CHAPTER 82

CHAPTER 82

THE TWO WERE ENGAGED in what appeared to be a wild, even violent dance not suited to the sensitive. Although sensitivity there was its most graceful element, two steps forward, and the other step back in minutely studied movements, however, incredibly beautiful. The feet sometimes retreated, sometimes advanced. However, they were always sensitive to the firmness of the floor, like ballerinas, who, knowing the platform, are sure of their best presentation.

They had been there for more than thirty minutes, and the balance between the two would have been recognizable by any hypothetical observer. Another aspect due to its fundamental nature was jewelry. Unique and expensive pieces, crafted by artisans, whose art was passed down from father to son since the time when the Arabs were expelled from the Iberian peninsula.

The sun that penetrated through the huge windows overlooking St. Mark's Square made them shine. However, the intense glow did not distract the attention of the two who came and went, changing positions in a solemn and respectful way. Until the cold steel of the rich sword crafted in Toledo cut the air once more, going to settle in the place where, below the protection, the heart would be.

— Tuche! — exclaimed Cardinal Domenico Di Polli.

Her opponent, still with the tip of the sword compressing her chest, slightly flexed her knees as if accepting defeat. The moment he removed the protection from his face, an intense black hair spread over his back. Francesca's hazel eyes then turned to her chest still pressed against the blade.

— You're an excellent fencer, Uncle. He should, like my father, have pursued a career in the military.

— Do not think, my lovely niece, that the career I have chosen differs greatly from your father's. I'm a soldier in a way too, I just chose the cross over the sword.

— I wonder then if I had chosen the sword — Francesca teased as she pulled the sword from her chest.

— The sword!... — Di Polli reflected — ... the sword has no soul.

Francesca, her niece, a wonderful and dangerous young woman. At twenty-six, she was already a skilled officer in the Italian army. Who knew, such a beautiful young woman, expert in anti-terrorism and bladed weapons.

Di Polli dropped his sword and hugged it affectionately.

— My dear, you are the only person I trust.

— I love you uncle, I will never let you down.

The young woman hugged him for a long time, then looked firmly into those black eyes.

— I am sure that you will be the next Pope.

— I hope that God is also sure.