1655
Florence, Italy
The heavens were beautiful.
A few crickets joyfully chirped under the full moon at its peak, and a modest breeze brushed through the tiny spaces in between the colorful buildings on the Ponte Vecchio. The Arno River reflected the twinkling stars, resembling flickering oil lamps. I felt as if I were tranquilly drifting in a peaceful dream, one I hadn’t had since Joseph came into the world six years ago. I didn’t want this moment to end: I wanted Marie and little Joseph to see this alluring ambiance laid before my eyes. I started over the bridge again.
The road on the Ponte Vecchio ended, and I met a paved path that split into two directions. Stopping for an instant, I slowly turned to the left, following the brick-paved path straight to home. I stared intently back, and wished I never left the marvel of the bridge. But my family, although small, was the most that mattered to me, and so, I continued on.
After a few dozen minutes of strolling past merchants and vendors, cardinal red roofs and alabaster white buildings, and the awe-inspiring Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (the Duomo as the locals called it), the destination I was headed for was only a couple hundred thousand paces away. I made a slight right turn. I was always afraid of this area the most, for the streets were quite dark and it was told that many lost their belongings here to hungry thieves at this time of evening. I assured myself that my safety would not be violated. I was wrong.
I saw a silhouette of a well-dressed man, quite a bit younger than me, leaning against the exterior wall of a building in the Palazzo Vecchio, staring as if he were identifying me. Then, as I stepped into the light of a hanging oil lamp, he charged straight at me, brandishing a silver dagger in his hand, stained with scarlet blood.
