Never Expect a Vampire Like You

Chapter 5:The Florentine Welcome

Chiara arrived at her destination nearing midday in Florence. The carriage horses halted, and the coachman’s cheerful voice sounded outside: "Signorina Borgia, the Palazzo Totti in Florence."

Noontime on the Apennine Peninsula usually meant scorching sun and grating cicadas. But Florence, with its recent rain and lingering clouds, filtered the summer glare. Chiara braced herself to wilt upon stepping out, yet as she emerged, a breeze carrying a hint of coolness brushed her cheek.

"Are you Sister Chiara?"

Before she could survey her surroundings, a voice tinged with a Tuscan accent, young and tentative, caught her attention. She turned to see a boy of about seven or eight, fair-haired and blue-eyed, gazing up at her like a figure stepped out of a tempera painting. The unusually gentle sunlight, and perhaps her lifelong experience with children—which usually induced a reflexive headache—stirred a peculiar softness within her for this child.

Beside the boy stood a middle-aged man draped in an ivory houpelande robe edged with gold thread. Though lacking Rodrigo’s striking handsomeness and formidable presence, he radiated a warmth absent in the Borgias. His slightly downturned eyes suggested a gentle temperament. His hand rested naturally on the boy’s shoulder. Seeing Chiara, he smiled. "This must be Chiara?" His accent, previously Tuscan, shifted smoothly to Roman inflection for her benefit.

Instantly, Chiara knew: this was Martina’s husband, Riccardo Totti. The boy was their son, Marco.

Vannozza’s letter had briefly recounted Martina’s journey after leaving Rome. The era was unkind to lone women. Martina had stayed briefly in Subiaco and Perugia, leaving each time for various reasons. Hearing Florence, under Medici rule, was least influenced by the Papal Court, she set off to seek her fortune. Passing through a remote village, locals accused her of witchcraft and bound her for the pyre.

Just as her new life seemed doomed before it began, a Florentine merchant, also passing through on his way to Rome for business, paid five gold florins to buy her off the stake.

That merchant was Riccardo.

Martina’s letters to Vannozza claimed she married Riccardo not out of gratitude, nor was she the type to repay a life with her body. She saw in him a freedom she’d craved since childhood—a thing she’d always yearned for.

Chiara had found Martina’s talk of “freedom” abstract. Yet stepping into the Palazzo Totti, she grasped what freedom meant to someone already living in the Renaissance’s relative liberty.

Riccardo ran a family bank, owned several shops—including two apothecaries and a wool workshop—along with other ventures, amassing considerable wealth. The Totti family boasted ancient lineage, with ancestors holding key positions in the city council, making them prominent Florentine nobility.

The palazzo stood along the Arno River. From its second floor, one could see the nearby Ponte Vecchio and Palazzo Vecchio—truly the heart of Florence. Further afield, near Arezzo and Volterra, the family owned several substantial villas.

Despite their significant standing in Florence’s commerce and politics, the vast palazzo was eerily quiet at noon. Only a matron in her sixties tended to the bedridden mistress. Courtyards and loggias stood empty save for Chiara, Riccardo, Marco, and their short midday shadows.

With no other staff, Riccardo took Chiara’s luggage. He hefted it, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Quite a load! Didn’t expect so much. Honestly, anything from the Vatican can be bought in Florence. But Florence has treasures Rome might lack."

Chiara lowered her eyes, slightly abashed. "Brought some books to read…"

"You enjoy reading?" Riccardo beamed with pride. "Then my point stands doubly! And Florence has books the Vatican doesn’t." Despite his words, he hoisted the book-laden case without complaint. Marco trotted beside him, frequently glancing back at Chiara.

Watching the richly robed Riccardo carry her luggage, Chiara hesitated before asking, "Is there… only one servant in the house?"

Riccardo paused, then turned with a smile. "Oh, goodness no! There’s a carnival today at the Piazza della Signoria across the river. I gave all the young staff the day off to enjoy themselves."

Chiara: "…"

Truly… a model employer of humane management.

"Don’t worry about going hungry, Chiara," Riccardo added, patting his chest with his free hand. "I pride myself on my culinary skills, in fact."

Chiara’s gaze drifted again to his extravagantly ornate robe. The mere thought of wearing such a garment in a cramped summer kitchen seemed fantastical. But the true marvel was a nobleman who cooked.

"You needn’t be surprised, Chiara," Riccardo said, catching her look. His downturned eyes crinkled further. "Every Totti learns to cook from childhood. In fact, it was my cooking that won Martina’s heart."

Chiara: "…"

Only… only in Italy. Successfully wooing with 100 ways to cook pasta.

Reading Boccaccio’s *Decameron*, Chiara had imagined the luxury and natural beauty of Florentine noble estates. Experiencing it firsthand was different. Though centrally located and smaller than country villas, Palazzo Totti’s elegant loggias, central fountain, trailing vines, and potted citrus trees created a miniature, idyllic aristocratic life amidst the bustling city. Yet opening a door, one heard the clamor of streets—horses, carts, voices. It was a delicate, refined elegance utterly distinct from the Vatican’s or Palazzo Orsini’s grandeur.

"You will love Florence," Riccardo declared, showing Chiara to her room.

*

Martina had eaten Riccardo’s prepared meal earlier and fallen asleep. Riccardo explained this with a tone mingling tenderness and concern: "Sleep eludes her easily lately. Let her rest. When she wakes this afternoon and sees you, Chiara, she will be overjoyed."

Though curious about her birth mother, Chiara lacked the overwhelming emotional surge others might feel. She nodded politely at Riccardo and turned to her room. As she pushed the door, Marco, who had been silently watching, suddenly reached out and grasped her sleeve.

Chiara froze. Riccardo gently patted Marco’s head. "Marco? Did you want to tell your sister something?"

Marco stared intently at Chiara’s face. After several seconds, he spoke, his words halting: "I… I picked s-some white… white roses… in the g-garden this morning… P-put them… on s-sister’s pillow."

The effortful, blurred speech contrasted sharply with his earlier clear question. Before Chiara could ponder, Riccardo knelt before Marco, cupping his face with a smile. "Well done, our little Marco! You expressed yourself beautifully. Keep practicing, and it will flow smoother."

Riccardo’s words clarified it for Chiara: Marco likely had a condition affecting his speech, and Riccardo encouraged him to verbalize his thoughts. That earlier question—"Are you Sister Chiara?"—must have been practiced relentlessly.

Chiara, the embodiment of obliviousness who pondered why Venus never wore clothes, felt her heart soften for this striving child. And… and the boy was stunningly beautiful! The aesthetic admirer in Chiara suppressed the urge to ruffle his hair. Maintaining a gentle, slightly detached smile, she said sincerely, "Thank you, Marco."

Marco blinked his blue eyes, released her sleeve, and replied clearly: "You’re welcome." Evidently, gratitude was a familiar response.

Seeing Chiara’s acceptance of Marco, Riccardo, with her consent, left the boy with her. He headed straight for the kitchen, declaring he would personally prepare his signature dish for their guest from Rome, and also make Martina’s afternoon treat. "Martina gets quite cross if she wakes and finds no ricotta cake waiting," he chuckled before bustling downstairs.

Chiara rested a hand on Marco’s shoulder, watching Riccardo’s retreating back. *The Totti cook must fear for her job,* she mused.

Leading Marco into the room prepared for her, Chiara saw a shaft of sunlight pierce the lingering clouds. It fell through the shuttered window opposite the door, illuminating a patch of floor at her feet. In its beam, the room dimmed, while the view outside blazed with clarity.

She could see Florence’s layered red rooftops, ochre-yellow brick walls, and weaving through these warm hues, the slow blue ribbon of the Arno River. The water murmured; every tiny ripple, every small wave, reflected dancing points of light.

These colors composed the strange, captivating Florence before her eyes.

A city utterly unlike Rome.