I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis

sculptor Verrocchio, of a business associate, Antonio Ridolfo,of the socialite Sigismondo della Stuffa. This crowd sealed him off from his attacker and began to press him toward the altar.
    Lorenzo resisted. “Giuliano!” he cried. “Brother, where are you?”
    “We will find and protect him. Now, go!” Nori ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the altar, where the priests, in their alarm, had dropped the full chalice, staining the altarcloth with wine.
    Lorenzo hesitated.
    “Go!”
Nori shouted again. “They are headed here! Go past them, to the north sacristy!”
    Lorenzo had no idea who
they
were, but he acted. Still clutching his sword, he hurdled over the low railing and leapt into the octagonal carved wooden structure that housed the choir. Cherubic boys shrieked as they scattered, their white robes flapping like the wings of startled birds.
    Followed by his protectors, Lorenzo pushed his way through the flailing choir and staggered toward the great altar. The astringent smoke of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of spilled wine; two tall, heavy candelabra were ablaze. The priest and his assistants now encircled the blubbering Riario protectively. Lorenzo blinked at them. The afterimage from the lit tapers left him near blinded, and in an instant of dizziness, he put his free hand to his neck; it came away bloodied.
    Yet he willed himself, for Giuliano’s sake, not to faint. He could not permit himself a moment’s weakness—not until his brother was safe.
    At the same moment that Lorenzo ran north across the altar, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli, down in the sanctuary, were pushing their way south, clearly unaware that they were passing their intended target.
    Lorenzo stopped in mid-stride to gape at them, causing collisions within his trailing entourage.
    Baroncelli led the way, brandishing a long knife and shouting unintelligibly. Francesco was limping badly; his thigh was bloodied, his tunic spattered with crimson.
    Lorenzo strained to see past those surrounding him, to look beyondthe moving bodies to the place where his brother had been standing, but his view was obstructed.
    “Giuliano!” he screamed, with all the strength he possessed, praying he would be heard above the pandemonium. “Giuliano . . . ! Where are you? Brother, speak to me!”
    The crowd closed around him. “It’s all right,” someone said, in a tone so dubious it failed to provoke the comfort it intended.
    It was
not
all right that Giuliano should be missing. From the day of his father’s death, Lorenzo had cared for his brother with a love both fraternal and paternal. “Giuliano!” Lorenzo screamed again. “Giuliano . . . !”
    “He is not there,” a muffled voice replied. Thinking it meant his brother had moved south to find him, Lorenzo turned back in that direction, where his friends still fought the assassins. The smaller priest with the shield had fled altogether, but the madman remained, though he was losing the battle with Marco. Giuliano was nowhere to be seen.
    Discouraged, Lorenzo began to turn away, but the glint of swift-moving steel caught his eye and compelled him to look back.
    The blade belonged to Bernardo Baroncelli. With a viciousness Lorenzo would never have dreamed him capable of, Baroncelli ran his long knife deep into the pit of Francesco Nori’s stomach. Nori’s eyes bulged as he stared down at the intrusion; his lips formed a small, perfect
O
as he fell backward, sliding off Baroncelli’s sword.
    Lorenzo let go a sob. Poliziano and della Stuffa took his shoulders and pushed him away, across the altar and toward the tall doors of the sacristy. “Get Francesco!” he begged them. “Someone bring Francesco. He is still alive; I know it!”
    He tried again to turn, to call out for his brother, but this time his people would not let him slow their relentless march to the sacristy. Lorenzo felt a physical pain in his chest, a pressure so brutal he thought his heart would