Domenic Clemente looked up.Two in the morning.He set his well-worn edition of Machiavelli lovingly aside and stood. With a leisurely stretch, he left the villa and strolled out for a bit of night air to clear his head.One week earlier, Little Genoa had been sacked and burned, Monteverdi had flung himself to his death, Allegra had been kidnapped, and he had come to power. The island had been in constant chaos since—fires, riots, wars of villagers against soldiers. The guests from the anniversary feast, as well as most of the Genovese nobles, had bundled up their families and fled.With his having come into the governorship with a broken wrist, a black eye, and no fiancée, the crisis that fell into his lap was made all the more complicated by the rebels’ efforts to seize power.The funny thing was, Domenic mused, he had captured a few rebels, and, with a little torture to persuade them to talk, all had admitted that the man who had carried out the destruction of Little Genoa was not one of their own.
