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.”