Rome stank of blood and incense.

You could smell it from the palace balconies—burnt wax from the Sistine altar mingling with iron and sweat from the bodies Cesare had left hanging in the square. They swung like dark fruit in the dusk, caught in the copper wash of the sun. The revolt had lasted barely a day. His soldiers—mercenaries, fanatics, loyal dogs—had taken to the streets before the church bells finished ringing for morning mass.

You waited for him, as you always did.

There was no command to stay. No plea to keep vigil. But you were his sister, and some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud. You sat in the chair beneath the papal crest with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gown dark as wine, your hair pinned like a Roman widow. You did not pray. There were no saints left who would hear prayers from a Borgia. Not yours. Not his.

The door slammed open near nightfall—not the proud entrance of a triumphant general, but the sound of a man dragging ruin behind him. Cesare crossed the threshold like a storm, half-armored, soaked through with blood and mud. He didn’t bother to remove his gloves. His sword dripped beside him, fresh from a throat.

He didn’t speak. He never did when the killing was still clinging to him.

You rose slowly.

He stopped in front of you, just long enough to let your eyes fall on the smear of blood under his eye—a deliberate mark, like war paint. A priest’s cross turned into a soldier’s sigil.

“You did it,” you said, not a question.

“They named the child after our father,” he murmured. “I took that as a personal offense.”

He tossed the sword to the marble at your feet. The clang echoed off the vaulted ceiling. You didn’t flinch. He moved closer.

“You always return bloodier than you leave,” you said, your voice low.

“I always return to you,” he replied.

You should have stepped back. But instead, you reached up and touched his cheek. The blood was still warm. Still wet. His skin underneath was burning.

“You say you kill for Rome. For Italy. For peace. But what if there’s nothing left to rule when you’re done?” you whispered.

He stared at you, as if weighing whether to argue or confess.

“Then we will rule the ashes,” he said, almost tenderly.

And that night, he stayed.

He did not touch you—not like the poets would dare to write—but he shed his armor and his mask, piece by piece, and laid beside you in your bed, his head resting on your stomach like a knight returning to the altar. His breath slowed. His eyes closed.

“I dream of water,” he said in the dark. “Of drowning. But I do not fight it.”

Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently, like you used to do when you were children in Valencia, when the world was still small and your family’s name had not yet poisoned it.

“Because you want to die?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “Because I want to be clean.”

And you said nothing. Because there were no lies left between you.