She was delicate and tiny and her long, blonde hair flowed around her shoulders. Her body was frighteningly bloated,      flesh-flies gorged on coagulated blood, skin ruptures defiled  what had been a most winsome face, pale like alabaster.  Pearly eyes, once blue and now frozen open, were bathed in eternal darkness. Her exquisitely embroidered silk dress,  woven with intricate patterns of gold and sapphire threads,

and her luxurious cape billowed gently around her, creating a mesmerizing, ethereal scene as they floated on the river's  surface. The exquisite gems that adorned her fingers and  neck—a gold necklace that shimmered like stardust and showed off a pendant of deep emerald—spoke volumes of her noble lineage, hinting at a life filled with grandeur and privilege.

With a profound sense of reverence and urgency, Emiliano  waded into the cool, gentle current of the river Arno and   carefully lifted her delicate form. As if she were only       sleeping, he carried her up the riverbank and laid her down on the damp grass. He knelt beside her and examined her   face. At first, he could see no injury, no visible mark to explain her death. Her presence was a stark contrast to the unsettling circumstances. Turning her onto her side, letting her hood fall back, he saw the violent gaping crevice which had almost split the back of her skull in two, revealing blood-soaked hair and shattered bone. The pungent odour, laden with a grotesque mix of decay and a tinge of sickening sweetness, invaded his senses, a grim reminder that decomposition had already begun its cruel work. The lurking threat of bandits, vultures, and other scavengers flashed through his mind; if he didn’t act swiftly, they could desecrate her lifeless form. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, it wouldn’t be long before the city stirred, its inhabitants blissfully ignorant of the tragedy concealed just beyond the riverbank. With urgency, Emiliano scooped her in his arms and placed her in the refuge of a large bush nestled within a small copse of trees, the dense foliage providing a shroud of secrecy to shield her from further indignity. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and in that moment of stillness, he made the sign of the cross. It was a small act of faith, a silent whisper for peace, hoping that God would grant him the strength to navigate the dark path that lay before him.

    If she is Medici, may God protect Fiorenze for there will be an ungodly retaliation.

Who and why are answers that dwell only in the heart of the killer.