The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(4)

He scaled one of the interior walls and suspended himself from the ceiling, taking care to be silent in his movements. This was an old trick of his kind when they wished to observe human behavior unseen. It was amazing how few human beings ever bothered to look up.

While the Emersons kissed and whispered to each other, the Prince took a moment to appreciate The Birth of Venus and the copy of Botticelli’s original Primavera, an immense feeling of superiority and satisfaction swelling his chest.

With respect to Primavera, he knew what no one else in the world knew. He held his secret knowledge tightly, like a precious jewel.

His self-congratulatory thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Emerson, who grabbed her husband suddenly and pulled him to the corridor.

The Prince was about to follow them when he noticed a new addition to the room, near where the Emersons had been kissing.

Dropping soundlessly from the ceiling to the floor, he strode toward the work. A few feet away he stopped.

On the wall opposite The Birth of Venus was a large black-and-white photograph of Mrs. Emerson. She was in profile, eyes closed and smiling. Her long dark hair was being lifted by a pair of hands.

It was an extraordinary image, even to his cold and cynical gray eyes. Its beauty was made poignant by the knowledge she was ill.

His eyes traveled to the words that had been posted below the photograph. It was a quotation from Dante,

«Deh, bella donna, che a’ raggi d’amore

ti scaldi, s’i’ vo’ credere a’ sembianti

che soglion esser testimon del core,

vegnati in voglia di trarreti avanti»,

diss’io a lei, «verso questa rivera,

tanto ch’io possa intender che tu canti.

Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era

Proserpina nel tempo che perdette

la madre lei, ed ella primavera».

—Dante, Purgatorio 28.045–051.

“Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love

Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks,

Which the heart’s witnesses are wont to be,

May the desire come unto thee to draw

Near to this river’s bank,” I said to her,

“So much that I might hear what thou art singing.

Thou makest me remember where and what

Proserpina that moment was when lost

Her mother her, and she herself the Spring.”

The Prince scoffed and turned on his heel. He hadn’t liked Dante in life and he liked him even less in death.

Beatrice was a different case. . . .

Let the Emersons view themselves as modern incarnations of Dante and Beatrice. It mattered not. Mercy was not part of the Prince’s nature and not all the romantic love in the world would change that fact.

The professor would pay for his thievery, and his wife would mourn him. In those events, justice would be served.

Anxious that perhaps the Emersons had fled the building, he entered the hall, following their scent down the corridor.

In the distance, he could hear voices and muffled sounds.

He approached silently, almost floating across the floor.

Desperate groans and the rustling of fabric filled his ears, along with the twin sounds of rapidly beating hearts. He could smell their scents, the aromas heightened due to their sexual arousal.

He growled in reaction, baring his teeth.

The corridor was shrouded in darkness but the Prince could see that the professor had his wife up against a window between two statues, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Her voice was breathy as she spoke, but the Prince tuned out her words, moving closer so he could catch a glimpse of her lovely face.

At the sight of it, flushed with passion, his old heart quickened and he felt the stirrings of arousal.

It was not his custom to observe rather than participate. But on this occasion, he decided to make an exception. Careful to remain in the darkness, he moved to the wall opposite the couple.

The woman squirmed in her lover’s arms, her high heels catching on his tuxedo jacket. Her fingers flew to his neck, undoing his bow tie and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

She unbuttoned his shirt, and her mouth moved to his chest, as murmurs of pleasure escaped his lips.

The Prince felt more than desire as he watched the woman’s eager movements. He caught a glimpse of her exquisite mouth and the toss of her long hair that would no doubt feel like silk between his fingers.

She lifted her head to smile at the man who held her close and he could see love in her eyes.

It had been many, many years since someone smiled at him like that. As if he, himself, were the prize.

The Prince felt the sharpness of loss in that instance and the heaviness of an emerging envy.

The second floor was not air-conditioned and was warm, very warm. The air clung, growing thick with the scent of the lovers—a mixture of blood and sex that teased the Prince’s nostrils.

The professor’s hand disappeared between his wife’s legs and he began to touch her, whispering sensual words of appreciation.

The Prince craned his neck for a better view but of course his line of sight was obscured by the professor’s body.

He cursed, remembering once again how the professor seemed to stand between him and what he wanted.

He followed the movement of the man’s arm, watching as the rhythm was matched by the shifting of the woman’s hips and the sounds emanating from her throat. Breathy groans and panting tempted him to push the professor aside and take her himself.