

Perhaps fear stole them from me: Zalumma had not returned. It had been a mistake, I told myself, to send her out alone with such expensive jewels, especially so early when the streets were empty. If she had encountered a thief, who would have heard her cries for help?

The time came to return to my father’s home for a funeral supper. Uncle Lauro and the others tried to coax me into walking back with them to my parents’ house, but I refused. I wanted a private moment with my father and mother; I wanted to remain in case Zalumma finally returned.

When the others left, I was alone only briefly. One of Santo Spirito’s Augustinian monks approached, in his order’s traditional habit, with a capuchin’s gathered folds around his shoulders and his cowl raised.

I kept my eyes focused on my father’s grave; I wanted no conversation. But he came to stand directly beside me and said, softly, “Madonna Lisa. I am so terribly sorry.”

The sound of his voice disgusted me. I turned my face away.

“You signaled with the book that you had found a letter,” he said, “but when you did not come I became concerned. I am saddened to learn that Antonio’s passing is the cause.”

“Go away.” My voice was ragged. “Go away and never come back.”

In the periphery of my vision, Leonardo bowed his head. “You are right to be angry: I could not save him, though you begged me to. But I could find no way. No way short of endangering you and Matteo. Perhaps when your grief eases, you will understand-”

“I understand that you are a liar, that you have been one from the beginning. You knew -” I tried to utter the words and choked; I wheeled on him. “Giuliano is alive. And you let me live in grief, in agony, all this time. Like a good spy, you used me without heart!”

He lifted his chin; he straightened. “I told you long ago that I could not tell you everything because it would endanger you. I have not used you. I care more for you than you know.”

“The hell you care! You look at me so you can moon over your dear lost Giuliano.”

He colored at that and had to compose himself. “How did you learn he was alive? From the letter, then?”

“And from my father, before he died.”

Inappropriately, with the familiarity of a husband, a brother, he seized my arm at the elbow. I resisted, but he would not let go. “Tell me, then, whom did you speak to of this? Does Francesco have any idea that you know Giuliano is alive?”

I tried to shake my arm free; he tightened his grip. “No,” I said. “I’m not that big a fool. Why didn’t you tell me? Why have you let me suffer all this time?”

“Look at you,” he said, with a sharpness and a coldness I had never heard in him. “You’re answering your own question. People kill and die because they cannot control their emotions. You did not know me very well, the first time we met at Santissima Annunziata. You had no reason to trust me. If I had told you Giuliano was alive, you would have written him immediately. Or you would have tried to go to Rome to find him. Nothing I might have said could have stopped you. And you, or he, or both of you, would have died as a result. If I ever told him that you married Giocondo because you thought he was dead, he’d-”

“He’d have come to me, wouldn’t he? So you’ve lied to him, too. Why should I ever trust you now?” My face contorted; the tears that had been so long suppressed suddenly streamed unchecked down my cheeks. “Why should I tell you the contents of the letter? I’m warning him myself of the danger-”

“God,” he whispered, his face so slack with fear that I fell silent. “Lisa-swear to me you have not tried to contact him!”

“I’ll swear nothing.” My voice was ugly. “They mean to entice him here, and Piero, then kill them. They want to make it all repeat-rally the people against the Medici, as Messer Iacopo meant to do-and this time succeed. Do you think I am such a child that I would let Giuliano endanger himself? I told him not to come. I told him to stay.” I shook my arm. “Let go of me!”

He reached for me again; I took a step away, back toward the gravediggers. “Lisa… They will discover this. They will kill you.”

“They won’t find out. I’ve seen to it.”

In the distance, someone called my name. I turned, and saw Loretta, half running toward us.

“Lisa, please .” I had never heard such desperation in his voice. “You cannot go back with her-they will trap you, try to kill you, or use you against Giuliano. What must I do to convince you…? Everything I have ever done has been for your safety, and your child’s.” His eyes glittered; I realized, to my surprise, that they were filling with tears.

A brilliant performance, I told myself. Loretta was still too distant to hear us, but close enough for me to see panic on her face; he was forced to drop my arm, lest she see a monk behaving so suspiciously. “You’ll have to convince me quickly, because I am going home.” And I turned my back to him and took a step toward Loretta.

“Lisa, I love you,” he said quickly.

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Not so much as you loved Giuliano,” I said nastily.

“More,” he said. “More, even, than I loved your mother.”

I slowed. I stopped. I looked up at him.

“Giuliano de’ Medici was not your father,” he said. “I am.”

“Madonna Lisa!” Loretta called. She was breathless, red-faced, at the gate of the churchyard. “Matteo is sick! He is sick; they think it is la moria ! Claudio is here, waiting to drive you home!”

“Matteo is sick,” I said to him. He opened his mouth and reached for me again, but before he could touch me, before he could speak, I lifted my skirts and ran to meet Loretta.

I rushed into the front entry of our palazzo and would have run up the stairs, but my husband called out from the dining hall.