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insecurities. “I was his family. I was.”
    Andros rose, and Jacopo’s eyes followed him. At first glance, Niccolo Andros did not look exceptionally strong or powerful. He was black-haired and bore the even, Mediterranean features shared by most men of Jacopo’s acquaintance. He had a medium build, though his arms were thickly muscled, more like those of a laborer than a successful merchant. The only startling things about the man were his pale complexion and vivid blue gaze, which sparked with intelligence and calculation. When Jacopo looked into Andros’s eyes, they radiated a quiet menace.
    “No, my boy, you weren’t his family, but you will be mine.” Andros stepped closer in the small room, towering over the tall, young man as he sat on the edge of the bed.
    “Do what I say, and I promise you I shall call you my son. In front of a far more powerful court than the piddling salons of the Medici, I will stand up and call you my child.”
    Jacopo frowned. “What do you speak of? What court is more powerful than the Medici? Are you a priest? Do you claim the Holy Father’s favor?”
    The older man chuckled. “Oh, my dear boy, how your eyes will be opened! Your world has been so small, even with all your uncle’s travels. That which I speak of is beyond your comprehension. But you will understand. I promise, very soon, you will understand.” Andros’s voice grew gentle. “You have never truly had a home, a family. I will be your family. I will call you my son, and someday, all that I have will be yours, do you understand?”
    Despite his fear, a strange kind of desire began to fill Jacopo. He had watched many men lie, and was more than proficient at the art himself, but Andros’s eyes held none of the telltale signs of a deceiver. In fact, despite the ridiculous promise of the words he spoke, Jacopo almost believed him.
    “You would call me your son?”
    Andros smiled and stepped forward, placing a cool hand on Jacopo’s cheek. “Trust me, my child. I am your family now.”
     
     
    Los Angeles, California
    March 2012
     
    He woke suddenly, twitching his nose at the memory of the salt air. Giovanni blinked the sleep from his eyes and immediately searched the bedroom. As was her habit, Beatrice sat in the large chair by the fireplace, reading a journal and taking notes in a small book. Her forehead crinkled in thought as she puzzled over some mystery. He took a silent moment to examine her.
    She was stronger than he was now, though she lacked his experience, discipline, and control. For whatever reason, the cocktail of blood that had flooded her mortal body during her change had effected a truly spectacular transformation. In the year and a half since she had turned, Beatrice had grown in power and confidence. She rarely acted impulsively, and her grace was that of someone ten times her age.
    Happily, she was still the same woman he had fallen in love with.
    “Tesoro.”
    She looked up and a slow smile spread across her face.
    “Hey, handsome.”
    He cocked a finger at her, squinting his eyes as he caught the teasing light in her own. She rose and sauntered toward him as he continued to beckon her. Once she was within arm’s reach, he pounced. Beatrice laughed and rolled across the floor with him as they played.
    “You’re in a mood for just waking up.” She laughed as they came to a stop halfway to the fireplace. Giovanni braced himself over her and looked down. “Do I dare ask what you were dreaming about?”
    Sadly, not what you’re thinking of. He kissed along her collar and nuzzled into her neck. “Have I told you tonight that I love you?”
    “No.”
    “I do. I love you.” His lips explored the nape of her neck, where her soft, honeysuckle scent was strongest.
    “I love you, too.”
    He rolled to the side and let his hand trail along her shoulder. “And I love our home.”
    She laughed. “Okay.”
    “And our family.”
    She caught his chin and forced his eyes to hers. Giovanni met her