The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

  Rocco returned the phone to the queen. He forced a calm expression, though a sense of unease prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. “Coincidence. Many people who work near my office live in the same district as my wife. It’s a popular neighborhood.”

  “That’s what my people thought…at first. But on alternate Wednesdays, the morning after Radich has eaten near your wife and her friends, he leaves the office building you share to have lunch at this café near your wife’s apartment, despite the fact there are any number of places to eat near your office.”

  “Perhaps he has a standing meeting.”

  “In fact, he does.” Fabrizia turned her phone to show Rocco a different image. “Ever seen this man?”

  “No. Never.” Taken at the same café, the photo showed a barrel-chested, middle-aged blonde man with a military haircut and dark sunglasses. His face bore bright, raised scars on one cheek, the edges stretched and shiny, as if he’d suffered excruciating burns. The scars extended from beneath the lower edge of his sunglasses and down his jaw to his neck, then disappeared in the collar of his dark leather jacket. A camera sat on the table in front of him as he leaned toward Radich. The pair appeared to be studying the screen of Radich’s laptop.

  If Rocco had ever encountered this man, he’d have remembered. The guy dwarfed Radich, and Radich, while lean, wasn’t short. A scarred man with such a massive build stood out in a crowd.

  “His name is Anton Karpovsky.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He was honorably discharged from the Russian army after being injured by an IED in Chechnya. He developed a reputation among his men for his patriotic single-mindedness. Very driven, very inflexible. Very unforgiving of the Chechens…or anyone who rebels against Russia, for that matter.”

  The queen returned the phone to her handbag and met Rocco’s gaze. “Karpovsky resented the fact that his injury cost him his military career. His parents hired him to work at their grocery store in Yekaterinburg, which he considered beneath him. Then one night, he shot his wife three times in the head and chest when she arrived home late from work. He claimed he thought she was an intruder, but his wife’s sister alleged that Karpovsky was engaged in illegal activities, having become acquainted with members of the Russian mafia while sourcing inventory for his parents’ store. His wife had planned to report him to the authorities and file for divorce. The sister-in-law believed Karpovsky killed his wife to keep her from going to the police and testified to that at his trial. He served two years in prison for manslaughter before having his conviction overturned when the sister-in-law recanted.”

  Rocco spread his hands wide, silently asking what the beefy Russian’s presence in Dubrovnik had to do with him.

  “The sister-in-law disappeared a few months later while vacationing in Bali. Whether there was foul play or not, I haven’t been able to determine, but the woman’s claim that Karpovsky is involved in illegal activities is true. Publicly, he once again handles inventory for his parents’ grocery store in Yekaterinburg. Privately, he is a gun for hire.”

  The queen stood, leaving her handbag behind on the sofa as she strode to the window and looked out at her driver. When she turned back to face Rocco, her brow was furrowed. “I believe they intend to kidnap your wife.”

  Chapter Two

  Rocco’s first instinct was to laugh. The idea that Russian thugs would kidnap Justine, whose life these days was as routine as they came…it was as outrageous as the plot to a bad television movie. Only the fact the queen appeared to be holding her breath in anticipation of his reaction stopped Rocco from saying as much aloud.

  “Since you’ve been following these two men so closely, I assume that your—your employees, I suppose I should call them—overheard them make a specific threat against my wife?”

  Her expression told him the answer was no before she spoke. “They’ve been unable to hear more than snippets of conversation between Karpovsky and Radich. But Karpovsky wouldn’t have come to Croatia unless there was a large amount of money involved, and you, Rocco, have that money. And I suspect you may have something more valuable.” Her voice lifted at the end, as if she were asking a question. Rather than address it, he waited for her to continue.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing in your office. Your security is tight and I’ve kept my—my employees, as you call them—at a distance.”

  “Thank you for respecting my privacy.”

  She heard his sarcasm, but ignored it. “If there’s anyone in the world capable of piercing your security, it’s the man renting the office space directly above yours. I doubt that’s a coincidence. If those two want your money or whatever it is you keep in your office, all they need to do is get their hands on your wife.”

  The sense of unease that pricked at him earlier evolved into alarm. He’d been extremely careful to keep his work quiet, but that work, once complete, would be worth millions. His earlier projects—projects that saved thousands of lives while making him wealthy enough to purchase this villa and take care of his mother—would pale in comparison.

  He forced himself to keep a calm countenance as he regarded Fabrizia. “You realize that my wife and I are separated. If those two men are watching us, they know it, too.”

  “The separation works to their advantage. It removes her from your web of protection.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “After a year apart, you aren’t divorced. While I have no wish to pry—”

  This time, he couldn’t stop a bark of laughter at the irony of her statement.

  “—she clearly means something to you. While she’s never returned to this villa, you’ve visited her apartment more than once and stayed overnight. I’m also told she visited your mother’s grave after you left the cemetery this morning.”

  He’d scanned the cemetery following the service and failed to spot Justine again, so he’d assumed she’d left. The idea that she’d stayed behind, hidden, and visited Teresa’s grave made him wonder what could be going through her head. The two women had never been close.

  He pushed thoughts of Justine aside—he’d consider them later—and started to tell the queen that his relationship with his wife was out of bounds, but the royal held up one well-manicured finger to stop him.

  “If I believe that you and your wife still have a connection, they’re likely to believe it, too.”

  A connection. He supposed that was one way to describe his relationship with Justine.

  “Radich skipped the Tuesday dinner week before last as well as his Wednesday meeting with Karpovsky. Nor is Radich at the restaurant this evening. He’s staying late at the office.”

  “Unbelievable.” Rocco scrubbed a hand over his head. “You’re following her right now.”

  “Of course.” She waited until Rocco met her green-eyed gaze before continuing. “My people believe that the Russians’ surveillance is complete. Whatever Radich and Karpovsky plan to do, they’ll do it soon. When you wouldn’t take my call, I decided to see you in person. It was difficult to schedule private time so I could slip away without being noticed by the press or my staff, but I needed to warn you.”

  Thanking her didn’t seem appropriate. Part of him knew he needed to heed her warning—too much of what she said tripped his internal triggers—but another part hated to acknowledge that his mother’s enemy had done him a favor. Or what it meant if the queen was right.

  “Warning taken. I’ll look into it.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  It was a demand as much as a question. “I’m sure you have suggestions, but how I handle this information is none of your business. And on that note, I would appreciate it if you’d cease following me and my wife. Immediately.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. He doubted she often heard demands in response to her own.

  She shouldered her handbag as she stood. “I can agree to that. In exchange, I would appreciate being informed if you involve the police or other law enforcement. King Carlo deserves to know if
your relationship might become public.”

  “I’ll consider it.” The man hadn’t done him any favors…not that Rocco would’ve accepted any.

  “My children have no idea you, Enzo, or Lina exist. No matter your feelings toward King Carlo, put yourself in their shoes. I would appreciate the opportunity to inform them before they hear about it on the evening news.”

  “You’ve never told them?” The Barrali siblings were known to be tight-knit, and close to their parents, as well. The enormity of the secret would devastate them.

  “It was a decision the king and your mother came to years ago. They felt it was the best way to protect each set of children.” Her gaze went to the floor as she lifted the scarf to disguise her hair. “I’ve honored their decision.”

  “Your husband doesn’t know you’re here.” The realization sent a jolt of power through him. “I bet he doesn’t even know you’ve had me followed.”

  “And I bet your mother would want you to protect yourself and your wife, promises be damned.” She met his eyes without flinching. “On that note, I’ll take my leave.”

  “I’ll show you out.”

  The queen nodded before rounding the sofa. She paused near Rocco’s desk and studied a framed photo of his mother and Jack Cornaro on their wedding day. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Teresa loved you dearly. I’m sure your instinct is to spend the evening in mourning, but your mother was nothing if not practical. She’d want you to take action rather than sit here cradling your Scotch.”

  Fabrizia opened her handbag and withdrew her sunglasses. After donning them, she pulled out a flat, cornflower blue velvet box, the type designed to hold an expensive pen set or jewelry. “King Carlo has had this for years. It belonged to your mother.”

  Rocco eyed the box as the queen set it on his desk. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  “It belongs with your descendants, not mine.” She tapped the lid and smiled. “It’s also my excuse for the visit today, should my husband ever inquire. Oh, and I almost forgot.” A soft white business card joined the box. “My private cell phone number, should you need anything at all.”

  A few minutes later, Rocco watched from the front door as the Mercedes made a U-turn in front of the gate, then disappeared from view, carrying the queen back to her private jet for the short flight across the Adriatic and southern Italy to the Mediterranean island she called home.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of the woman’s visit, other than knowing that his mother would roll over in her freshly-dug grave were she to know Fabrizia had crossed his threshold. He trusted his mother, and his mother hadn’t trusted the queen.

  Rocco placed a hand on the closed door to his mother’s bedroom as he passed it on the way to his study. Watching his mother fight for her life these past weeks had worn his emotions to a nub, leaving only a hardened center. Approaching Justine was the very last thing he should do, given his current state.

  He shoved Fabrizia’s blue box into his bottom desk drawer, reached for the glass of Scotch, and downed it in a single gulp.

  * * *

  The pounding at her front door could only mean one thing. The devil had come for his due.

  Justine Cornaro turned away from the kitchen sink, where she’d just finished washing out her ice cream bowl, and adjusted her nightgown. Resisting the hospitable impulse to turn off the flamenco guitar music echoing from her speakers, she moved to the front door. Sure enough, a glance through the peephole revealed her spouse.

  Correction: her soused spouse. His head was down and his hands were in the pockets of his slacks, a pose that signaled a rare overindulgence. So rare she couldn’t remember the last time he drank that much. Perhaps the night of their wedding.

  He raised his fist and pounded again, the first blow striking the thick wood before Justine could jump away. “Justine, let me in. I know you’re awake. It’s important.”

  She placed a palm flat against the door, then counted to three. “Rocco, it’s after midnight. I’m not in the mood for a booty call.” Though truth be told, after the day he’d had, she understood why he craved female companionship. Physical activity was Rocco’s preferred method of clearing his brain, with certain agonies better treated by heart-pumping sex than a heart-pumping hour in his home gym.

  Satisfying as the physical release might be for Rocco tonight, she wasn’t sure she could deal with her own emotions afterward.

  “Not why I’m here, honey.” She looked through the peephole again to see him roll his shoulders, then stare at the door as if he could open it by willpower alone. He’d grown a close-cropped beard in the month since she’d seen him last. It lent him a dangerous air that unsettled her.

  She wondered if he knew she was watching him. Probably. And if he wasn’t here for sex, it meant he’d spotted her at the cemetery and was here for a lecture.

  Great. Sex would be easier.

  She slid the chain and flipped the deadbolt, then stepped back to wave him inside.

  “Get dressed.”

  Well. Definitely not sex.

  “Nice to see you, too.” She closed the door behind him. “It’s too late to go out and I’ve had a very long day. Another five minutes and I would’ve been in bed.”

  “Alone?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Is there anyone else in the apartment?” He looked toward the speakers, as if the music was a clue.

  “You’re not off to a good start, Rocco.” She folded her arms, then realized her mistake as his gaze drifted to her breasts, now highlighted by the thin, tightly pulled fabric of her baby blue nightgown. Thank God she still had on her bra.

  He lifted his eyes to hers. Dark rings beneath his light brown eyes attested to his lack of sleep, and his thick hair appeared to have been finger-combed, adding to his menacing aura. “I’m asking for a reason, Justine. I have cause to be worried about your safety.”

  “I’m alone.” She frowned as his words registered. “Why in the world would you be worried? I’m perfectly fine.”

  He sucked in his lower lip, as if he hadn’t considered how he’d explain himself, which wasn’t like Rocco at all. The man didn’t plan a step ahead; he planned five. Nothing was done on the spur of the moment.

  On a blown out breath, he said, “It’s tough to explain, but you need to leave the apartment. At least until I’m sure you’re not in danger.”

  Teresa’s death must’ve gutted him. It certainly explained the fact he still wore the dress shirt and slacks he’d had on at the cemetery, though the jacket and tie were gone.

  Justine spoke in a soft, calming tone. “Rocco, I’m in one of the safest parts of town. I have neighbors downstairs and across the hall if there’s any problem. The only way you got into the building is because I gave you a key.” Her neighbors weren’t the type to buzz in strangers. Even so, she kept her door both chained and deadbolted, a habit built by years spent in hotels.

  “The building is three hundred years old. The windows are vulnerable. I could smash the glass on the entry door and be up the stairs before your neighbors even rolled over in bed, if I were so inclined.” He angled his head and planted his hands on his hips. “For once, could you humor me? Come stay at the villa or let me get you a hotel room.”

  She wanted to touch his arm to reassure him, but fought the impulse by moving to the small dining table in the corner near the kitchen and taking a seat. “Today was a difficult day for you and I can tell that you’ve been drinking.” She held up a hand to stop him from arguing. “Not that you’re not entitled. Go home. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Have you noticed anything unusual in your apartment? Items moved? Come home to lights on that shouldn’t have been?” He surveyed the room before returning his attention to her. “Anyone in the building who doesn’t belong, or anyone new you keep bumping into at the grocery store or restaurants?”

  It was as if he’d never heard her suggestion that he go home. She stifled the urge to roll her eyes,
knowing it’d only make him more agitated.

  “No one is following me, Rocco. Why would they? Only a few friends know who I am. To everyone else here, I’m anonymous.” Years ago, it would’ve been a different story. When she was go get ‘em Olympian Justine Flyte of Lake Tahoe, not boring Justine Cornaro of Dubrovnik.

  His eyes darted to the kitchen window.

  “It’s locked,” she said. “So’s the one in my bedroom. I’ll turn on the alarm if that makes you feel better, but I’m not going to pack up and leave just because your imagination is running away with you. It’s not like I could find a hotel room at this hour, anyway.”

  Besides, she had business to attend to tomorrow. If plans went her way, it could turn her life around. No more hiding out in a tiny apartment a continent away from home. No more late-night visits from a man who could never truly love her. A man with secrets he refused to acknowledge existed, let alone share with anyone aside from his mother and siblings. Even Kos didn’t seem to know his longtime employer’s true nature.

  “How’d you get here, anyway?” she asked. Her apartment was near the edge of Dubrovnik’s medieval old town, which made finding a parking spot akin to winning the lottery. “Is Kos circling the neighborhood, waiting for us to come out?”

  “He’s on vacation. I walked.”

  “That’s three or four miles. Are you crazy?” Or was he that intoxicated?

  And since when did Kos take a vacation?

  “As you said, it was a difficult day for me. I needed the air and time to think. I’ll get a taxi back to the villa, but only if you come with me.” He gave her a long look. “It’s probably an overabundance of caution, but it can’t hurt. Please?”

  She wasn’t sure whether it was the rare “please” or the concern in his soft brown eyes that did it, but she pushed back from the table. “Fine. But separate bedrooms, and I need to be out early tomorrow.”