My mind, wracked with indecision as it was, failed to function with the clarity to which it’d become accustomed. I stumbled as though in a fog, a blind assassin, a fool for love.
Marianna rested on the sheets of her sumptuous bed, her naked breasts liked heaped snow barely rising, almost dead. She was perhaps at her most peaceful at such times, the only times. To see her reclined as though whispering to angels reminded me of the fact I dealt with a person, a woman, a live and very beautiful contagion. I had to act whilst still I could.
The dagger the Visconte had given me shone in the near dark. English steel twinkled in the hand of an Italian murderer under the auspices of a French night. It seemed as though half the continent was involved in Marianna’s death, perhaps, it was.
I struck and slashed and stabbed and wept. When finally I ceased, my arms too heavy to lift for another strike, Marianna opened her eyes. The action did not last. A mere acknowledgment of her murderer, an account to be settled at a later date, she appraised me, loved me, and carried my name into Hell. I could not blame her, I deserved damnation.
I never returned to France. How could I? I disposed of the blade as the Visconte had instructed and fled.
It was many years later as I punted along the Arno with a beautiful young damsel named Annabella that I saw her. A glance, nothing more, Marianna’s emerald eyes flashed from in between the Ponte Vecchio crowds, then disappeared into the throng of humanity.
“What is the matter, Antonio? It is not like you to look troubled.”
“Oh, it is nothing, Bella, a mere moment’s indecision, nothing more. I thought I saw someone from my past.”
“And did you?”
“No, it couldn’t be, but I expect to see her soon.”