The Flames of Florence (Da Vinci's Disciples Book 3)

A Powerful Finale to the Da Vinci's Disciples Trilogy

In The Flames of Florence, bestselling author Donna Russo Morin delivers a gripping and evocative conclusion to her celebrated trilogy, shining a light on the secret lives of female artists in Renaissance Florence. Set against the volatile backdrop of the infamous "Bonfire of the Vanities," this historical novel immerses readers in a world where creativity, courage, and resistance intertwine.

As religious fervor engulfs the city, a clandestine group of women—Da Vinci’s Disciples—must confront the zealotry of Fra Girolamo Savonarola and his crusade against art and literature. Mentored by the legendary Leonardo da Vinci and joined by the ambitious young sculptor Michelangelo, they embark on a high-stakes mission to save irreplaceable works from destruction. With personal beliefs tested and their very existence on the line, these women fight not only to preserve art but also to claim their place in history.

Rich with tension, transformation, and the pulse of revolution, The Flames of Florence is a vivid celebration of bravery, artistic passion, and the unbreakable bonds between women.

Experience the unforgettable conclusion to a trilogy that reimagines the Renaissance through the eyes of its hidden heroines—read The Flames of Florence today.

Excerpt from the book

Viviana sat in the cavernous Duomo cathedral; she sat far back upon the benches where anyone of any rank could sit. She had not often returned to this cathedral, one of the grandest in all of Europe. When one sees a gruesome murder, especially murder upon a church altar, it becomes too difficult to see anything else. It would forever be impossible to stand beneath the vaulted chamber without remembering, without seeing the blood as she had on that fateful day so long ago, without seeing the glorious face of Giuliano de’ Medici as he took his last breath.

She should have come to hear this man preach long before now—the man who had given himself the moniker of piccolo frate, the little friar—while he still served Mass at his monastery of San Marco; the crowds he drew had rendered that impossible. There was no space available at the monastery large enough to accommodate them all, all those who craved to hear his words, who wailed and cried upon them, who beat their chest against their agony.

Viviana sat alone, had come alone; why, she could not say. Perhaps it was to take in the measure of the man and his words free from another’s reaction, from anyone’s but her own. Her husband was on duty, her children were with their own families in their own parishes; there was nothing that prevented her attendance in the cathedral that day, nothing untoward. Yet she still felt not only guilt but shame.

Looking around the mammoth dome with its seemingly limitless columns, its exquisite art, there was little more worth looking at that day than the flood of people that continued to file in, no matter how tightly they must squeeze themselves together to do so. They came from all ranks of the rank-obsessed Florentine society, from the poorest to the noblest and the many in between.

Her legs jittered nervously beneath her gown. Time seemed to move of its own accord, dictated not by the ticking of any clock. The longer she waited, the slower it moved.

A low hum entered the cathedral, ebbing through the dome. The parishioners rose. He walked in.

Him? That is him? Surely, it cannot be.

The hum grew to a buzz. Most of the congregants bowed. It was indeed him; it was Fra Girolamo Savonarola. No one would have blamed her for her cynicism, not even the friar himself, for he often spoke of his odd countenance, his unimpressive figure. The little friar.

Little, most certainly.

In his rough-clothed gray robe of the Dominicans, the friar resembled a walking tree stump—a thin tree, a short stump. As he moved toward the pulpit, he removed the cowl—that which he wore whenever he did not stand upon at the pulpit—revealing his face.

That is by far one of the strangest faces I have ever seen, Viviana thought. It is a face worthy of my paints.

She almost laughed aloud; that was one commission on which she would never consider to bid. The hollow cheeks and the long, hooked nose disagreed with his thick, almost sensual lips. There was something in his eyes, however; black beneath dark, heavy brows. They burned with intensity, as if one could see fire within them.