Florence, 1500
Elias waited three weeks.
Three weeks of silence, studying Giulio d'Este's visits to the bank—each one more hurried, more theatrical. The vineyard story changed subtly every time. First a Papal cousin, then a Medici niece, then a vague connection in Rome. His debts were coiling around him like snakes. Luca didn't see it.
But Elias did.
And when Giulio defaulted—just as Elias knew he would—Luca's face turned grey over breakfast, holding a letter sealed with broken wax.
"God help me," he muttered.
Elias looked up from his bread. "Was it the Sienese noble?"
Luca hesitated. "You remembered his name."
"He owed you five hundred Florins."
Luca stared. "Who told you that?"
"No one."
Luca's voice was quiet. "Go to your studies."
Elias went.
But the seed was planted.
---
That night, when the house was asleep, Elias took a coal stick and parchment and sketched a single name:
"Marco Vitale."
Not his name. Not anyone's name. But it would be his face in the shadows—a whisper in the Roman banking houses. Marco would be older, anonymous, a minor Neapolitan noble with modest holdings and a trustworthy seal. His ledger would be held by intermediaries, masked through informal letters of credit, and eventually—through more modern instruments—by false notaries.
Elias did not intend to become rich overnight. That would be suspicious. No, "Marco" would grow slowly.
Like mould.
Like gold buried beneath floorboards.
---
Elias began laying the groundwork.
Using pocket money from Luca—just two Florins—he bribed Vincenzo, the assistant, to deliver a letter to a courier bound for Rome.
No names, no questions. Just coin and instruction.
Vincenzo raised an eyebrow but took the money and shrugged. "You planning to buy some sugar from the Pope, boy?"
Elias smiled. "Just a note for a friend of the family."
The letter was short. It contained basic investment instructions and the first phase of a long plan: create a tiny account in a Roman trade house, under the name Marco Vitale, with enough credit to begin buying grain futures—quietly.
Small, legal, slow.
Exactly how empires begin.
---
Florence, meanwhile, rippled with whispers.
Word of Giulio's sudden flight to France had spread. Luca, now cautious, reviewed all his books personally. His temper shortened. He began working past midnight. And yet, he never asked Elias how he had known.
That was good.
He wasn't ready to be feared.
He wanted to be ignored.
---
One evening, Elias approached his tutor with a question.
"Master Giovanni, what do you know of Venetian promissory notes?"
The old man blinked. "You shouldn't. That's advanced banking law."
"I read a mention in one of my father's ledgers."
"You're ten."
"I can still read."
The man studied him for a long time, then gave a thin smile. "There's a book. Old. From Ragusa. I'll bring it tomorrow."
"Thank you," Elias said. "You're the only one who speaks to me like I'm not a child."
Giovanni looked at him carefully.
"Sometimes I forget what you are."
---
Elias smiled in bed that night.
He had now three things:
A ghost name in Rome, slowly gaining credit.
A map of influence in Florence.
And a mind untouched by time.
The world did not know him yet. But it would.
For now, he moved in shadows.
For now, he was planting roots, not building towers.
But soon...
Soon, the map of Europe would begin to tilt.
And Elias would already be in a position to catch the first falling coin.