Never Expect a Vampire Like You

**Chapter 1: August Embers** The Apennine Peninsula in August resembled a slice of unbuttered bread scorching in a hot skillet—the heat alone seemed capable of wringing out every last drop of moisture. Even the wind refused to linger here. Once summer arrived, most Romans preferred staying indoors save for trips to neighborhood bathhouses, so much so that the city's notoriously chaotic public order improved noticeably each year at this time. Romans wryly observed that peace among the people relied not on the Papacy, but on heaven's mercy. Chiara could never sleep past noon in such heat. She struggled out of bed during the coolest hours of morning, washed her face, and settled by the window. Her posture, however, defied contemporary standards for young women—knees drawn up, feet planted on the chair's edge, back fully molded to the seat—as she curled within the chair's frame. Bathed in the dawn light, she listlessly flipped through the theology book her aunt and governess, Adriana, had left in her room the previous night. Catholicism's lengthy doctrines failed to hold her interest. Within minutes, yawns overtook her. Just as she prepared to shut the book and steal back to bed, hurried footsteps echoed outside the window. She turned to see a lean, brown-haired man striding down the courtyard colonnade. The instant she recognized him, her lips twitched. She lowered her legs, adjusting into a posture befitting a Roman noblewoman, and fixed an artfully polite smile on her face as the man drew nearer. "Today isn't Sunday, Signor Brandao," Chiara arched an eyebrow. "Indeed it isn't," Brandao reached her window slightly breathless from his haste. "I've come specifically for you. Father Rodrigo wishes to see you. Your mother has sent a letter." *Father*. The reverent title for a Catholic priest. For millennia, only men could bear it, sworn to celibacy, devoting their lives to the service of the Lord. Yet, as with any institution, there were always those who bent the rules. The Papal Court held no shortage of men yearning for earthly comforts. Popes with mistresses and illegitimate children were countless; lesser clergy followed suit. Everyone knew their roles demanded an *appearance* of otherworldly purity. Thus, mistresses became "friends," and children became "nephews." A collective blind eye was turned, and life proceeded as if nothing were amiss. Chiara had believed herself reborn into an ordinary ancient European family for four perfectly ordinary years before discovering the truth. That burly priest-uncle, arriving monthly in his carriage laden with fashionable toys and clothes, showering affection upon her and her siblings, was not merely a devoted clergyman caring for Roman citizens. He was their father. Her stunningly beautiful, elegant mother was his most cherished mistress. And the man she'd thought of as her father for those four years—not particularly affectionate, but amicable enough—was merely a decoy husband arranged by the priest to maintain appearances. Her *second* decoy father, no less. After an afternoon of stunned silence, she digested the revelation. Her only reaction was a silent thumbs-up accompanied by the thought: *Ah, only in Italy.* Now, a decade later, a letter from that same mother revealed another truth: her birth mother was someone else entirely. Years ago, when Vannozza dei Cattanei had just become Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia's mistress, her sixteen-year-old sister, Martina—rebellious and brimming with youthful defiance—fled their hometown of Mantua to escape an arranged marriage, seeking refuge in Rome with her sister. During her stay, Martina and Rodrigo met, sparked an instant connection, and shared a fleeting passion. A year later, Chiara was born. Martina, deciding young womanhood shouldn't be confined to the role of "Rodrigo Borgia's mistress," entrusted her newborn daughter to her already pregnant sister, Vannozza, and set off to find a new life. As the infant abandoned by her birth mother and left with her aunt, Chiara showed improvement this time. She was only stunned for minutes before mentally raising her thumb again: *Indeed, only in Italy.* "*Learning this truth so suddenly may be difficult to accept. Chiara, know that I intended to shield you from it forever. Whether I bore you or Martina did, you are undeniably Rodrigo Borgia's daughter. You will receive the finest courtly education in the Palazzo Orsini. One day, you shall be wife to a Duke, perhaps even a King. You will be among the most celebrated young women in the Papal States...*" "*...Yet you are also the brightest of my children. Sooner or later, you would have discerned the clues. Moreover, your birth mother, Martina, has fallen gravely ill. She wrote days ago, expressing an urgent desire to see you. This request may burden you, but though Martina raised you not, she endured great hardship to bring you into this world. If possible, I implore you to journey to Florence, to see Martina upon her sickbed...*" "..." Chiara lifted her gaze from the letter, her eyes flickering towards Rodrigo seated opposite her. "Why have you stopped reading?" Rodrigo inquired, his tone light, seemingly unperturbed that Vannozza had revealed a secret guarded for over a decade. "The letter's essence ends there," Chiara met his gaze directly, abandoning her evasive glances now that he'd noticed. Rodrigo sat behind his desk, framed by a vast window. The intense Vatican summer light streaming through it seemed paradoxically cold as it gilded his imposing frame, casting an aura of formidable authority. His study was arranged peculiarly. While most positioned their desks to capture the best light, he preferred sitting against it. His broad shoulders and tall stature blocked most of the window's illumination, leaving his face, eyes, and expression shrouded in shadow, discernible only by the faint outline the sun cast upon his form. Chiara suspected he wished to conceal the emotional shifts in his eyes while maintaining the advantage of observing his visitors clearly from the darkness. Unless those visitors were his children. Then, he would rise, kiss each cheek tenderly, and inquire softly about their week's studies and learnings. The Cardinal, renowned in the outside world for his ruthless political acumen, was extraordinarily affectionate towards his offspring. Years prior, Rodrigo had moved his children from Vannozza's care to the Palazzo Orsini within the Vatican walls, opposite his own apartments. Their care and education fell to his cousin, Adriana Orsini. Each weekend, his senior advisor, Brandao, ferried the children to his residence for family gatherings. Before the current Pope, Innocent VIII, no high-ranking clergyman had publicly acknowledged his children. Perhaps inspired by Innocent's precedent, Rodrigo surpassed his mentor. Not only did he acknowledge his bastards by his mistresses, but he also brought Vannozza's children—his own—to live under his wing within the Vatican. Initially, Chiara visited Vannozza regularly at her home on Rome's outskirts. But as Adriana's lessons grew increasingly demanding, the visits dwindled. Now, urgent matters prompted Vannozza to send letters via messengers to the Vatican. Counting the days, Chiara realized her last visit had been two months ago. She hadn't expected *this* news. Rodrigo rose from his chair. Sunlight flooded the room instantly, forcing Chiara to blink reflexively. "You do not seem shocked by your parentage." *Oh, but I was sufficiently shocked,* Chiara thought. Aloud, she said, "You taught us, Father, that one should not let joy or anger show." Rodrigo chuckled softly. He rounded the desk, the crimson cloak denoting his rank as Cardinal swirling around him. Standing beside her, his expression was thoughtful, his light brown eyes studying her intently. "Perhaps... you already knew? Your distance from Vannozza always puzzled me. Had you guessed she wasn't your birth mother?" Chiara's lips twitched slightly. With her limited life experience, how could she possibly have untangled the Cardinal's complex romantic entanglements from a decade ago? She'd arrived in this world as an infant. Vannozza, holding her, had been roughly the same age Chiara was in her previous life. She simply couldn't reconcile seeing that young woman as her *mother*. But Rodrigo, having navigated the intricate web of Vatican politics for decades, even while doting on his children, couldn't help but project his own complex history and mindset onto his older offspring. To him, Chiara—quieter, less demonstrative than her siblings—was simply precociously reserved and adept at masking her feelings. Chiara accepted this interpretation silently. "Perhaps. A mother and daughter share an irreplaceable bond, unseen yet felt." "Then, will you choose to visit Martina in her illness?" Rodrigo asked. *Could I possibly choose not to travel in this heat?* Chiara thought with genuine seriousness. "Perhaps it's best you remain here with your studies," Rodrigo mused aloud, as if struck by another thought. "Juan injured his leg falling from his horse last week. Adriana and Giulia will likely need your help caring for him. Besides," he added, "I hear the weather in Florence is dreadful—rain for nearly a month now. Quite unseasonal..." Before he could finish, Chiara interrupted. "Father," she said, meeting his eyes with sudden, wide-eyed entreaty. "Upon reflection, I believe I *must* go. Please, grant me permission to see the mother who bore me, whom I have never met."