“Yes, ma’am. We are dispatching an ambulance. Are you—are you at the Marienburg castle?”
“Yes. We’re in the sitting room. It’s upstairs. You come in the front gates, and it’s up the stairs to the left, and—”
The metallic odor of blood overwhelmed the sulfurous sting of gunpowder in the air, so strong that it felt like it coated her tongue. She couldn’t speak.
Dieter was talking into his cell phone, too. “Rogues, we need medical services at the primary location immediately. Two more personnel, dispatch to the castle entrance to receive and direct civilian emergency medical personnel.” He hung up. “The Rogues will meet them at the gate.”
Flicka said to the woman on the phone, “People will meet you at the gate to guide you up.”
“What is the emergency?” the woman on the phone asked.
Her father glanced up, and Flicka followed his gaze to two small, black half-spheres embedded in the ceiling. He said, “At least there’ll be no question about what happened.”
Two men slammed open the door behind the chairs and rushed over to her, carrying a toolbox of some sort. They dropped to the floor beside Pierre, shoving Flicka toward his legs. One began chest compressions on Pierre, while the other inspected the top of Pierre’s head, grimacing as he muttered, “Elands.”
“Gunshot wound,” Flicka said into the phone, her voice breaking at the inadequacy of that term to describe the scarlet mess flowing on the snowy floor and the darker clumps mottling the fluid. White bone studded the carnage like islands rising out of a sea of blood.
“Will our personnel be in danger? Do you need police? Are you safe?”
“He shot himself,” Flicka said, her throat strangling the words. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and dropped on her slacks. “He killed himself. I can’t believe he killed himself.”
“Are you safe?” the woman asked again.
“Yes,” Flicka said, trying to concentrate on the question and make an answer. “Yes, we’re all safe. No one is shooting. No one is holding a gun. He shot himself. Why would he do that?”
“Medical personnel are en route,” the woman said.
The phone fell from Flicka’s numb fingers and pattered on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
Hands grabbed her shoulders, pulling her away from the horror.
Dieter’s broad chest loomed in front of her, and his faint scent filled her nose and mouth. His arms wrapped around her, cradling her in darkness and warmth.
“I should have listened to him,” Flicka said.
“You did,” Dieter whispered to her, his lips near her ear.
“I should have done what he wanted so he didn’t do this.”
“No. He was not entitled to your body. This isn’t your fault, because he shouldn’t have held you hostage to his own madness.”
“I never wanted him to do this.”
“Of course not.”
“I should have just gone along with it, at least for a while, until he settled down. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. Pierre fought me for the gun and pulled the trigger.”
“I upset him too much.”
“No. It’s not your fault. You’re as much a victim as anyone else. Men who believe they’re entitled to a woman’s body commit terrible crimes.”
“I never wanted him dead,” she said. Her throat felt raw.
“He decided to kill himself. He was not more important than you are. What he wanted was not as important as your right to not be a slave. You have every right to make your own decisions and not be used as anyone’s sex slave or broodmare.” He held her back from him a little, and his kind, gray eyes stared straight into hers. “If you need a man to own you, then you’re mine. You’ve been my Durchlauchtig from the first time you touched me in London, because I am utterly, completely yours.”
“Lieblingwächter,” she whispered.
“Yes. I’m your Lieblingwächter.” He tucked one hand in his pocket and came up with his alpine mountaineering pin, surrounded by a cloud of gold and diamonds. “You made me back into Dieter Schwarz, and you’re my Durchlauchtig. I wanted you to be able to say what you needed to when you were with Pierre Grimaldi, to get him out of your system, but if he had tried to take control of you, I would have stepped in. You’re my wife, my soul, my other half—” His hand dropped to her waist. “—and the mother of my child. I wouldn’t have let you go.”
She slipped her arms up and around his neck. “Promise me.”
“You’re mine forever,” he said, cradling her to his chest. “I promise I’ll love you forever, and I’m yours.”
He guided her outside the room, leading her up into the castle.
Flicka held onto his hand as if she might drown.
Behind them, her father shouted, “What did you mean, you married your bodyguard?”
The weight of it toppled onto her, and her face squeezed as she tried not to fall apart. “Dieter,” she whispered, and he was right there, beside her, listening to her, “I can’t. I can’t, right now.”
He whispered in her ear, “Then I’ll take care of it, and then I’ll carry you to our room.”
His strong hands bore her back until she was resting against a wall, a gilded sconce beside her lighting the ornate plasterwork.
Cool air drifted over her arms as he moved away.
Boots marched on the marble floor.
Her father said, “Flicka! What the hell did you mean? You can’t mean you married a servant!”
She closed her eyes.
Dieter’s deep voice rumbled through the hallway. “Wulfram and Flicka have told me some of the shit you’ve pulled over the years, how you’ve screwed up every chance of happiness you ever had because you’re cruel to everyone who loves you. She’s had a rough day. Hell, she’s had a terrible year. Right now, I’m going to take care of her like she deserves. She’ll contact you when she’s ready to talk. Leave her alone. Leave both of them alone.”
The coldness in her father’s voice chilled Flicka. “I won’t stand here and be spoken to in that manner.”
I won’t stand here and listen to you whine.
Flicka had been six years old. Her mother had died from cancer the very day before, and her father had packed Flicka off to boarding school on schedule. She’d known no one at the school except that her much older brother Wulfie was somewhere there, too, and the world had been so frightening without her mother in it.
Farther away, Dieter’s voice was low in his throat and husky with anger. “I know you didn’t like Pierre for her, but maybe she learned it was acceptable for a man to be heartless, distant, and toxic from you. She certainly didn’t see that in Wulfram. You should think about that.”
Footsteps walked back.
Elegant German profanity echoed through the hallway.
Dieter shot back, “I’m no one’s servant, old man. I work for a living. I’ve built a multimillion dollar company from nothing. I’m not living off stolen gold from my grandfather.”
Flicka smiled. Neither was she, anymore.
The heavy footsteps stopped beside her. “Come, Durchlauchtig. I’ll take care of you.”
He swept her up in his strong arms and carried her, cradled against his broad chest, through the castle to the room they’d slept in last night.
Geneva Trust and the Mirabauds
Dieter Schwarz
Burning down the house.
The next day, Dieter boarded the Geneva Trust jet at the Hannover airport and flew to Switzerland. His sister Océane had sent the plane and the car that met him when he disembarked.
Nerves rattled in his flesh, but the weights of the gun under his arm and the other one at his ankle steadied him.
The car slid to a stop in front of Geneva Trust, the antique white building on the Rue de la Croix-d’Or, the Gold Cross Street. The name was supposed to be a religious reference because the southern part of Switzerland was predominantly Catholic, but Raphael had always thought of the bank as worshipp
ing the gold of the cross for its wealth.
Not Raphael.
Dieter.
Who you are in life is a choice, and Dieter was choosing the path that led him back to Flicka.
The driver ran around the car and held the door open for him, a welcome change from the Ilyin Bratva’s prison guards that had dogged him everywhere he’d gone. The chilly air cut through the black pea coat he’d borrowed from one of the Rogues and rustled the Christmas baskets of spruce branches high on the lamp posts. He blinked, and the bright morning sunlight made his eyes water.
In front of him, the steel and glass door to the bank buzzed open. He pushed it and walked inside.
The scents of furniture polish and old coins washed over his face as he walked inside. Dust motes danced in the early morning sunshine streaming through the front windows.
Océane was standing inside the door of the bank. “Hello, Raphe—Dieter.”
She was wearing a severe black suit with a red blouse. Instead of looking Christmas festive, the stark colors reminded him of a power tie on an undertaker. Her gray eyes, so like his own, looked even lighter against the dark colors. “Hello, Océane. Are we ready to begin?”
“You’re the last one to arrive. Sorry about the flight delays.”
“No one’s fault. Let’s go.”
He followed his sister through the narrow hallways of the old bank, past offices and sitting rooms to the conference room.
The conference room was about three-quarters full, though most of the people were the younger shareholders. Evidently, the older generation had not been invited or notified.
Dieter’s other sisters, Ambre and Chloé, stood when he walked in and offered their hands over the table to shake, smiling wanly over the pleasantries. His uncle Bastien’s handshake was slower, and he didn’t meet Dieter’s eyes.
Dieter’s mother sat at the far end of the table. Her hands rested in her lap, and her eyes barely rose when Dieter held out his hand. She did shake his hand, holding onto him for a moment longer than he’d thought she would. “Can you talk for a few minutes, afterward?”
“Of course,” Dieter said, taking a chair and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. None of the Rogues had had a suit he could borrow, so he wore black dress slacks and a white shirt.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he was looking forward to shopping. Borrowing other guys’ clothes was beginning to gross him out, if he thought about where those clothes had been.
Océane called the meeting to order and took roll, an unusual procedure for an unusual meeting.
Then she sighed and said, “The resolution before the stockholders’ meeting today is the dissolution of Geneva Trust. In consideration of the recent subpoenas served to the bank—”
The result of that thumb drive of data that Dieter had passed to Magnus that chilly night at the Port of Rotterdam.
“—and the impending legal action, this seems to be the most prudent course of action.”
Everyone nodded or stared at their notebooks in front of them. This motion was not a surprise to anyone. Indeed, the meeting attendees had likely been selected carefully.
Bastien sighed and sipped from a glass of honey-colored liquid at his elbow. Ice clinked in the glass.
“Let’s call the vote,” Océane said.
In the end, eighty-two percent of the voting stock was present, and all of them voted to end Geneva Trust, including Bastien and Dieter’s mother, who had inherited Valerian Mirabaud’s estate.
Océane nodded. “The motion is passed. All assets of Geneva Trust will be liquidated in an expedient but orderly manner. Thank you for coming. The meeting is adjourned.”
Dieter turned to her. “You could have done that without me.”
She shrugged. “I wanted you here. I wanted all the family here to vote and watch it happen. It needed to be observed.”
“Yes, the end of a dynasty.”
The others filed out of the room, shaking Dieter’s and Océane’s hands as they exited. Only their mother didn’t budge.
When the others were gone, Océane shook her head. “Geneva Trust should be dismantled. There was never much that was good about it, and it’s better for the world if one of the major crime financiers is out of business.”
“It won’t stop them.”
“It might slow them down, and it might cause other people to consider washing their hands of them, too. And we won’t be a part of it anymore.”
“The Ilyin Bratva?”
“In disarray, as you suspected. It’s not going to survive.” She sighed. “After the first Archangel raids, it barely rose from the ashes. It’s not coming back, this time.”
“Good.”
“Indeed.”
“Mother wanted to speak with me.”
“Don’t drink the tea,” Océane joked. “It’s a little early for day-drinking, even for her.”
“I’ll be careful.”
While Océane walked out, doubtlessly to other business, Dieter lowered himself into a chair across the corner of the table from his mother. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back to Flicka.”
“I know,” his mother said, staring down as if she were embarrassed. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Dieter said. “They took us away to murder us: your son, your daughter-in-law, and your granddaughter. You didn’t warn any of us. You just left the house. What the hell is it that you ‘understand?’”
“I tried to warn them or to take them out. The guards wouldn’t let me by. I have three other children and their children, and I warned them. I saved whom I could.”
“Did they need safety? Was Piotr Ilyin after them that night?”
Her lips pressed together, keeping secrets. “They were safe, and that’s all that matters.”
Dieter leaned back in his chair, not ready to have this conversation. “I apologize for shooting Valerian.” He couldn’t bring himself to say father.
Sophie shrugged. “I’m rather surprised he lived as long as he did.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“Oh, so am I. I’m just not shocked.”
“Is there something else we need to discuss?”
“Your inheritance,” his mother said, her blond eyebrows dipping.
“I thought I wouldn’t be eligible. Raphael Mirabaud has been dead for over a decade,” he said, citing the least of the reasons why his family wouldn’t be handing out any money to him.
“I disagree,” his mother said. “I’m not willing to write off any of my children as dead, even if they have chosen a different name for themselves. Once the bank’s assets are liquidated, I plan to sell the house. I’ll be dispersing most of your inheritance to you and the girls in equal portions.”
“But, you need to live,” Dieter said.
“I’ll keep a modest portion for myself, for the time being, but you and the girls are young. You can use it to do something else. I’m tired of keeping it all up. I’ll travel with some girlfriends. I’ll get a nice apartment in downtown Geneva and spoil my grandchildren. I don’t need that kind of money, anymore. I don’t want it, either.”
Dieter sat back in his chair. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve thought about what I would do in this eventuality for a long time.” She leaned her head toward him. “You know there’s a problem in your marriage when you happily daydream about what you’ll do when your spouse shuffles off the mortal coil. Most of it is quite set up. The Geneva real estate market is strong, as always. I expect there will be a bidding war for the house. Depending on the disposal of the bank’s assets, you should have the money within six months.”
“That’s quick,” Dieter said, disturbed at the direction of the conversation.
And then she named an outlandish sum of money.
He blinked and gasped a little, having not realized Geneva Trust and his family was worth quite that much. It wasn’t von Hannover money, but he might be on par with some of the lesser Grimaldis. “That’s the whole amount, right? To be
split four ways?”
She smiled at him, her condescension evident. “No, dear. That’s your share, and then a bit more after I die.”
The whole sky opened up to him.
“What do you think you will do with it?” she asked.
Hire more people. Expand fast. Buy a damned jet so they could respond more quickly to critical operations. Maybe two jets. Maybe more. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Of course, you have. I can see it on your face. You’re planning something, just like when you were a child and would plot the most outlandish schemes.”
He smiled at his mother who, even after all this time and after changing his name and his life, did know him a little too well. “An infusion of that much capital into my company will make us one of the largest and most extensive private security companies in the world. We’ll be able to do anything from protect a princess to invade a small country.”
Actually, they’d done both of those things in the last week, but they would be much easier to implement with a couple of planes and an armored vehicle or three.
She patted his hand. “Spoken like a true Mirabaud.”
He’d have to think about that. “One more thing.”
“Yes, my son?”
“While I’m here, could I grab a few things from the closets at the house?”
Flight
Flicka von Hannover
Alina’s real mother,
and other things you do on a plane.
Flicka clutched Dieter’s hand as they flew through the night, somewhere far over the Atlantic Ocean. She’d been fretting the whole way, turning dates and events over in her head, but nothing made sense to her.
The plane bobbled over a little turbulence in the dark, and Flicka grabbed his hand more tightly.
Happily Ever After (Runaway Princess: Flicka, Book 5) Page 25