Page 92 of Ruling Destiny

He looks to Leonardo, smiles smugly, then says, “Continue.”

I lick my lips, unsure how to navigate this. I sneak a peek at Killian, who is clearly on edge, so I move on to Cosimo, who’s so panic-stricken he’s practically falling out of his chair. Then, focusing back on Cesare, I say, “And because you’re so complex, you’re often misunderstood. But mostly—” I pause, painfully aware of how Killian and Cosimo are both bracing for the moment when I explain to Cesare Borgia how five hundred years from this day, people will still be debating what exactly might’ve occurred between him and his sister, and how the wordsociopathis often used in conjunction with his name. But of course, I have no intention of revealing any of that. Instead, I say, “You are primarily known for your achievements—the various roles you inhabit, from cardinal to condottiero.”

Cesare jerks his head back. His shoulders stiffen. “Condottiero?” His dark brown eyes make a thorough study of my face, as though trying to determine whether to believe me.

And that’s when I remember that, on this day, Cesare is still a cardinal, still a few years away from becoming a captain in charge of a mercenary army. Though according to the shine in his eyes, that particular dream already has roots.

Cesare grins, folds my hand in his, and lifts it to his lips. “I like this girl,” he says. “Does she belong to anyone here?”

Belong?It’s all I can do to bite back the scathing reply that pops into my head.

Luckily, Killian jumps in to rescue me from both myself and from the infamous Borgia. “Sorry,” he says. “But the girl belongs to me.”

Cesare nods, releases my hand. “Never mind, then,” he says.

54

As Killian returns his attention to the beautiful woman beside him, Leonardo leans toward me and says, “So, you are not with the boy out of time? Or this is a game that you and Killian play?” Before I can respond, he nods toward Killian and adds, “He is very beautiful, no?”

I glance briefly at Killian. “Sì,” I say, aware of the flush that rises to my cheeks. Still, there’s no point in denying what’s so plain to see.

“But I would like to do a quick sketch of you,” Leonardo says. “If you are agreeable.”

“Me? Seriously?” I gape, unaware I’d answered in English until I see the amused look on his face. “Um, certo,” I tell him, struggling to keep my cool, which, let’s face it, I lost long ago.

With a square of parchment and a stub of red chalk, Leonardo positions me so I’m looking directly at Killian. “It is very complicated between you,” he says, his left hand deftly moving across the page. “It is this that I am determined to capture.”

I turn to him then. “Wait—what?” I ask, sure I misunderstood. “I mean, che?”

But Leonardo doesn’t respond. He just continues sketching as I watch Killian ramp up the full extent of his charm for the beautiful noblewoman’s benefit.

There are so many things I want to say—so many questions I need answered. But how can I possibly ask Leonardo to explain the choices he made in a painting he’s yet to begin?

Even if he did tease me about being an oracle and Braxton a boy out of time, I still can’t bring myself to go through with it.

For one thing, it might risk introducing one of those pesky time-travel issues, like a causal loop or bootstrap paradox. If I were to so much as mention a painting Leonardo has yet to conceive of, then whose idea is it, really?

Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in our short time together, it’s that Leonardo is deliberate, deeply observant, and undoubtedly the smartest person in any room. He’s also incredibly charismatic. And I’m left with the unmistakable feeling that nothing he does is ever by chance.

“You enjoy your studies?” he asks, the question seeming to come out of nowhere.

I turn to him, trying to get a better grasp of what he might mean. Was he referring to my Italian-language studies, or does he somehow know about Gray Wolf?

I’m about to ask him outright, but before I can summon the words, he gives a curt nod and directs my attention back to looking at Killian.

“Sì,” I reply, not knowing what else to say. “My studies are…buono.”Or is it buona, or even bene?Suddenly, whatever flimsy grasp I had on the language eludes me completely.

As Leonardo continues to draw, I watch as Killian fills the noblewoman’s goblet with wine. Or, should I say, even more wine.

When he returns the carafe to the table, his eye catches mine, and though I have no idea how it might look from Leonardo’s vantage, I swear I hear the legendary artist mumble something that sounds a lot like “perfetto.”

With a few more strokes of his chalk, Leonardo is done. “Enjoy your studies,” he says. “But remember: poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master.”

His gaze locks on mine as he slides the sketch toward me. “I would very much like to see your eyes when you look upon the boy out of time,” he says. “Maybe someday, yes?”

I give a tentative nod, then stare down at my portrait.

“What do you think?” he asks.

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