by Tara Wylde
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 77
32. AMANDA
I can’t believe th
is. 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.
“If it was just me, I’d be okay with taking the risk,” I say, even though I wouldn’t be. Not really. “But it’s not just me. Oriana and Vito are innocent bystanders in all this. How hard would it be on them if I were to just walk out after being an integral part of their lives for a year? How hard would it be on me? No amount of money is worth that kind of pain.”
Hot tears stream down my cheeks. I’ve been holding this in for days now.
Maria pulls my head onto her shoulder.
“As I said, no marriage is ever guaranteed to work. And I think the fact that you even asked that question means you’re ready to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t go down that road.”
“But when royal marriages go wrong, they really go wrong,” I say. “Look at Charles and Diana.”
“Dante is not Charles,” she soothes. “And you’re not Diana.”
“Yeah, and he didn’t buy her virginity at the last minute to fulfill some insane decree, either.”
That came out meaner than I wanted it to. But the tru
th is the truth.
We sit there in silence for a few moments, Maria stroking my hair, me snuffling back the last of my tears.
“If it’s any consolation,” she says, “I’ve never seen Dante act around a woman the way he acts around you.”
“Really? Even skinny-legs Giselle?”
Maria rolls her eyes. “Especially her. The less said about her, the better. She was little more than window dressing for the tabloids.”
“Too bad she didn’t figure that out before she came over to our table.”
“Giselle Ranette is an ignorant, entitled sow who deserved what she got and more.”
“And yet she was his girlfriend,” I point out.
“Yes,” she says. “You have to understand the circles that Dante moves in. These people all have wealth, status and privilege, and they’re surrounded by people who never tell them ‘no.’ It doesn’t excuse their behavior, but perhaps it explains it.”
“I guess you’re right. I saw enough of it on the farm. Once we had a beaver wander up from the river near our place and right into a herd of heifers.”
“I’m sorry,” Maria says. “What’s a heifer?”
“It’s a female that hasn’t been bred yet.” I know what that’s like. “Anyway, the cows followed it everywhere, sniffing it and pestering it. Dozens of them, all following the leader. It’s just their nature.”
I look up at her and she cocks an eyebrow.
“Are you comparing Giselle to a heifer?” she asks.
“Hey, if the moo fits…”
She chuckles, which helps lift the mood of the moment.
“Neither of us has time for this kind of nonsense,” she says, giving me a peck on the forehead. “There’s a royal wedding happening in a couple of days, in case you haven’t heard.”
We both get up and gather our things to leave.
“Thank you, Maria,” I say. “I would literally be insane if I didn’t have you to get me through this stuff.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness,” she says with a curtsy. “But any more episodes like this and I’m going to demand Dante give me a raise.”
“You never know,” I say with an evil grin. “Maybe I’ll be your boss after the wedding.”
She rolls her eyes. “What is it you Americans say? Shoot me now?”