Crown of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

  “Yes, sir.” He dialed another number. “Connect me with Sheriff Brooks.”

  Quintana’s voice drowned out as the car turned down one farm road after another to the airstrip. His mind filled with the painful words out of Gemma’s cracked lips, Stefano’s dejected expression, and the knowledge of what his once most trusted guardsman thought of his prince. The lead in his stomach turned molten and twisted in his abdomen. With each turn of the car, the farther up his throat it climbed.

  “Your Highness, are you all right?”

  André took a deep breath, fighting back the burning in his chest. He shook his head. Quintana tossed him a bottle of water, and he downed it, desperate to swallow back the shame, rage, and heartache that threatened to spew all over the floorboard.

  “Do we need to go back to the hospital?”

  André shook his head and focused on taking deep breaths. “Where’s Stefano?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  André glanced at Quintana. “He didn’t inform the Guard where he was going?”

  “No, sir. He walked out of the ER and drove off in a gray Jeep.”

  For the last ten years, he’d known the man’s location every second of every day. His absence unsettled his already shredded nerves. “Vasco is still out there. I feel like I’m leaving her to be slaughtered.”

  “No you’re not, Your Highness.” Quintana’s face was stern, confident—something André needed to see, especially with Stefano missing in action. “She’ll have plenty of security around her. If that assassin shows his face, it’ll be blasted off his neck. We’ll get you home in time to address parliament, and our forces will find Raul Lozano.”

  André willed himself to believe those words. A former soldier like Quintana always believed in strength and might.

  “You have a lot more people on your side than you think,” the former soldier finished.

  André scoffed. Doesn’t feel that way. The whole world is against me. And now I have to walk it alone.

  Quintana’s phone buzzed again and he answered. A moment later, his lips parted and that ominous stare fell on André.

  “What?”

  “Your Highness, they found Representative Macias.”

  IN THE ROYAL PRINCESS’S PRIVATE bathroom—more like a mini-mansion with a chandelier hanging from vaulted ceiling, and an ample sitting area with cream leather sofas—a dozen sets of Flynn’s reflection stared back at him in all the gilded mirrors.

  But Alanna wasn’t in any of them.

  The whole palace was on edge, in shock with the news of the yacht explosion.

  “Alanna?”

  No response.

  She’d come in here a few moments before, her black lace gown a marvel on her petite figure. They hadn’t even traveled more than a mile from the palace before the explosion shook the streets and rattled their limo windows.

  Everyone had been on lockdown since.

  A quiet gasp pulled his attention to the closet furthest from the door. He moved aside the hangers of dresses and formal suits, and his heart stopped.

  Alanna sat on the floor, elbows resting on her bent knees. Her curly up-do tumbled over her shoulders, almost reaching the carpet where her bare toes peeked out from under the lace hem.

  She glanced up at him with her face ashen.

  The light was missing from those beautiful coffee eyes he adored. Normally so vibrant and alive and smiling, now they were empty. Yet there were no tears.

  It was the one sight he couldn’t bear. Alanna afraid. Hurting. Lost.

  Yet even he knew this wasn’t something he could fix. No one could fix this.

  Without a word, he knelt beside her and brushed the hair away from her face. “Talk to me.”

  “All those people,” she whispered. “Those children…if I had just cancelled the whole thing instead of—”

  “There was no time. It would’ve still gone off.”

  She shook her head, but still didn’t look at him. Not into his eyes. He wasn’t sure she could see anything.

  “Let’s get you into more comfortable clothes. Then we can see if your security team has more intel.” He gently held her hands and guided her to her feet. Yet her gaze wouldn’t land on anything specific. Her fingers trembled within his, metastasizing all the way up her arms.

  She’s still in shock.

  The sequins on her gown glittered under the chandelier, countering her pale skin and blank expression.

  “Your Highness?” Cataline called from beyond the bathroom.

  Alanna didn’t even acknowledge the voice.

  “Give her a minute,” Flynn answered for her.

  “He’s back on the island, Gabriel.” Her voice was haunted. So quiet. But when she used his real name, he froze.

  “Lozano is here. Or he never left. Solanian forces didn’t even know.”

  “They do now.” He said the words to be more of a comfort. But once they came out, they sounded more like criticism.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  The confession hung between them like a death sentence.

  Neither do I.

  “With André gone, my family dead…I feel alone. I don’t know how to do this by myself.”

  Flynn’s chest squeezed in on itself. After everything they’d been through together, after all their progress, he couldn’t believe she still felt this small and incapable.

  With a hold on her elbows, he forced her to look at him. He made sure his whole body blocked everything else out. “You’re not alone.”

  She swallowed hard, her entire body still trembling.

  “You can do this, Alanna.”

  Her breath was shaky against his skin.

  “But you can’t help them from inside a closet.”

  Alanna blinked. Almost instantly, her body stopped shaking. A tinge of pink returned to her face, finally.

  Cataline knocked on the door and stepped inside. She clutched a tablet to her chest. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were deeper. Her hair was grayer in the lighting, too. With a timid voice, she asked, “Should I call a physician, Your Highness?”

  “No, she’s oka—” Flynn answered.

  “Yes,” Alanna cut him off, her voice loud and firm. She squared her shoulders and held Flynn’s hand in her own. “Call every physician and medical personnel on staff, and send them all to the marina immediately. Then convene the Security Council with the Royal Guard on site, so everyone receives the same intel at the same time.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Cataline started tapping on her tablet.

  “Get Prime Minister Barilla on the phone. He needs to delay the vote while we handle this crisis.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “All personnel will be devoted solely to these victims and their needs. His damned vote can wait.”

  She started to walk out of the closet and relayed even more orders to Cataline, whose fingers flurried over the tablet screen. Flynn followed behind them slowly, amazed at how quickly Alanna snapped out of her shock. A fire flamed higher inside her with every instruction she gave.

  She was in her element.

  I need to be in mine.

  He turned back to the closet and stripped his formal shoes and shirt. Moments later, he sported his deck shoes and a linen shirt he could move freely in, instead of that restrictive vest and jacket.

  By the time he emerged, Alanna was halfway down the main stairwell directing orders to more personnel and receiving updates from others. In the middle of her sentence to Cataline, he tilted his head over his princess’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. Her warm, perfectly pink cheek.

  Then he continued down the stairs ahead of her. Everyone silenced.

  “Wait, where are you going?” she called.

  “To help at the marina.” Obviously.

  Her eyed widened. “But…you…you’re still in your tuxedo pants.”

  He looked down and realized he’d forgotten a step. He chuckled at the ridiculous ensemble and shrugged. Then
he glanced back at her, in all her glorious splendor. “You’re still in your gown. That’s not stopping you.”

  “I’m not going to the marina. It’s too dangerous.”

  “For you, yes. You need to be here. But they can use an extra set of hands down there. And I need to find Marcus.”

  “Well, how…that’s impossible, you can’t just…You need an escort.” She motioned to one of the guards, but Flynn shook his head.

  “Don’t you think they have enough to do right now? Keeping you safe is more important. I can find my way there.” He barreled down the steps two at a time. When he reached the main door, which two guards opened for him, Alanna called out, “Flynn?”

  He turned. Fear had returned to her face, but this time was different. Her eyes were still full of life and something else he couldn’t pinpoint. Pride? Or was that hunger? Neither of them had eaten anything since noon.

  “Be safe.”

  “GEMMA, WAKE UP.”

  The light in the room was dim, perhaps nighttime or twilight. She swallowed the chalky dryness in her throat. Her eye didn’t feel nearly as swollen, and the ache in her face muted. But groggy didn’t even begin to cover the haze in her head.

  “Tranquilo, Gemmita,” a low voice spoke from the corner of the room. She barely recognized Stefano. His proud posture was gone, his shoulders slumped, and he wore a considerably leaner face, almost hollow. “How do you feel?”

  She looked down at her abdomen. No blood. A warm, cream-colored quilt with hand-embroidered peaches and ivy covered her body. Her heart stopped. This quilt had been Reyna’s favorite. Gemma hiccupped, remembering this same blanket draped over the sweet woman’s lifeless body on the couch, after she stepped in front of the bullet meant for André.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked.

  Of the million questions in her head, none of them were as frivolous as her medical condition. “Where’s André?”

  He shook his head. “I’m retired.”

  Gemma’s already parched mouth dried further. “What happened?”

  Stefano sighed and handed her a plastic cup of water. The crickets outside the shaded window revealed it was twilight.

  “André was right. You aren’t safe in the hospital. Vasco is still at large. I’ve signed your release papers, and we’re getting you out of here. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  Gemma furrowed her brow, which pulled at the stitches at her hairline. “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace safe. Arranged by the sheriff.”

  Gemma’s jaw dropped. I thought that old bear hated me.

  “Are you warm enough? He brought that over.” He nodded to the quilt.

  She traced her fingers around the peach embroidery, worn and soft. She could almost feel Reyna’s hug through the fabric.

  “He said when the murder investigation was closed, he took it home and washed it. Knew you’d want it.”

  God bless that man. Gemma tried to take a deep breath, but her stomach burned. “What did I do to myself?”

  Stefano smirked. “Proof that you need to stop throwing punches.”

  “Some people deserve them.”

  “Not as many as you think.” He stood and helped her adjust the pillow behind her head so she could sit up. “You popped a few stitches, which opened up your surgical site. Your internal stitches are fine.” He sat back down.

  “So what’s the deal? Imprisoned in a secret spot until Vasco turns himself in? Because you know he won’t be caught by these incompetent intelligence agencies.”

  “Better than leaving you here for him to walk through those doors and finish you off.”

  “Which will give him that much extra time to find André.”

  Stefano shook his head. “The prince is back in Solana by now, handling the recent attack, no doubt. Vasco isn’t stupid enough to go back there.”

  Well, there’s one piece of good news. André went home to defend his throne. At least sacrificing their relationship wouldn’t be in vain.

  The former royal guardsman wouldn’t look her in the eye anymore. He stared at the black television screen, his reflection dark and his frame skinnier than she liked.

  “You need to get some meat on your bones,” she announced.

  He threw her a puzzled scowl.

  “If we’re going after that son of a bitch, I need the hard-ass soldier beside me.”

  His chuckle came across pained as he shook his head.

  Gemma hid a smile. Yeah, I know I’m impossible. That’s what Sheriff Brooks keeps calling me.

  “I’m already working on it,” Stefano replied, his elbows braced on his knees. A cold, vicious look crossed his face, one that would make most men cower and scatter like cockroaches. But not Gemma. She wanted to hand that expression a shotgun and set it free, to rain holy fire and justice upon the likes of Vasco and Lozano.

  Reyna’s nephew grabbed the remote from the dresser and switched on the television. After flipping a few channels looking for the news, he found it.

  Rock Pierce’s wrinkled, red face filled the screen on a national network channel.

  “Our town has been destroyed by this ordeal. My son was arrested for defending himself against a cowardly man who calls himself a prince. I don’t care who he is. He’s responsible for the death of a wonderful woman, who everyone in this town loved. Not to mention he destroyed her home and slaughtered her horses!”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. Reporters threw more questions at Rock, but he just kept on ranting.

  “All this fuss and nonsense over the likes of that girl is absurd! Gemma Westfall ain’t worth half of Reyna Lawson. You’re mourning over the wrong woman. Gemma has a long and horrendous history that if you knew half of, you reporters wouldn’t be portraying her as the savior of some country, or the would-be angel of the decade.”

  The blood drained from Gemma’s face faster than Rock’s thick, country-accented words. Rock, don’t you dare.

  Of course, the reporters drooled over that statement and urged the hick to continue. Just as Rock knew they would, written all over the jackass’s smug sneer.

  “Gemma spent her teenage years skipping school to go off partying, drinkin’, and whorin’ around. Even got involved with a shady loan-shark to get back at her daddy for his drinkin’ problem.”

  “What?!” Gemma screamed at the television, instantly pulling at her stiches. “Those bastards kidnapped me to force him to settle his debt! I was fourteen!”

  Rock continued his rant of lies and misinterpretations. “The list of men that whore has been with is longer than the Salt Grass cattle drive. The sheriff’s arrested her for dozens of solicitations.”

  “Bullshit!” she screamed and threw the cup at the television. Pain radiated through her body, but that didn’t stop Rock’s mouth from spewing more horseshit.

  “This prince parades her around as his prize like she’s somethin’ special…you know what, Solena, or however you pronounce it—you can have her.”

  The television screen turned black. Stefano’s grip nearly cracked the remote.

  “I’m gonna kill him.” Gemma’s knuckles on her good hand turned white clutching the quilt.

  Stefano didn’t say anything. He continued to stare at the blank screen. His silence was worse than Rock’s interview.

  How the hell do I tell him? A troubled teen, newly orphaned, and desperate for love. Appreciation. The sob story was so common in broken poverty families, it borderlined cliché. She was never a prostitute, and her run-ins with Sheriff Brooks had nothing to do with solicitations. But during her late teens, she’d associated sex with power. Control. She was desperate for it. It was the biggest area of shame in her short life.

  Say something. Tell me what you’re thinking.

  Then it hit her.

  “Solana is going to see this, aren’t they?”

  He nodded once.

  “Which means, with the vote coming up…” Oh shit. The representatives will question André’s judgment, consorting with a woman
of less-than-stellar reputation. Unfitting of a king.

  Which will push them to vote the monarchy out of existence.

  Gemma’s jaw locked, and she couldn’t open it to scream.

  His life is over, all because of the stupid shit I did as a dumb kid.

  Stefano rose and moved to the window, crossing his arms. He refused to look at her. “Will Sheriff Brooks back up your record?”

  She was about to nod. “At this point, does it matter?”

  A scuffle outside pulled her attention to the door just as a beast-sized form with a black shirt, black eyes, and thorny tattoo up his neck filled the entryway.

  She gasped.

  Vasco.

  Stefano turned, and his eyes widened.

  The assassin smiled.

  In the breath of an eyelash, Stefano drew his weapon, only to have it knocked from his hand by whatever the Devil threw at him. He winced, but didn’t pause. He lunged for the beast, almost double his size. Gemma threw the quilt off and swung her legs over the edge, desperate to help, despite the agony careening through her wobbly limbs. The agony was nearly as strong as the buzzing in her head.

  By the time her feet touched the floor, the two warriors had thrown and blocked half a dozen punches, and Stefano had taken a brutal hook in the jaw, splatting blood on the wall.

  Someone outside had reached the room, just in time for Vasco to back-kick the door on their face, shattering the glass and sending them backward.

  Stabs in her gut crippled her strength when she put weight on her legs, and the room swayed. But pushing through it was the only choice.

  Kill him. Even if it kills me.

  In another blink, Vasco connected a jab with Stefano’s gut and spun him around in a chokehold. The awkward position revealed the other tattoo on the inside of his forearm: a hawk’s head encircled with scrolls. The same one Stefano had. Vasco slammed the bodyguard’s head into the wall. His limp form fell to the floor.

  Her gaze locked on black irises that belonged to the man who had put her in this hospital and had murdered Reyna. It was like staring into the very depths of Satan himself. Her body turned cold, and a cold sweat hit her spine. He’d already drawn and aimed a silver-plated .45 pistol in her face.