Giovanni had to mentally reiterate to himself that he personally had nothing against Oreste. The Medici assassin was a man of few words, often morose and silent, and once Giovanni had tailed him for fun and found out that despite being a fairly young man, younger even than Lorenzo, Oreste was supporting a family on the outskirts of the city, with a wife and three little girls to feed and provide for. Further investigation in the neighborhood had revealed that it wasn’t his wife at all, but an older sister ‘abandoned’ by her abusive husband.
So in that regard, Giovanni actually had respect for Oreste on a personal level. Still, it took all of his self-control to keep his silence when Oreste opened the door to Lorenzo’s office, even if he was evidently on his way out of it. The man tended to cowl himself in grays over merchant-like clothes, and he wore no weapons openly. He nodded when he recognized Giovanni, stepping aside. “Messer.”
Giovanni nodded at him and forced himself to keep his tone even. “Buona sera, Messer.”
“Lord Lorenzo is expecting you,” Oreste said, unnecessarily, then he bowed again and stalked away on silent feet. Dust coated his boots, and he had smelled as if he had been out riding. On missions, perhaps. His mood souring fast, Giovanni let himself into the spacious office and locked the door behind him.
Lorenzo was standing at the window, his hands folded behind his back, staring out over Firenze. “Giovanni.”
“Milord.” Giovanni had prepared a careful apology that had since frozen to an awkward stop in his throat.
“I may have been… abrupt with you,” Lorenzo said, after the silence stretched uncomfortably. “Perhaps I owe you an explanation.”
Giovanni straightened, surprised. This was unexpected. “Lord Lorenzo-”
“Silence, Giovanni,” Lorenzo snapped, with a touch of his usual impatience, then his voice smoothed back into velvet. “You do good work at my bank, usually. Your supervisors and the manager have nothing but praise for you.”
“Grazie, milord,” Giovanni said, puzzled. “I try my best.”
“As you do at everything you do?”
“I try.”
“So I believe.” Lorenzo said, quietly, rounding back to stand beside his desk, his arms folded, piercing eyes unreadable. “Growing old is not something to be ashamed of, Giovanni. It will happen to all of us. Even did you not already work for me as a banker, the Medici will provide for all of its own. Oreste, for example. He has no head for numbers, for anything other than bladework. Some day he may die, or be incapacitated. I will still provide for him and his family, as long as I am able.”
Giovanni finally saw where this was headed. “It was but one mistake, milord, one which I am heartily sorry for. Give me another chance, per favore. I can still do this for you.”
“You have served me long and well since I was a child, Giovanni. If by my previous tone or demeanor I have made your retirement seem like dismissal or disgrace, then I apologize.”
It was gracefully said, but anger still colored Giovanni’s tone as he retorted, “I said that I can still serve you, milord, and I will. I am still the best that you have.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Lorenzo shot back. “I have relied on you for too long, Giovanni, relied on you for everything of importance. Now I have come to the distinct realization that no others in my deck of blades is as sharp as you, or as cunning, and that… that is weakness.”
Giovanni rocked back on his heels, stunned by the vehemence in Lorenzo’s tone. “But-”
“You serve two masters.” Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. “And despite that, I still lean far too heavily on you. That will change. Giovanni,” he continued wearily, when Giovanni frowned, “By your very report, you were nearly killed.”
“The wound was not so serious.”
“But it could have been. You are growing slower, Giovanni. Older. As I said,” Lorenzo added sharply, “This is an observation. We all in God’s will grow older and slower. If I must lose you then let it be to see you buried with honor rather than for you to lie dead and unknown in some alley because you were too slow to dodge a blow.”
The Price of Failure [3/?]
Giovanni had to mentally reiterate to himself that he personally had nothing against Oreste. The Medici assassin was a man of few words, often morose and silent, and once Giovanni had tailed him for fun and found out that despite being a fairly young man, younger even than Lorenzo, Oreste was supporting a family on the outskirts of the city, with a wife and three little girls to feed and provide for. Further investigation in the neighborhood had revealed that it wasn’t his wife at all, but an older sister ‘abandoned’ by her abusive husband.
So in that regard, Giovanni actually had respect for Oreste on a personal level. Still, it took all of his self-control to keep his silence when Oreste opened the door to Lorenzo’s office, even if he was evidently on his way out of it. The man tended to cowl himself in grays over merchant-like clothes, and he wore no weapons openly. He nodded when he recognized Giovanni, stepping aside. “Messer.”
Giovanni nodded at him and forced himself to keep his tone even. “Buona sera, Messer.”
“Lord Lorenzo is expecting you,” Oreste said, unnecessarily, then he bowed again and stalked away on silent feet. Dust coated his boots, and he had smelled as if he had been out riding. On missions, perhaps. His mood souring fast, Giovanni let himself into the spacious office and locked the door behind him.
Lorenzo was standing at the window, his hands folded behind his back, staring out over Firenze. “Giovanni.”
“Milord.” Giovanni had prepared a careful apology that had since frozen to an awkward stop in his throat.
“I may have been… abrupt with you,” Lorenzo said, after the silence stretched uncomfortably. “Perhaps I owe you an explanation.”
Giovanni straightened, surprised. This was unexpected. “Lord Lorenzo-”
“Silence, Giovanni,” Lorenzo snapped, with a touch of his usual impatience, then his voice smoothed back into velvet. “You do good work at my bank, usually. Your supervisors and the manager have nothing but praise for you.”
“Grazie, milord,” Giovanni said, puzzled. “I try my best.”
“As you do at everything you do?”
“I try.”
“So I believe.” Lorenzo said, quietly, rounding back to stand beside his desk, his arms folded, piercing eyes unreadable. “Growing old is not something to be ashamed of, Giovanni. It will happen to all of us. Even did you not already work for me as a banker, the Medici will provide for all of its own. Oreste, for example. He has no head for numbers, for anything other than bladework. Some day he may die, or be incapacitated. I will still provide for him and his family, as long as I am able.”
Giovanni finally saw where this was headed. “It was but one mistake, milord, one which I am heartily sorry for. Give me another chance, per favore. I can still do this for you.”
“You have served me long and well since I was a child, Giovanni. If by my previous tone or demeanor I have made your retirement seem like dismissal or disgrace, then I apologize.”
It was gracefully said, but anger still colored Giovanni’s tone as he retorted, “I said that I can still serve you, milord, and I will. I am still the best that you have.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Lorenzo shot back. “I have relied on you for too long, Giovanni, relied on you for everything of importance. Now I have come to the distinct realization that no others in my deck of blades is as sharp as you, or as cunning, and that… that is weakness.”
Giovanni rocked back on his heels, stunned by the vehemence in Lorenzo’s tone. “But-”
“You serve two masters.” Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. “And despite that, I still lean far too heavily on you. That will change. Giovanni,” he continued wearily, when Giovanni frowned, “By your very report, you were nearly killed.”
“The wound was not so serious.”
“But it could have been. You are growing slower, Giovanni. Older. As I said,” Lorenzo added sharply, “This is an observation. We all in God’s will grow older and slower. If I must lose you then let it be to see you buried with honor rather than for you to lie dead and unknown in some alley because you were too slow to dodge a blow.”