Florence, 1500
Mornings in the di Vero household began with the smell of bread and the sound of ink.
Elias rose before the sun. Not out of discipline, but a necessity—he needed the silence. At dawn, the house was still asleep, and the faint orange glow from the east gave just enough light to see the shadow of the city's skyline through the narrow window.
Florence was a city of ambition, and he could smell it in the soot-stained stone, in the copper taste of the Arno breeze, and in the ink-stained fingers of every man who thought himself more clever than the last.
Elias sat at his small desk and opened a blank sheet of parchment.
This would not be a letter. Nor a childish drawing. It was a chart—his first map of influence.
---
He drew a circle. At the centre: Luca di Vero, father, banker, middleman.
From that node, he drew outward:
Vincenzo – Luca's assistant, secret gambler. Sloppy with silver counts. Easily bribed with women or wine.
Master Giovanni – Tutor. Intelligent, resentful, believes himself wasted on children. Could be flattered into loyalty.
Sister Marta – Servant. Devout, simply, speak to local priests. Useful for monitoring gossip.
This wasn't about people he liked or disliked.
It was about leverage.
He noted:
> "Power in Florence is not just held by the Medici. It flows downward. Through favours, debts, and family shame."
If he mapped this right, he wouldn't need a single soldier or blade in his lifetime. He could rule a dozen cities by controlling the right secrets—and the right ledgers.
---
Later that day, Luca took Elias into the banking hall for the first time.
It wasn't large—three rooms on the Via delle Terme, modest by Medici standards—but to the men who worked there, it was the centre of the world. Desks lined with parchment, quills, seal wax, and ledgers like scripture. One wall bore a small iron safe, barred like a prison cell, holding jewels and promissory notes from clients too proud to carry coin.
"Sit here," Luca said, motioning to a stool in the corner. "Watch. Listen. Learn."
Elias obeyed. He did not comment but watched with the precision of a falcon.
He saw which merchants wore patched sleeves and which wore silk. Which ones offered their names, and which spoke through agents? He listened to phrases like "trust me", "delayed shipment", "double pledge", and "unwritten terms"—and mentally noted every lie.
And then came the moment he'd waited for.
Giulio d'Este entered. Dressed in fine red velvet, fingers heavy with rings, he greeted Luca with an easy smile. Too easy.
A predator. But not a clever one.
---
"We are honoured you stopped by, Signore d'Este," Luca said, rising.
"Business is always sweeter with friends, Signore di Vero," Giulio replied, handing over a folded parchment. "Terms we discussed. Generous returns."
Luca unfolded the paper, brows rising slightly at the interest rate. "Quite generous… Are you certain you can meet this within the year?"
"I'm expanding my vineyards near Siena. The Pope's cousin is interested. You'll be repaid twice over."
Elias heard the lie. Not in the words—in the confidence.
He glanced at the parchment and saw a tiny red stain on the bottom edge. Blood? Ink? Didn't matter. It was rushed. Giulio was cornered.
Luca hesitated. "I will consider it."
As Giulio left, he passed by Elias and gave him a half-smile. "Bright-eyed boy. You'll grow into a banker better than your father, perhaps."
Elias said nothing. He only stared.
---
That night, Luca asked his son over supper, "What did you think of Signore d'Este?"
Elias chewed his bread slowly, pretending to think. Then said, "He's very confident. But his shoes were dirty, and his servant looked scared."
Luca blinked. "You noticed that?"
Elias nodded. "If I owed too much money, I might look the same."
Luca smiled faintly. "You are observant. But don't speak like that to clients."
Not yet, Elias thought.
---
Later, in bed, Elias turned the parchment over in his mind. Giulio was desperate. That made him dangerous—but predictable. And when he defaulted, Elias would use it to take the first secret ledger away from his father.
He wasn't ready to write under his name.
But soon… he would create a false name to begin banking in Rome. One no one in Florence would know. Just small deposits, discreet trades. A ghost moving through ledgers while the world saw only a quiet boy in a modest home.
A banker with no face.
A vault with no door.
The foundation begins.