"He is admirable, truly. Don Michele has a kind heart," Cesare says, voice serious. "He's never enjoyed hurting anybody for the mere sake of it." He then piously folds his hands in front of his stomach, gently patting it.
"Nosy? Oh," he laughs, blushing, "I think all this was common knowledge, boring, if not entirely forgotten. It's quite simple, really. Madonna ruled over the town of Forlì, nominally in vicariate, both for her deceased husband and for my father the pope, when in reality she squeezed town and contado dry. She was hated by her own people. And it was about time she took a fall."
And then, thoughts folding back into the weave he repeats to himself, Yes. Blood is everything.