His Sword

by Holly Hart

  There’s even a prime minister here. I won’t say which country, but I will say he likes to have his picture taken. And a certain Oscar winner who seems to think people can’t recognize him if he has a beard.

  “It was the right time of the year,” says Emilio, downing his fifth shot of tequila in as many minutes. “After Royal Ascot but before the Art Basel show. A lot of people were nearby and had nothing better to do tonight.”

  I salute him with my own shot. “As always, Cousin, I can rely on you to feed my ego.”

  My head is starting to swim a bit with the booze. I’m surprised at how much Emilio is putting away; if I didn’t know better, I’d think he had developed a drinking problem in the last few weeks.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s making me feel so blasé about the night. It’s hard to believe that even a month ago, this kind of night was a regular part of my lifestyle. Talking with my so-called friends tonight has left me feeling like we no longer have anything in common.

  Like Ike says, let’s git ‘er done so I can get back to Morova and my beautiful bride-to-be.

  Speaking of Ike, he’s been holding court since we got here. Everyone in the room is enamored of the big man with the easy smile and the real cowboy boots.

  “You’re a peckerhead,” he slurs to the inebriated son of a shipping tycoon.

  “Why?” the kid asks snidely, weaving in his seat. “All I said was that eating meat is murder.”

  “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck if you’re a vegan, that’s your choice. But don’t go pushin’ your beliefs on me, just like I don’t push mine on you, all right?”

  “I still don’t see how that makes me a peckerhead.”

  “Whaddaya think them Jell-O shots you’re sucking back are made out of?”

  The shipping heir blinks his bloodshot eyes a few times. “Uh, Jell-O.”

  “Gelatin,” Ike says. “Look it up on your fuckin’ phone thing there if you want to know what you been eatin.’”

  The kid does, and as he reads the text on the screen, his face goes white.

  “Oh my God…” he breathes.

  Ike drapes a gorilla arm over the kid’s shoulders. “Ah, you’re all right, I’m just yankin’ your chain,” he says. “Hey, you need a beer?”

  He holds up four fingers to the waitress, which I assume means three for him and one for Shipping Boy. As he does, I catch his eye.

  “Dante!” he bellows. “Come hang out with your old man. Sort of. I mean after the wedding I’ll be your old man.”

  I take the seat vacated by Shipping Boy, who wanders off like a lost puppy with his new knowledge of Jell-O. Not that long ago, I probably would have felt sorry for him. Now I kind of see him as an insufferable prick.

  Suddenly a lot of the people in this room seem like insufferable pricks.

  Ike drops a bottle of beer in front of me and pops it open.

  “This shit’s not bad,” he says, taking a swig. “It ain’t Bud, but it’ll do.”

  I do the same. It’s actually a German caramel malt beer aged in brandy casks that sells in the club for eighty-seven euros a bottle. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  “So, are you havin’ fun?” he asks. For all the beer he’s drank since we left Morova, it’s actually quite amazing he’s still upright. In fact, he’s probably in better shape than half the people in this room.

  “Sure,” I say. “I have good booze, I have friends, I have my new almost-old man by my side. Couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Huh,” he grunts. “All right, if you say so.”

  What’s he getting at? This is my bachelor party. Of course it’s a good time.

  “I get the sense that you don’t share my opinion,” I say.

  “Me? Don’t matter what I think.” He lets out a Herculean belch that draws giggles from some of the girls in the room. A couple of them come dancing over to where we’re sitting.

  “My friend and I hear you’re a real cowboy,” one of them – a willowy blonde who I think might be a singer – asks Ike. “Is that true?”

  He holds up his bottle in a toast.

  “Born n’ bred in Montana cattle country,” he says.

  “Oh my god, that is so hot,” says a brunette in her early thirties. “I want to just do you right here on the table.”

  Ike’s eyes widen.

  “’Scuse me?”

  “It would absolutely kill my husband if he found out,” she slurs, red wine splashing from her glass on to the table.

  “I’m flattered, miss, but I’m afraid I’m taken,” he says with an apologetic smile. “And even if I wasn’t, I ain’t the kind of man who runs with another man’s filly. Sorry.”

  The women turn to me, instantly forgetting Ike.

  “What about you, Your Highness?” the blonde coos in her best Marilyn Monroe voice. “Care to go out on a high note before you’re taken off the market?”

  I don’t know if it’s my mood, the booze or being around Ike, but my practiced royal charm is eluding me right now.

  “Ladies,” I say. “I’m already off the market. But if you’re hell-bent on giving it away, you should really head into the kitchen. I imagine the male staff in there have a much more difficult time getting laid than the billionaires in this room.”

  I turn to the brunette. “In your case, perhaps you should give your husband a second chance instead of inflicting yourself on some poor, unsuspecting soul.”

  Blood rushes into their faces and they scamper away, fuming. Within moments, they’re over on the other side of the room, telling everyone their side of the story.

  And, as Ike would say, I don’t give a flying fuck.

  I shake my head before noticing that Ike is staring at me. I hope I haven’t angered him. If you’d told me a month ago that, out of all the people in this room, the one whose opinion I cared about most was the American, I would have laughed at you.

  Now it’s all I can think about.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost my temper. Please forgive me.”

  “Son, losin’ your temper is when you brawl with someone out into the street,” he says. “That thing you just did was plain old puttin’ someone in their place. They deserved every bit of it.”

  Have I mentioned how much I like this man?

  We down another drink each before Emilio slides into the seat beside me.

  “You’re ignoring the rest of the party,” he says. His eyes are glowing red now.

  “The party’s right here, boy,” Ike says, cracking another beer. “Whether they got the sense to come over and join it is up to them.”

  Emilio glowers at us and heads back to the other side of the room. None of them has actually congratulated me on my upcoming wedding.

  “So listen, Your Highness,” Ike says blearily.

  “Dante, please. We’re almost family.”

  “A’right then, Dante. I’m not one to offer an opinion ‘less someone asks, but I gotta say, it seems to me that most of the people in here ain’t your friends.”

  He takes what I’ve been feeling all night and compresses it into a single sentence.

  “May I ask why you say that?”

  “Look at ‘em,” he says. “They’re all here for them, not you. Where I come from, that’s not your friend.”

  I nod, unable to think of anything to say.

  “Son, lemme tell you a little story,” he says, leaning in close. “Couple summers ago, a farmer buddy of mine out by Three Forks drowned in the dugout behind his house. It was right at harvest time, an’ his widow didn’t have a hired man. So her sister got on the horn and put out the word to a few neighbors, and they called a few more, and within two hours, there were combines on her land harvesting her wheat. Buryin’ her husband was hard enough; she didn’t need to be worryin’ about her crops, too.

  “Those folks don’t know a damn thing about high finance, or royal whatchamacallit, but they know what friends are supposed to do. And son, what those people are doing over there ain’t that. Far
as I can tell, they’re all talkin’ about themselves.”

  I can feel a lump rising in my throat. I tell myself it’s the booze. Amanda is going to kill me for what I’m about to do.

  “First,” I say, raising my bottle, “let’s have a toast: to better friends and new family.”

  “Hear, hear!” he hollers, kicking back the rest of his beer.

  “Second, let’s change the subject. Has Amanda talked to you yet about the bride’s price?”

  “The what’s what?”

  “Bride’s price. It’s an ancient Morovan custom. The royal family offers a price to the father of the bride in exchange for her hand.”

  “Whaddaya mean, a price?”

  “Compensation for losing your daughter to a new family.”

  “You mean like a dowry?”

  “Yes, but in reverse.”

  Ike leans back in his chair and drapes an arm over the back.

  “So, what’re we talkin’ about here? Like a ceremonial chicken or something? Or a cow? I could use a good bull, if that’s on the menu.”

  “Actually, it’s a sum of money in the form of annuity installments,” I say. “It’s the best way to minimize the tax burden.”

  “Tax burden?” He peers at me. “What kind of a sum are you talkin’ about here? I don’t need any tax problems.”

  “It’s twenty million euros. I believe that works out to about twenty-five million US dollars at current exchange rates.”

  That’s the part Amanda’s going to kill me over. It was supposed to be five million. But she’s not here right now and I am.

  Ike’s cheeks flush as his mouth drops open. His bleary eyes work heard to focus on me.

  “Don’t shit an old fella like that,” he says. “I’m gettin’ fat and my ticker ain’t what it used to be.”

  “I’m not shitting you,” I say. “And you’re not fat.”

  “That’s just crazy. Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Like I said before, my father taught me about worth and value. The Trentinis believe that the benefits we gain from having someone like Amanda join our family are invaluable, so we set a nominal price for the exchange.”

  His eyes narrow. “Twenty-five million bucks is nominal?”

  “When you have billions, yes. Imagine if I had ten thousand dollars and offered you twenty-five.”

  Ike stares at the table for a full minute, swaying slightly. I can practically hear his thoughts, trying to figure out if this is real or some drunken dream.

  Finally, he looks me in the eye.

  “I dunno what to say, son.”

  “Then don’t say anything. Just give your son-in-law-to-be a hug.”

  We both stand and he wraps his tree-trunk arms around me in a bear hug that nearly stops my breathing.

  “This is too much,” he mutters in my ear. “This whole thing is crazy.”

  “It certainly is,” I say, blinking back tears. “And I’m very grateful to have you along for the ride.”

  Hm? Whassat?

  “Who…?”

  “Shhh. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  Who’s giggling? Why is the bed moving? I think I’m going to throw up.

  Whassat light? I just wanna sleep…

  “All right, that’s enough.”

  “Wha…?”

  “Go back to sleep, Dante.”

  Click.

  Why are people coming in… my room…

  Blackness again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  32. AMANDA

  I can’t believe this. I mean, I literally can’t believe this. There has to be some kind of trick.

  “Am I dreaming?” I ask. “You don’t have to pinch me, just tell me.”

  Maria eyes me up and down with an appreciative smile.

  “You’re not dreaming, love,” she says. “It’s just Andreas Fortuna.”

  “It’s absolutely gorgeous!” Oriana beams.

  The mirror is telling me that my cowgirl body looks somehow perfect in this custom designed dress, and that it fits me perfectly, right off the dressing dummy, after only a single round of measurements.

  “This is un-fucking-believable,” I breathe as I marvel at my reflection.

  “Ahem…” Maria clears her throat loudly.

  Oh shit. Oriana.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I say. “Grownups aren’t supposed to use words like that, especially royals. It’s unseemly.”

  “It’s okay,” Oriana says absently. “Uncle uses that word all the time. Well, he used to until you got here.”

  He stopped swearing because of me? Maybe he was embarrassed after his little outburst right before we met.

  Andreas pokes his head back into the room. “Everyone decent again?”

  “As decent as we’re going to get,” I say. “Especially with a potty mouth like mine.”

  He strides through the door, then stops in his tracks as he sees me. His eyes widen and his mouth rounds into an O.

  “I’ve outdone myself,” he whispers. “It’s a masterpiece.”

  The face in my reflection blushes, but the rest of me still looks the same: the dress accentuates my cleavage, hugs my hips and makes me look much taller. Andreas somehow found the perfect shade of ivory so that my ghostly pale skin doesn’t get lost in the dress.

  For the first time in my life, the word “beautiful” comes to mind as I look at myself. Most of the time I brush off compliments – Dad tells me I’m beautiful all the time – but right here, right now, I am a princess.

  And here come the waterworks again.

  “Thank you so much, Andreas,” I say, sniffling. “This is beyond my wildest dreams.”

  “Darling, when the artist has a canvas such as you, the work is easy.” He takes my hands. “If you’re Andreas Fortuna, of course.”

  Maria and I both giggle. She takes a handkerchief from her purse and dabs at my eyes for me.

  “Another item we can check off the list,” she says, making a swooping motion with her hand. “One perfect royal wedding gown.”

  “The flowers are ready, too,” Oriana says proudly. “The florist sent me an email with photos of the flowers we chose and I said they looked perfect.”

  Maria gives her an indulgent smile and makes another swoop.

  “Flowers: check!” she says.

  I take one last, longing look in the mirror and sigh before I head back behind the screen and shrug out of my dress.

  “Do we have an update on the RSVPs?” I call as I pull my skirt back on.

  “Staff reports this morning indicate we managed to get most of the Crown Council and some National Council executive members,” Maria says. “ Although several of them made sure to gripe about the fact they had to change plans to do so. We expected that, of course.

  “A few heads of state will be there: Italy and Switzerland, obviously, a few from the Middle East, the Canadian prime minister.”

  “Ooooh,” I say. “I’d like to shake his hand.”

  “Among other things,” she says evenly, never taking her eyes from her clipboard. “Various cousins will be here, of course. All of European nobility is related somewhere down the line; they’re really quite an incestuous group.”

  “What’s ‘incestuous’?” Oriana asks.

  Maria doesn’t miss a beat. “It means not inviting other people to your party.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “No,” I say, hugging her shoulder. “It’s not. But we’re nice, aren’t we? We’re going to invite everyone to our parties.”

  She smiles. “It’s more fun that way! Vito and I hardly ever get to meet new people.”

  Maria glances at her watch. “Amanda and I have many things to do,” she says. “Andreas, we truly cannot thank you enough.”

  He bows at the waist, showing us the top of his bald head.

  “The pleasure was all mine, ladies. Now I must prepare for the flood of phone calls I will receive the day after the wedding.”

  “Oriana,
will you please escort Signore Fortuna down to the east entrance? There’s a car waiting for him.”

  She takes him by the arm. “Can you make me a dress?” she asks as they head for the door.

  “You see?” he says, looking back over his shoulder. “The offers are coming in already.” He drops a wink. “Ciao, bella.”

  Maria motions towards the antique settee in the room and we take a seat. I still can’t get used to how many rooms there are in the palace, and how much furniture. There are huge sections of the building I still haven’t seen.

  This dressing room alone is probably three-quarters of the size of the house I grew up in.

  “The staff is handling the details according to your instructions,” she says. “The forecast for Saturday looks perfect, there have been no problems with supplies, the Morovan media are working to get a film crew ready to broadcast the ceremony live… I think we may actually be ahead of the game.”

  My wedding, broadcast live around the world. No big deal.

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Anything, you know that.”

  “If you see me sprinting for the front door, can you tackle me and wrestle me back into the palace?”

  Maria has one of the kindest smiles of anyone I know. She puts her clipboard on the coffee table and takes my hands in hers.

  “I’m quite certain it won’t come to that,” she says. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters. Of course, in your case, I can only imagine that they’re heightened to an insane degree.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m actually pretty okay with the wedding itself. I’m confident in my plans, and in your staff’s ability to pull it all off.”

  “You’re saying it’s the marriage, not the wedding, that has you concerned?”

  I sigh. So many things have been swirling in my head for the last two weeks: the proposal, the wedding plans, my dad. Dante. The children.

  The future.

  “What happens after a year?” I ask. “What if this whole thing is just a way for Dante to hold onto the monarchy? Do I have to walk away?”

  She grips my hands tighter. “There’s never certainty in any marriage. And you really should give Dante more credit. Remember what he did with your ‘bride price.’”

  How could I ever forget? He offered my dad five times what I’d asked for. I couldn’t believe it, but Dante acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dad was over the moon to know he’d be out from under the bank’s thumb by our wedding day.