by Holly Hart
“And to you, sir.”
With that, they amble towards the door. As they reach the hallway beyond, I see Oriana shove her brother out of the way and take off at a run.
“Hey!” he shouts, bounding off after her.
Maria shakes her head and smiles.
“Well, that’s the future of the monarchy,” she sighs. “What do you think?”
“I think Morova is in very capable hands.”
“From your lips to God’s ear. I hate it when I have to tell them Dante is away.”
“Isn’t that pretty much all the time?” I ask.
She smiles knowingly. “One would think so, if all you ever saw was the media coverage of Dante’s life. But that’s all an act. The twins are his heart and soul.”
Really?
“You’re right,” I say. “I was totally under the impression he’s a playboy.”
“He pays his public relations manager a lot of money to make that happen. The more he’s in the spotlight, the more the children are out of it. Dante spent far too much of his life in the watchful glare of the public eye; he doesn’t want them to go through what he did.”
Wow. That’s… wow. Here I am thinking I know everything about the royal family, and now I find out it’s all an act? That’ll teach me to pull my nose out of the books once in awhile and take a look around.
And it makes me think about him in a whole new way. An even more intense way.
“Well, I suppose the two of us should get back to work,” Maria says, glancing at her Tiffany watch. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
“We sure do,” I say. My mind is elsewhere.
“Is there anything you need from me before you go?” she asks.
“Not that I can think of.”
Unless, of course, she happens to have a spare nude photo of Dante lying around that I can take into the tub with me.
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Nine
5. DANTE
There’s nowhere else on Earth like Monte Carlo. It’s like Las Vegas and a Disney kingdom fell in love and had a baby.
Like Morova, Monaco is a principality that sweats money. And like Vegas, it attracts the richest of the rich, with its casinos and the unspoken promise of luxury and adventure.
And, as usual, I’m bored of it already.
“Carte,” I say.
The dealer slides a card from the clear plastic dealing box, taking my discard away. Across the table from me is a pair of Australian mining heirs who somehow talked – or, more likely, bought – their way into the VIP room. Beside me, as always, is Emilio.
“Only one?” says the older of the Aussies, a chubby blond in his late 20s who just took three from the draw. He glances at his brother, who’s a little younger and in better shape. “Whaddya think, Robbo?”
Robbo fixes me with a stare that I suppose he thinks is intimidating.
“Yeah, I reckon he’s bluffin.’”
Normally this room is reserved for baccarat, but, not surprisingly, my new friends have never heard of the game. So we’ve opted for Texas Hold ‘Em instead. The dealer managed to accommodate us without rolling his eyes, but I’m betting it wasn’t easy for him.
“Right,” says the blond, pushing a pile of chips into the already hefty stack in the center of the table. “I raise seventy-five thousand.”
I turn my head to Emilio. He tilts his and shrugs, telling me it’s all up to me.
“Very well,” I say. I round up my remaining chips, most of which are rectangular $100,000 plates, and add them to the pile. “All in.”
The Aussies exchange panicked glances.
“You only took one card,” Robbo says to me. “That’s bloody suicide, mate. You must think we’re a couple o’ yobbos.”
“Gentlemen,” I say coldly. “My entire country is a bank. Do I look like someone who makes a habit of bluffing?”
Beside me, Emilio arches an eyebrow at them.
The two sweat a little longer, looking at the cards, then at the pot, then at each other.
“Fuckin’ fold, mate,” the blond mutters, tossing his hand towards the dealer.
I offer a thin smile and pull the chips towards me, including the hundred grand they just pissed away.
“Oi!” says Robbo. “What did y’have?”
The dealer, an unsmiling middle-aged Czech, glares at them as he draws the used cards away. “Players are under no obligation to show their cards,” he scolds.
I raise a hand towards him.
“It’s fine, Karel,” I say, flipping my cards face-up. “They’re just learning.”
The Aussies stare at them for a moment, then turn their eyes to me, mouths open.
“Ten high,” says the blond. It sounds like tin hoy.
“Correct.”
“You fucking wanker!” Robbo snaps. “You were bluffing!”
In the corner of the room, I see Marco, my head of security, standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He shifts his weight subtly from one foot to the other, preparing to step forward if he’s needed.
He won’t be. I never need him, and I know it drives him up the wall.
“Gentlemen,” I say with an easy smile. “Poker is a game of wits, not luck. The game is played in your head, not on the table. You saw a sophisticated, serious-looking European. Given your obvious rural nature, you assumed that I was somehow better than you.”
They both open their mouths, obviously ready to fight, but I cut them off. I hear Marco sigh in the corner. No action for him.
“Now you know that was the wrong assumption,” I say. “My country is, indeed, a bank. However, I only gamble with my personal fortune, and I can be a real bastard. I hope you take this as a lesson to trust your instincts next time, and to not be fooled by appearances. Otherwise, the people in Monte Carlo will eat you alive.”
With that, I toss a pair of $100,000 plates towards them, and a $10,000 chip to Karel. The Aussies stare at me blankly, mouths open.
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I say, standing and buttoning my tux jacket. “Karel, please have my winnings added to my account.”
Emilio joins me and we head out of the VIP room into the main area, Marco following at a discreet distance. I imagine the combined wealth of the people in this building at the moment would be equal to the gross domestic product of a dozen emerging nations.
“Feel better?” Emilio asks, plucking a pair of champagne flutes off a passing tray.
I know him well enough to recognize the rebuke hidden inside the question. Luckily for me, Emilio is one of the few people I can actually be myself around.
“Kindly kiss my hairy ass,” I say. “I needed a distraction.”
Emilio raises an eyebrow. “A distraction from what? You still haven’t told me why we’re here. All you said on the plane was you needed to get away.”
Should I tell him? I’ve avoided it so far because it almost feels like, if I were to tell him, it would somehow make it real. As long as I keep it to myself, I can pretend it’s just some crazy nightmare that I can’t wake up from.
Stop it. That’s not how a prince is supposed to think.
Besides, Emilio is an intelligent man. He’s been to Oxford. He actually did a few peacekeeping tours during our time in the military, while I spent most of my time flying helicopters over nude beaches in Cyprus.
Maybe he has an idea. Any idea.
“Fine,” I say, leaning in close so as not to be overheard. “I need a distraction from the fact that I could very well lose the monarchy if I don’t marry a virgin in the next two weeks.”
I drain my champagne in a single gulp. It’s bland on my tongue. Everything in here is bland tonight. The women all seem plain and uninteresting. I’m sure it’s because of my mood.
One woman didn’t seem plain today, a voice in my mind whispers. She got your attention like no woman has in a very long time.
Amanda. Those pale blue eyes…
“Very funny,” says Emilio, snapping me back into the moment “I
expect better jokes from you, Dante. Now really, what’s the problem?”
“I just told you,” I scowl. “What part didn’t you understand?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I tell him what Carlo told me. His eyes grow wider with each passing moment.
“That’s… astounding,” he says when I finish.
“That’s one way to put it. I prefer the term ‘royally fucked up.’”
He snorts a laugh, then suddenly remembers the gravity of the situation.
“Sorry,” he says. “Couldn’t help it. That was actually funny.”
“Yes, my life is an absolute riot.”
We stand there in silence for several moments, taking in the room. For a moment my pulse quickens as I see a mane of red hair on a woman in a blue dress, who’s standing over a roulette table. Could it be…?
Then she turns and I can see she’s got a deep suntan, and that the hair color isn’t natural.
It’s not Amanda.
Don’t be stupid, Dante – how would she have gotten here?
“She could be a nun,” Emilio says.
“What?” I turn to look at him. He’s gripping his chin, deep in thought.
“Find a nun, sweep her off her feet and marry her,” he says. “Simple. Italy is rife with convents, how hard could it be?”
I glare at him until he starts to shrink under my gaze.
“What?” he snaps. “It’s a good idea!”
“Oh yes, brilliant,” I say. “Hello, Sister, I’m the local neighborhood prince. Would you mind divorcing the big guy and marrying me? I need to defile you so I can keep my family fortune.”
He frowns. “I don’t see you coming up with any better options.”
“Use your brain,” I say. “How would it look if I showed up at my birthday-cum-wedding with a nun on my arm? ‘Surprise, this is the woman I chose to be my royal bride, your new princess! Yes, I’ve recently decided to repent after my many years of wantonly bedding supermodels, and settle down with this little lady. Nothing suspicious to see here!’”
“It wouldn’t have to be that way. You could pull it off, I’m sure.”
“You know the Crown Council and National Council have the power to essentially end the monarchy. A stunt like that would be more than enough to trigger the chancellor to hold a referendum and boot me – and by extension you – out of the palace for good.”
“You really think the people would vote you out?”
“I’m not exactly in their good books as it is,” I sigh. “My reputation precedes me.”
Emilio puts a hand on my shoulder. “We both know that’s not the real you. Well, not completely the real you, anyway.”
I’m tired of thinking about this. I recognize a nearby server and signal her with a raised hand. She nods, meaning she’ll bring me my usual – a bottle of their finest Russian vodka and a sliced lime.
“Are we actually going to drink it this time?” Emilio asks.
He’s referring to my habit of ordering drinks and then leaving them sitting in various places around the party – behind potted plants, on leftover trays – so that it looks like I’m putting them away like a frat boy. It’s a trick I stole from Frank Sinatra.
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t want to think about anything else for the rest of this night.”
I turn to Marco. “I’ve finally got something interesting for you to do.”
He snaps to attention. “Sir.”
“Keep an eye on me and make sure I get back to my room tonight. Until then, I plan to get spectacularly drunk and make an ass of myself. Make sure nobody kills me during the process.”
He fetches a heavy sigh.
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter One Hundred Fifty
6. AMANDA
“You have to hit the little camera thing.”
“The what?”
I sigh. “It’s at the bottom. It looks like a movie camera, it should have a red stripe through it.”
A pause. “Okay, yup.”
“Click on it.”
An instant later and I’m staring through my dad’s mustache at his nostrils.
“Dad, you have to hold the screen up to your face! I’m looking up your nose!”
“Oops, shit,” I hear him grumble. The room behind him – he’s in the kitchen of our old farmhouse – tilts and spins as he adjusts his iPad. Finally, we’re face to virtual face.
“There’s my pumpkin!” he beams as we look into each other’s eyes for the first time in months. As always, he’s three days past needing a shave, his push-broom mustache is probably a full inch over the top of his mouth, and his iron-grey hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat from the brim of his Stetson.
As far as I’m concerned, he’s the handsomest man in the world. Sam Elliot, except bigger and stronger.
“So,” he says. “You look great, sweetie. You’re pretty pale, though. You need to get outta that vault more. See some sights!”
I grin. Some things never change, thank God.
“I’ll have you know that I haven’t been in that vault for over two weeks,” I say.
“That’s right!” he says with a snap of his sausage fingers. “Your email said you got a job. What’re you doin’? You said you wanted to tell me in person, well here I am. Sorta.”
I’m so excited I might bust. Dad has spent a lot – I mean a lot – of money on my education, and this is the first real job I’ve had in my field. I’ve decided to take Maria’s advice and feel proud of myself for a change, instead of letting him do all of it for me.
“Well,” I say with a grin. “You’re looking at the official planner for the 30th birthday celebration of – wait for it – Prince Dante of Morova!”
His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.
“You’re kidding!” he gasps. “Well, that’s fan-friggin-tastic, pumpkin!”
I allow him to stare at me like that for a full five seconds before letting him off the hook.
“Morova is a principality on the shores of Lake Orta, Dad. It’s near Malta, where the vault is.”
“I knew that,” he says. “Lake Orta. Sure. And for Prince Dante, y’say?”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I chuckle. “I know you’ve never heard of him.”
“What d’ya mean? I know about him! He’s at the checkout at the Bi-Rite in Shelby all the time.”
The prince of Morova is at the – ? Oh, I get it.
“In the tabloids, you mean.”
“Yeah. He’s quite the playboy, by the looks of things.”
Maybe not, according to Maria. But now that I officially work for the royal family, I guess I’d best be keeping their secrets. And what I wouldn’t give to have some secrets to keep with Dante.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “He’s always flying around chasing supermodels, just like you’d expect. He’s in Monte Carlo right now.”
“I used to have a ’72 Monte Carlo,” he says wistfully. “Had to sell it to buy the hay baler, though. That was back ’fore you were born.”
Dad gave up a lot for our family, and I know it’s been a hard go for him. My education wasn’t the only expense he had; Mom had cancer on and off for seven years before she finally passed away when I was in middle school. That was a big part of my growing up: taking care of the place while Dad took her to the hospital in Great Falls for radiation and chemo.
He’s never talked about how much that cost the family, and I’ve never asked.
It just makes me that much more excited to tell him about the money. But first a tour.
“Hey,” I say. “You’ll never believe where I am right now.”
“I’m guessin’ somewhere in, whatchacallit, Morova?”
I hop off the bed and carry my tablet over to the window of my apartment. It’s not as swanky as Maria’s, but it’s still huge and loaded with priceless antiques. I stand with my back to the window and sweep the room with my screen: the granite walls, the tapestries, the eight-foot paintings of people in fancy getups. If
nothing else, I’m sure Dad will appreciate the polished walnut wardrobe and dresser.
“So this is my apartment,” I say, pretending to yawn. “No big deal, you know.”
“Ho-lee sheep shit!” blares from the tablet’s speaker.
“I know!” I squeal. “I’m living in the royal palace until the party!”
I have no idea where I’ll end up after that, but for now, let’s focus on the fun stuff.
“There’s a little something else,” I say, turning to face the window and the incredible view of Lake Orta beyond it. “That’s what I get to look at all day.”
Dad lets out a low whistle.
“Man, would I love to get my old two-stroke boat out on that baby,” he says. “I bet there’s some damn good fishin’ in there. Bass, maybe.”
God, it’s so good to hear his voice again. I didn’t realize just how much I missed him until right now. It’s always been too easy to lose touch with him when my head is stuck in a book. Suddenly weeks go by and I haven’t talked to him, then when I do, I get all emotional. Like now.
“So anyways, Dad, there’s something I want to tell you.”
“More good news? ‘Cause I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m gettin’ pretty fat, and my ticker’s not what it used to be.”
I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “You’re not fat, Dad. Now quit fishing for compliments and listen to the rest of my story.”
“Yes’m,” he says, grinning wide. “Sorry.”
“Okay, so anyway – ”
“One last thing.”
“What?” Grrrr.
“I’m just so damn proud of you, sweetheart,” he says. “I always knew you were gonna make it big some day, get out of this two-bit life and live with the classy people. And there y’are now, rubbin’ elbows with royalty.” I see pixelated tears shimmer in his eyes on the screen. “Your mom’s smilin’ down on you from heaven right now, that’s a fact.”
Great. Now here come my own tears. Dad always says he regrets how much he didn’t say to Mom before she passed. He’s been making up for it with me ever since.
“Thank you, Daddy.” I smile and bow my head. “That means a lot to me. Now stop interrupting!”