Stefano scoffed. “That woman has nothing over you. She lacks a necessary gracious nature and is completely devoid of honest respect. Both of which you embody without even realizing it. Besides, André can’t stand her.”
“What was that trip in Vegas she referenced?”
“Technically, I’m not at liberty to discuss his private affairs, but since I’m no longer a royal guardsman, and in the interest of defending his character, I’ll tell you. That was during the first year of his exile, where his self-confidence was at his lowest. She pushed herself on him and took advantage of his situation. He was young, no doubt desperate for reminders of Solana without admitting he missed his home. Before you, he never once brought a woman to a royal function. Attended many dates, yes, but never invited one into his home. And certainly never went into another hospital since his mother passed—God rest the queen’s soul.” With a frustrated sigh, he opened up the napkin she gave him, perusing the black ink.
Gemma bit the inside of her cheek. André had called her his secret weapon, and she’d failed him at the State Dinner. Then after she’d left him without a word, he still came halfway around the world to her bedside when nearly beaten to death. To which she only insulted him—using his weakness to hit him where it hurt most—and pushed him away. She pressed her forehead into her palms. Holy shit, I don’t deserve him.
“What did he say when he gave you this?”
“Who?” she replied through her broken fingers covering her face.
“Vasco.”
“Only to show that to you. Don’t let the badges have all the fun.”
“Cristo….”
She finally put her hands down. “What?”
“I need to return to Solana.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. We can’t trust the American government with this intel. I have to discuss this with Solanian forces.”
Her lips parted, and her breath shook. “We?”
He tilted his head to look at her, the world’s weight behind his eyes. He held up the napkin. “You’ve been handed the keys to the Lozano kingdom. I assume you’d want to see it crumble.”
ANDRÉ FOLLOWED QUINTANA DOWN THE expansive hallway toward the queen’s drawing room, his shoes thumping along the thick rug in time with his erratic heartbeat. There was no time to shake the stress from his shoulders. The latest round of political calls—more like formal begging—to foreign heads of state proved fruitless. Many refused to take his call. This interruption was already a huge inconvenience.
His trusted aide opened the doors and allowed him through. “His Royal Highness, Prince André,” Quintana announced.
André swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and entered, his shoulders back, ready for an onslaught. I don’t have time for this tabloid shit.
The elegant and graceful figure of Vivette Soto stood from the baroque loveseat, instantly setting André’s nerves on edge. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun with a few tendrils draped along her neck. She half-curtsied, and then glided up to him in a plum business suit and pencil-skirt, with her hand out ready for a kiss on her knuckles. Out of formal protocol, he was required to at least touch it, but he refused to touch his lips to anywhere on this woman’s body. She bowed her head again, only two feet from his nose.
“Your Highness, thank you for taking the time out of your hectic schedule to grant an audience.”
“With a message from the English prime minister via your father, how could I refuse?” There was no cordiality to his voice; he made sure of it.
“What’s with the babysitters?” She nodded her chin to Quintana behind him, and Cataline at the far end of the room.
“Witnesses,” he answered without feeling.
“Oh, come now, André. You needn’t be so formal with me.” She fluttered her long eyelashes at him, matched with her most polite and seductive smile.
How did I not see this before? She really is a tart. Gemma was right. The thought of her brought the sky-blue eyes to the front of his mind, and his heart clenched.
“Please address him as Your Royal Highness,” Cataline spoke up. “Or sir.”
A tinge of pink graced her cheeks. “Prince André and I have known each other for a long time, miss.” She sneered at Cataline. When she glanced back at André for verification, he didn’t give her any. Obviously flustered, she cleared her throat and motioned to the settee. “May I sit, Your Highness?” Her three-inch heels pressed into the plush rug as she started to walk over.
“Why didn’t your father deliver this message himself?”
“He’s still in London. But he had a meeting with the British prime minister this morning, and urged me to see you straight away. He was adamant this couldn’t wait until his return home.”
“Does he no longer possess a phone?”
She paused and crossed her arms in her pristine jacket, her face turning serious. “The message he asked me to deliver requires confidentiality.” She glanced once again at Cataline, then at Quintana. With a quieter tone, she added, “My father’s phone lines have been tapped for some time. The prime minister doesn’t want this information public.”
André narrowed his eyes. The more she speaks, the less I trust. He ignored the tapped phone lines comment. It was only her attempt at forcing continued discussion with her sole target. Royal attention. “As far as you’re concerned, these two people are an extension of me. Deliver your message.”
She tapped a long fingernail on her arm, considering him. “The United Kingdom does not want to interfere with the defense negotiations Solana is currently undertaking with the United States. At least, not publicly. So, he regrets that he was not able to answer your calls this morning. But he still wants to help.”
André blinked. How would she know I called him this morning? “How so?”
She moved to the settee and rested her hip against the armchair. The skirt’s fabric pulled tighter against her thigh, revealing more skin at her knee. When she crossed her legs, it made them even longer. “They are willing to provide intelligence support. MI6 has satellite imagery showing the current location of your assassin’s whereabouts. I believe the name they used was Vasco.”
The more she spoke, the less he liked it. “I already know his whereabouts.”
The instant the smile reappeared on her face, he dreaded the entire meeting. “And Raul Lozano. The one responsible for all the attacks on Solana.”
Something in his brain clicked into place. The information was crucial. He had to shove aside the disdain he held for the messenger. Anything to know how to stop that psychopath. “They have confirmation?”
She gave a single nod.
“And?”
“They are willing to launch a black ops mission to capture both. And deliver them to Solanian security forces to face justice. With your permission, they can be airborne in six hours.”
André chewed on the inside of his cheek. “The British PM is concerned about offending the United States by talking to me, yet he’s comfortable with launching a black ops mission to rip Vasco out of American military hands.” The second the words were out of his mouth, he winced. Shit, that was top-secret intel.
She smiled. The hairs on the back of his neck were screaming. “He’s not in U.S. custody anymore. As of ten this morning.”
The rest of the room blurred into a haze. “What?”
“The United States government released him. He’s a free man. And very soon off the grid.”
Fire filled his face, and he turned to grab the first thing he saw—a crystal vase. He pulled back to chuck it against the wall, the edges piercing the first layer of skin. That son of a bitch American ambassador had the prick released, instead of being caught in a lie.
His mother’s portrait stared down at him, so graceful and beautiful. It cracked his heart. Her gentle, loving eyes had a way of stopping him in his place when he misbehaved. Like now. Decorum, son. Maintain control. His mother’s words echoed in his memory.
Qui
ntana stepped forward but kept his face unreadable. André set the vase back down.
I’ve not had control in a long time.
“What are their demands, in exchange for this…generosity?” The words slipped off his tongue like sewage. Most likely they wanted the ammephire mines, just like everyone else.
“He requests controlling interest in the ammephire mines. Fifty-one percent.”
André rolled his eyes. Still, less than the Americans.
“Lastly,” she continued, “for future defense treaties and full protection, they require Solana to return to the United Kingdom, as a British Overseas Territory.”
He locked his jaw. Everything started to seem pointless. How did my father keep all of this together? He forced a deep, calming breath, and turned to face her. “You are Solanian, Vivette. On your mother’s side, correct?”
“Of course.” She smiled and stood.
“Do you have any pride for this country?”
Her smile slipped, and she squared her shoulders. “As much as you.”
He shook his head. “Do you honestly believe I’d surrender my country, for any reason?”
Her lips parted, and she stepped forward. “This isn’t surrendering our country, Your Highness. This is securing the safety of every Solanian, now and forever.”
“What’s in this for you, Vivette?”
She blanched. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve never been interested in politics or foreign affairs. What deal have you made?”
“This is ridiculous, André.” She patted her hair back into place, color rising in her face. “It’s not about me, or my father—”
“You will address him as—” Quintana cut in.
“Yes, I know!” she cut back, then smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. “As a concerned citizen of our beloved country, Your Highness, I felt it my obligation to relay the information I received.”
Everything inside him cooled. “Well then, thank you for the information, Miss Soto. Please, excuse me.” He nodded to Quintana, who opened the door for him just as Alanna walked by in the hallway, a file folder in her arms. Her gaze fixed on the woman behind him, then morphed into disapproval.
“Wait!” Vivette called. “What about their offer? What should I tell my father?”
André’s spine stiffened and turned rigid as he walked away, throwing over his shoulder, “Hell no.”
RAUL GRINNED AT THE LARGE commercial fishing vessel floating at the end of the docks in the small bay on the northern side of Solana. As his father had promised, inside that smelly ship were eight bags full of automatic weapons, just for him.
The ten mercenaries he brought with him all crouched in the underbrush at the edge of the loading zone attached to the docks. Silent as death, eager as sailors in a whorehouse. Waiting for the signal.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read a text message from an unknown number.
Watch your back. Betrayal everywhere.
A muscle twitched by his eye, and he swallowed a snarl. Only three people had this number. His father, who never texted, let alone used the phrase watch your back. That was a lesson in life that if he hadn’t learned by now, his father would have already killed him. The others were his second in command and his brother. His second was crouched beside him, chomping down on a stick of beef jerky, waiting to strike.
Why would that pansy Ricardo send this? The two brothers hated each other almost their entire lives. Battling for their father’s pride, attention, and a chance at leadership, which that prick had no chance of, especially after his failure to capture the princess and the prized necklace, Luna de Azul.
He’s trying to throw me off my game. But Raul refused to fall for it. It was a blatant attempt to rattle him and cause him to fail his mission, just so they could be back on even footing with their vicious father.
Some of the men started moving in the underbrush, whispering to each other and growing antsy. Raul glanced at his watch. 12:27 a.m. The signal was two minutes late.
Unless Ricardo’s message was because of his recent wedding. Women tended to soften a man’s resolve, turn them to useless putty. Which meant if he really wanted to see his brother fail, he wouldn’t have bothered warning of betrayal.
A thunderous boom rattled in the distance, shaking the trees. The government building with Representative Arias’ offices had just become fertilizer for the wild fauna. Along with Arias himself, whom Raul had tied to a pipe in the cellar. He sneered.
Several coconuts and breadfruits fell from branches around them, and thunked onto the soft ground. One particularly large breadfruit hit a man in the head, knocking him out cold a few feet away. Moron.
“Let’s go,” Raul rasped. With sure footing, he emerged from the underbrush and darted across the docks, his mercenaries following. Boarding the vessel and making their way to the bridge was easy, only coming across one sleeping security guard, who was easily neutralized and tossed overboard. The bags of automatic weapons were in the captain’s quarters, tucked under the cot like sweet babies.
Now the final mission against the royal family is ready.
As a few of his thugs raided the crew’s bunks and whatever else they could find of value, his second in command turned the corner with half a grin, holding one of the weapons bags. “Like Christmas.”
“We’re not finished yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
When the mercenaries finished their ransacking, Raul pulled his second aside. “Check the starboard stern for witnesses.”
When the man turned and stepped outside, Raul pulled the gun from his holster and plugged a bullet into the back of his head. Blood sprayed into the sea, and he dropped to the deck. Without a pause, Raul lugged the body over the railing and watched him sink below the waves. Then he grabbed the black duffel bag and hightailed it to the docks.
Better safe than sorry.
Alanna’s throat dried as she read the report in her hand. Even Flynn’s warm and resounding presence couldn’t ease the ache and fear in her heart after reading these words.
“01:15: Explosion destroys Representative Arias’ office in the northern province. Local witness alleges they saw Representative Arias dragged through the back door into the building shortly before the explosion. Emergency crews still working through the rubble to find survivors.”
Quintana waited by the door, his tortured face mirroring her own. “His Highness requests you join him in the study to issue a statement.”
She nodded, but words wouldn’t move past the cotton feeling in her throat. With a clutch at her iris robe, her knees gave way and she landed on the chaise at the foot of the bed.
Flynn was beside her in half a heartbeat. “What is it?”
She handed him the report.
Mathis Arias had been a good friend. The royal family’s strongest supporter. No doubt why he was specifically targeted, like the other representatives who’d been found murdered. But this one hurt more. Arias was smart, selfless, and someone the entire country admired. Mathis had been the first to arrive at the palace to console her and her brothers after their mother’s death from pancreatic cancer all those years ago. His friendship—mentorship—had meant a great deal to Alanna. To all of them.
Alanna rubbed the back of her neck, pushing up into her hairline, where her long locks were pulled up into a loose bun on the top of her head. A permanent tension had plagued her neck and shoulders ever since the initial attack on Solana, only to grow heavier with every passing day.
Outside her bedroom windows, the sun barely peeked over the tree lines, through wispy dark clouds in the early morning.
Flynn swore beside her. “You’d think these bastards would run out of supplies at some point. But why target him?”
“Because this isn’t just a campaign to cause fear and chaos. This is a political war. He’s wiping out all the supporters of the royal family.” Her voice was weary and hollow. “The prime minister now has the counts he needs to vote us out of power,
to dissolve the monarchy.”
Flynn’s scowl deepened. “As another means to flush you all out.”
Alanna shrugged. “At that point, it wouldn’t matter. With Arias’ death, it’s the end for us.”
Quintana cleared his throat from the door. “Your Highness? Prince André is waiting.”
She nodded and stood. Flynn rose beside her, sturdy and unwavering like a strong mast in a vicious gale. “Whatever you decide, I’m right here. No matter what.” Holding his hand, they went to the study together.
The heavy wooden doors opened before her. Her heart sank even further seeing André resting his forehead on the windowpane overlooking the gardens. Agony gripped his face in relentless creases and dark circles under his eyes.
Still in a suit from the night before and his tie dangling over the leather chair, he turned and saw her. He gripped a silver frame he’d taken from the bookshelf beside him.
Alanna ran over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. They sagged under her hold. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. They both knew what this meant. He held her back, both clinging to each other in silence for several long seconds.
In the bookshelf in the corner, dozens of framed photos sat with the royal family members posing with various individuals. She recognized the one he held. The one with Mathis Arias, her father, King Rodrigo, and her brother, Crown Prince Tulio, smiling back at the camera. André’s fingerprints smudged the glass.
Finally, she pulled back and looked into his face. “You haven’t been to bed at all, have you?”
André shook his head. “Everyone I’ve called…begged…” He set the frame back on the bookshelf. “They all want to help, but won’t overstep the United States.” His sigh was shaky. “We’ve been blackballed.”
A cold chill spread from her chest through her arms and legs. She forced a deep breath to keep her body from turning numb.
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