The Vampire and the Pope's Illegitimate Daughter

Chapter 5

By the time Giorgia arrived at her destination, it was nearly noon in Florence.

The horses pulling the carriage came to a stop, and the cheerful voice of the coachman rang out from outside the carriage: "Miss Borgia, the Totti residence in Florence has arrived."

The summer noons of the Apennine Peninsula were generally marked by scorching sun and the incessant drone of cicadas. However, perhaps due to the recently ceased rain, the clouds above Florence had not fully receded, layering and weakening the sun's intense rays. Giorgia had braced herself for the inevitable wilting under the sun the moment she stepped out of the carriage. Yet as she peeked her body halfway out of the cabin, a breeze with a hint of coolness brushed against her cheek.

"Are you Sister Giorgia?"

Before she could take in her surroundings, a young voice with a Tuscan accent greeted her. She turned her head toward the voice, seeing a young blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, around seven or eight, looking up at her.

Perhaps it was because the day's sunlight was too gentle, Giorgia—who had always been instinctively headache-prone when dealing with children due to constantly being around them—felt a subtle change in her heart when she saw this boy, who seemed as if he had stepped out of an egg tempera painting.

Standing beside the boy was a middle-aged man wearing an ivory white houppelande lined with gold thread. Though his demeanor lacked Rodrigo’s striking handsomeness and commanding presence, there was a friendliness to him that seemed entirely absent in the Borgia family. The slight downturn at the corners of his eyes added to his appearance of gentle temperament.

His hand rested naturally on the boy's shoulder. Upon seeing Giorgia, he smiled and said, "You must be Giorgia?"

He didn't speak in a completely Tuscan accent but instead switched to a Roman accent for Giorgia’s benefit.

The moment he spoke, Giorgia was certain this man was Martina’s husband, Riccardo Totti, and the boy was their son, Marco.

Vannozza had briefly described Martina's story of leaving Rome to start a new life in her letter.

This era was particularly unforgiving to foreign, single women. Martina had stayed briefly in both Subiaco and Perugia, but had to leave for various reasons. Hearing that Florence, under the rule of the Medici family, was minimally influenced by the Roman clergy, she decided to head to Florence to make a living. On her way, passing through a secluded village, the locals mistook her for a witch and captured her.

Just as Martina thought her new life would end before it had even begun, a passing Florentine merchant, on his way to Rome for business, spent five florins to buy her freedom from the stake.

That merchant, of course, was Riccardo.

However, Martina had written to Vannozza that she didn't marry Riccardo out of gratitude for saving her life; she wasn’t one to repay such favors in that way. Rather, she saw in Riccardo a freedom she had never witnessed before in anyone.

It was what she had longed for since childhood.

Originally, Giorgia thought the "freedom" mentioned in Martina's letter was abstract and elusive. But when she actually found herself at the Totti residence, she truly felt what a person from the Renaissance, an era already marked by considerable freedom, could mean by yearning for even more freedom.

Riccardo ran a family bank and several shops, including two pharmacies, a wool workshop, and other small businesses, making him quite wealthy. The Totti family had a long-established history, with several ancestors holding key positions in Florence's town hall. In Florence, they were considered a prestigious family.

The Totti residence was located along the Arno River, with a view from the second floor of the Ponte Vecchio and Palazzo Vecchio. It could be said to be situated in the heart of Florence. Not far from Florence, in Arezzo and Volterra, the family also had several spacious manors.

Despite their prominence in both business and politics, the mansion was empty at noon. Except for an elderly maid in her sixties tending to the sickly lady of the house, the courtyards and corridors were deserted, leaving only Giorgia, Riccardo, Marco, and their midday shadows.

Since there was no one else around, Riccardo took Giorgia’s luggage. He even hefted it a bit, raising an eyebrow before commenting, "I didn't expect you to bring so many things—it's quite heavy. Actually, there's no need; anything you can get in Vatican, you can buy in Florence."

Giorgia, feeling a bit embarrassed, lowered her head slightly. "I brought some books..."

"You enjoy reading?" Riccardo said with pride. "Then whatever you can find in Vatican, you can definitely buy in Florence. In fact, Florence has books you may not even find in Vatican."

Although he said so, Riccardo showed no complaints as he carried Giorgia's luggage—loaded with numerous books—and walked off, with Marco following closely behind, occasionally glancing back to gaze at Giorgia.

Looking at Riccardo's elaborately dressed figure, Giorgia hesitated before finally voicing her question: "Is there... only one servant in this house?"

Riccardo paused briefly, then turned and smiled at Giorgia. "Oh, of course not. Today, there’s a festival happening at the Lord’s Square on the other side of the river. I gave all the young folks in the household the day off so they could go enjoy themselves."

Giorgia: "..."

Well... Riccardo was certainly an empathetic boss.

"But don’t worry about not having food, Giorgia." Riccardo patted his chest with his free hand. "In fact, I’ve always been quite confident in my cooking skills."

Giorgia took another silent glance at his overly lavish houppelande.

Leaving aside the question of how hot it must be to wear such a garment in summer, imagining someone wearing it while crouching in a cramped kitchen seemed simply bizarre.

No, what was truly bizarre was that Riccardo, a nobleman, could actually cook.

"You don’t need to be surprised, Giorgia." It seemed Riccardo had caught a hint of her confusion; his eyes, naturally drooping at the corners, narrowed further with mirth. "Every member of the Totti family learns how to cook from a young age. In fact, it was with my cooking that I won Martina's heart."

Giorgia: "..."

Well... Italians never fail to surprise. Winning a girl over with a hundred pasta recipes—that’s something only they could do.

When reading Boccaccio's *Decameron*, Giorgia had already appreciated, through the words, the luxurious and natural atmosphere of Florentine noble estates. But actually stepping into one brought a different experience altogether.

The Totti residence, located in the city's center, didn't have as much space as a country villa. However, its intricate corridors, the courtyard fountain, and the vines and citrus plants sprinkled throughout all created a miniature version of an aristocratic pastoral life amid the bustling city.

Yet, opening the door, one could still hear the noise from the streets—the carts, carriages, and the bustling crowd.

It was elegance and sophistication distinct from the grandeur of the Vatican Palace and Orsini Palace.

"You’re going to love Florence," Riccardo said, smiling as he led Giorgia to the room prepared for her.

Martina had fallen asleep after having the meal prepared by Riccardo earlier. Riccardo spoke in a tone between tenderness and affection when explaining this to Giorgia, "She hasn’t had a good sleep in a while, so let’s let her rest for now. When she wakes up in the afternoon, I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you."

Although Giorgia felt some curiosity about her birth mother, she didn’t feel overwhelmed with emotion. She smiled gently at Riccardo, nodded, and was about to enter her room when Marco, who had been quietly watching her, suddenly tugged at her sleeve.

She blinked. Riccardo lightly patted Marco's head and gently asked, "Marco, do you have something you want to say to your sister?"

Marco looked up at Giorgia’s face, not blinking, and after a few seconds, he spoke, struggling with his words, "I-I picked some white roses in the courtyard this morning, and I p-put them on your p-pillow."

His words were a bit stuttered, very different from the fluent sentence he had uttered earlier to greet Giorgia.

As Giorgia wondered about this, Riccardo knelt in front of Marco, holding his face gently. Smiling, he said, "Our little Marco did wonderfully, managing to express what he wanted to say. Keep practicing, and you’ll speak more smoothly."

With Riccardo’s explanation, Giorgia began to understand—Marco must have some condition that made speaking difficult. Riccardo encouraged him to express himself, despite the challenge. Likely, Marco had practiced his earlier greeting repeatedly to say it smoothly.

Although Giorgia often found herself perplexed by the lack of clothes on Venus in famous paintings, she had a soft spot for diligent children.

Besides... this child was simply beautiful!

Giorgia, an unrepentant admirer of beauty, resisted the urge to pat Marco’s hair. Maintaining her soft, slightly aloof smile, she spoke to Marco with sincerity, "Thank you, Marco."

Marco blinked his blue eyes and let go of Giorgia's sleeve, saying, "You’re welcome."

This sentence was spoken very smoothly, suggesting that Marco often received thanks from others.

Seeing that Giorgia wasn’t put off by Marco, Riccardo, with her consent, left Marco in Giorgia's company while he headed to the kitchen, vowing to personally prepare a meal for his guest from Rome and an afternoon snack for Martina.

"If Martina wakes up and doesn’t get her cheesecake, she’s going to be upset," Riccardo said, laughing as he hurried downstairs.

Giorgia placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder, watching Riccardo’s retreating figure and thinking to herself that the Totti family's cook must surely fear for her job.

She took Marco by the hand and walked into the room Riccardo had prepared for her. The first thing she saw through the louvered window opposite the door was a beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds, falling directly onto the floor at her feet.

Under the influence of the light, everything inside the room seemed dim, while the scenery beyond the window was exceptionally bright.

She could see the layered red rooftops of Florence, the ochre brick walls, and between these orderly clusters of red and yellow, the slow-flowing blue Arno River. Its water rippled, and the tiny waves reflected shimmering flecks of light. These colors formed an unfamiliar yet incredibly captivating Florence in her eyes.

This was a city completely different from Rome.