Never Expect a Vampire Like You

Chapter 4: The Byronic Brother

Cesare was Vannozza and Rodrigo’s eldest child. From infancy, he never cried, fussed, or clung, nor made the unreasonable demands typical of young children. Consequently, Rodrigo held immense hopes for him, determined to groom him for the Papal Court to cement the Borgia family's dominance over Rome.

Thus, at seven, Cesare became a canon in the Borgia ancestral diocese of Valencia. At eight, he was appointed Papal Secretary. By nine, he held the posts of Rector of the Diocese of Gandía and Treasurer of Cartagena Cathedral. Each time news of Cesare’s latest appointment reached Chiara, she couldn’t help but mentally applaud Rodrigo. *Nepotism executed with such brazen confidence. Truly, a master.*

Yet Cesare faced these opportunities—unthinkable for ordinary children—with preternatural calm. Rodrigo and Adriana attributed this to his emulation of Chiara’s famed composure, praising him highly. Until the day Rodrigo announced plans for Juan to join the Papal Guard. Chiara saw it then: the first c***k in Cesare’s perpetually impassive facade.

He did not want the Church. He wanted the army.

He lost his composure before Chiara for the first time. Fists clenched, voice low and deliberate, he enunciated: “What I want, I take.”

Instantly, the words *grave peril* flashed in Chiara’s mind. No wonder she’d always sensed something off about this brother. Now she understood. Was it really healthy for an eight-year-old to sound so chillingly imperious?

Years later, facing the same declaration from her now-imperious brother, Chiara merely paused for a few seconds, contemplated, then offered sincere well-wishes: “Rest assured, Cesare. If anyone can, it’s you.”

Had Cesare lived in the modern era and read Japanese light novels, he might have narrowed his eyes and flashed a dazzlingly earnest smile: “Only Chiara’s words can truly lift my spirits.”

Chiara silently shelved the mental image and studied Cesare. Though she’d never seen Rodrigo in his youth, Cesare offered a glimpse. Every Borgia possessed a stature taller than their peers, and with the family’s Spanish heritage, their features were more sculpted, more profound. Cesare embodied these traits amplified, yet harmoniously—his bone structure and features flawlessly balanced, achieving a perfect, striking beauty.

Faced with beauty, people instinctively become more forgiving. Chiara was no exception, though she was acutely aware of her susceptibility to a handsome face. Knowing such deep-seated obsession in one so young was troubling, she softened her tone. “Surely one’s own happiness is more important?”

Cesare had reached the door. Hand on the latch, he paused at her words, turning back. The chill had vanished from his blue eyes. A short, almost-laugh escaped him. “So why go to Florence? For happiness?”

Chiara blinked. “……”

“I don’t believe you’re truly curious about your birth mother,” Cesare said, pulling the door open and stepping into the moonlight. “But I do believe you are genuinely seeking happiness right now.”

Chiara listened to the fading sound of Cesare’s boots on the loggia steps before slowly unbuttoning the men’s shirt. Florence, she’d heard, had endured weeks of rain—much cooler than Rome. Natural air conditioning promised happiness. She truly was eager to feel the Apennine Peninsula’s rarest summer breeze in Florence.

*Observe everything.*

Cesare had clearly taken Rodrigo’s instruction to heart.

If Rome at this time was a chaotic den of crime, Florence, nearly three hundred kilometers away, was a dream city—orderly, prosperous, and intoxicated by art, fine wine, and luxurious attire.

Florence had won its autonomy from Holy Roman Emperor Henry VI in the 12th century, becoming an independent city-republic. It subsequently conquered Pistoia, Arezzo, and Pisa, establishing dominance over Tuscany. Simultaneously, its handicrafts, commerce, and particularly banking flourished, making it Europe’s financial heart.

And once people acquire wealth, they seek other diversions.

Like art.

Even with Chiara’s limited historical focus, she knew of Renaissance Florence. Adriana, during lessons, had highlighted its artists—Giotto, Verrocchio, Botticelli. Giulia and Lucrezia adored Botticelli, captivated by the ineffable allure of the women he painted.

Years earlier, the Papal Court had invited Florence’s renowned masters to fresco the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican Palace. Botticelli was among them. Though Chiara never saw those frescoes, she vividly recalled the graceful pose of Venus standing on the shell in Botticelli’s masterpiece, *The Birth of Venus*.

Once, two male university classmates had argued for two weeks over whether “Botticelli’s women were prettier than Titian’s.” Chiara, busy mastering parkour, found it baffling. Finally, they dragged her in as judge, fresh from vaulting the school wall. Prepared to offer her usual diplomatic non-answer, Chiara studied *The Birth of Venus* and *Venus of Urbino* with her limited artistic sense, then voiced a question that had puzzled her for years: “Why is Venus never wearing clothes? Is she hot? Doesn’t she get cold?”

…Thus, Chiara earned the nickname that followed her for years:

*Embodiment of Obliviousness.*

During the journey from Rome to Florence, the Florentine-born coachman, learning Chiara had never left Rome, enthusiastically extolled his hometown. From Dante to the currently famous Botticelli, from the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore to the Palazzo Vecchio, he embodied the Apennine summer’s warmth in an unstoppable torrent of words. Chiara murmured agreement, inwardly sighing: *Only in Italy*—a phrase she was thoroughly weary of uttering.

“If you can, Signorina Borgia, you must see Santa Maria del Fiore,” the coachman urged. “It is the pride of Florence.”

Chiara started to agree casually, then recalled the tower in Palazzo Orsini overlooking half of Rome. “Is it tall? Santa Maria del Fiore?”

“Tall! Very tall!” the coachman declared proudly. “It possesses the most perfect dome.”

Though three hundred kilometers was trivial in later centuries—a car ride under three hours—in this era of horse-drawn transport, the journey demanded time. Chiara, unaccustomed to long travel in this life, began questioning her decision to escape Rome’s heat as the jolting over rough roads rattled her bones. Finally, the carriage passed through Florence’s city gates.

Contrary to Rodrigo’s report, Florence wasn’t drowning in rain. Puddles had mostly evaporated. Sunlight pierced the thick clouds above the city, dappling the prosperous, affluent streets. The coachman expertly guided the carriage along the main thoroughfare, beaming. “Signorina Borgia! I don’t know if it’s your luck or Florence’s! You arrive, and the rain that’s plagued us for over a month stops! The sun returns!”

Chiara’s face went wooden. “…You… please stop talking.”

At this moment, her happiness evaporated.

Soon after, the coachman announced, “Signorina Borgia, look! There is Santa Maria del Fiore!”

Though robbed of her rain-cooled joy, Chiara still lifted the carriage curtain. The essence of the city washed over her.

She saw the city, painted in ochre hues, gently bathed in post-rain sunshine—brilliant yet not harsh. Light particles, reflected from brick walls and rooftops, seemed like loving responses to the sun. A minstrel strummed a lyre in a piazza. Men and women thronging the streets, in dress and demeanor, seemed far freer than within the Vatican’s shadow. They spoke Tuscan-accented Italian, voices weaving through the mundane chatter. An eagle soared overhead, drawing her gaze across the bustling streets to the vast, magnificent white cathedral dominating the piazza beyond, crowned by its unmistakable, pagan-hued red dome.

Even surrounded by Vatican churches, this one commanded awe.

As she marveled, her eyes caught a figure standing atop the red dome. Her pupils dilated. But before she could focus, the figure vanished.

She stared blankly for seconds, blinked hard. The circular drum of the dome remained empty, save for a single shaft of light slipping through the clouds, caressing the gentle red curve.

She dropped the curtain, leaned back against the carriage seat, and rubbed her eyes.

Time for some eye exercises tonight.