“No…”  She gritted her teeth and tried to squirm away, but he held an arm around her shoulders.  “Don’t touch me!”

She kept looking between Lorenzo and Giovanni, expecting him to stop his son—to at least object—but he continued to stare at the vampire next to her with a completely impassive expression.

The tears fell faster when she realized Giovanni wasn’t going to stop him.

“Maybe you like biting her down here,” Lorenzo giggled, trailing a finger along her knee.  “Shall we take off her skirt and find—”

“He doesn’t!” Beatrice finally shrieked, pushing him away, unable to take the thought of the vampire’s cold hands touching the skin of her thighs.

“He’s never bitten me!  There are no marks,” she cried as she squirmed out of his grasp and scrambled to the other side of the couch.  “Leave me alone!  Don’t touch me.  Please, don’t touch me again.”

No one answered her.  She began to cry angry tears; she felt like an object in the room.  “Why aren’t you making him stop?”  She sniffed again and pulled her legs into her body, trying to make herself as small and casting her eyes around the room, looking for escape.

“For fuck’s sake,” she heard Gavin mutter.

Lorenzo scooted away from her, seemingly uninterested in her further discomfort.  “So, not your property after all, is she, Giovanni?”

Giovanni sat, coldly sipping his scotch in the armchair.  He glanced at Gavin.

“Why are you here, Wallace?”

“Shite, I’m here to witness a supposed business transaction that your little boy here doesn’t seem to want to complete.  Stop the gabbing, Lorenzo, and just do it.”

“Fine!” Lorenzo sat back and crossed his legs.  “You two are so boring.  I’m going to allow that she’s yours,” she saw Gavin open his mouth to speak, but Lorenzo continued, “even though we all know I could press the point if I wanted to.  Still, possession is nine-tenths of the law, or something like that.”  He shrugged.  “Anyway, Papà, I do have a proposition for you.”

He waved his hand toward the dining room table.  “Over on the table, I have your books, the entire Pico collection.  Manuscripts, letters, scrolls, blah, blah, blah.  What I’m proposing—since possession is nine-tenths of the law—is that you give me the girl, who I have use for, in exchange for your books, which I don’t.”

Her stomach dropped.  He wouldn’t…

“The entire Pico collection is there?” Giovanni asked.  Dread twisted in her stomach when she saw the interest light up his eyes.  He glanced over toward the table and then let his eyes flicker to her.

“No,” she whispered, but no one seemed to listen.

“Yes, yes.” Lorenzo rolled his eyes. “All of it.”

“And Andros’s books?”

He snorted.  “How valuable do you think she is?”

A sense of panic began to crawl over her skin the longer Giovanni looked at the books on the table.

“No,” she said a bit louder.  Still, no one even glanced at her.

“I’ve grown tired of lugging them around, so I thought I’d just throw them in this lovely fire if you don’t want them.  After all,” Lorenzo leaned forward, “they are mine.  Like the girl is yours.  I can do with them what I want.”

“What?” Beatrice looked around the room.  “I don’t belong—”

“Giovanni?” Gavin cut her off with a glare.  “What do you think?  He’s offered a fair trade, property for property, do you want the books or the girl?  It’s up to you,” Gavin said, as he played with a thread on his cuff.

“Gio,” Beatrice started in horror.  “No!  You can’t—”

“No trade,” Giovanni murmured, finally looking at her.

Beatrice relaxed into the couch, leaning her forehead on her knees as she took a deep breath; her heart rate, which had been pounding erratically, started to calm.

“Unless you have Giuliana’s sonnets.”

Her head shot up.

She stared at him in horror.  “What?”

He was looking at Lorenzo.  She shook her head in disbelief.

“No,” she said again, even louder.

Lorenzo reached over, drawing a thin book, bound in red leather, from the side table.  It was small, no bigger than the size of a composition book, and the binding was intricately tooled; she could see the finely preserved gold script on the cover.

“As a matter of fact,” Lorenzo said gleefully.  “I do.”

Giovanni cocked an eyebrow and held his pale hand out.  “Let me see them.”

She kept expecting him to offer her a look or a wink or…anything to tell her he was in control.  That he was bluffing.  That he wouldn’t trade her for his old books.  Anything to stop the cold feeling of dread and betrayal that began to climb her throat, choking her where she sat. She looked around the room in panic as Giovanni paged through the small book.

No, no, no, no, no, her mind chanted when she saw the interest in his eyes.

“They’re all there.  Angelo Poliziano had the originals bound after Giuliana sent them, heartbroken after her lover deserted her.  Andros took them after he murdered Poliziano.  These are her copies—written by her lover’s hand.  Now, would you like to trade?  Or are these little poems destined for the fire?”