51. DANTE

“Dante?” Ike blinks like an owl, as if he can’t believe I’m actually standing in his doorway. “What in the name of Sam Hill are you doin’ here?”

“I’m trying to stay upright,” I say, swaying on my feet. “I’m exhausted.”

Ike shakes off his confusion and brings me into the house. It’s a well-kept home, about the size of a sleeping cabin for my family hunting lodge in the Alps. Except there, you won’t hear cattle mooing softly in the distance.

You won’t smell them, either. Phew.

“How’d you get here?” he asks, pointing me to a chair in the quaint little living room. “I didn’t hear no helicopter landing.”

“That’s because I didn’t use one,” I say. The soft leather chair is a godsend after my journey.

“Then how’d you get here?”

“I took the Falcon to Amsterdam, then caught a coach flight on United Airways to Calgary. I rented a car there and drove south across the Canadian border until I got here.”

“Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “You flew coach? From Holland?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was… an experience. The food was… edible, I suppose. At least no one recognized me.”

“And then you drove all the way here from Calgary? That’s a four-hour drive!”

“I know,” I say. “I was there. I could drive three-quarters of the way through Italy in that time. But here, there were times when I wondered if I was actually moving, because the landscape never changed. I actually went for ten full minutes without seeing another vehicle on the road.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that one’s not exactly a scenic drive. Gotta go west to the Rockies for that. Going south across the prairies, all you get to see is miles n’ miles of miles n’ miles.”

“But I made it,” I say. “Finally.”

“Which leads me to the question: boy, what in the fuck are you doin’ here?”

I wish I knew the answer to that. I only told Carlo that I was leaving (and Marco, but only to let him know that he couldn’t come with me), but I never told him why. He didn’t ask, God bless him, and said he’d tell the others that I was trying to clear my head and would be back in a couple of days.

“I wanted to see you face to face,” I say finally. “To tell you that I would never have done anything to hurt Amanda.”

“I know that, son.”

He does?

“You do?”

“’Course I do,” he says, pulling up a chair from the kitchen and taking a seat. “I was there with you that night at your bachelor party, remember? You were barely able to stand, let alone – you know, do anything else.”

I nod. “I’m almost positive that someone drugged me. Those photos were taken so that Chancellor Huber would have ammunition to call a referendum.”

“Amanda was tellin’ me all about it on Skype,” he says. “That’s messed up. But listen: I didn’t need to see you that night to know you ain’t that kind of man.”

“But how did you know?”

He shrugs. “I’m a good judge o’ character. You have to be when you live out in the boonies like I do. You need to know right away who you can count on and who you can’t. It’s how rural folks survive, ‘cause we all need a favor from each other at some point.”

He says it so simply, but the message is profound. The people here learn to trust each other because they have no choice. In my world, people learn to expect knives in their backs because that’s what they so often get.

Isabella was a perfect example of it. No one has seen her in the weeks since I sent her away from the palace, but I know we’ll see her at the referendum in two days.

“I don’t know what to do, Ike,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. “I worry that Amanda will never fully trust me, if only because of the ridiculous way we got together.”

“Whaddaya mean, ridiculous?”

I freeze for a moment, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. He doesn’t know. He spent so much time with us, I forgot he was never in on the joke.

Should I tell him? The longer this charade goes on, the sicker I get of keeping secrets.

“Ike,” I sigh. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

* * *

He stares at me for a full minute after I finish telling him the story. Long enough for me to wonder if he’s choosing which shotgun he’s going to pull down from the rack on the wall and use on me.

“Are you tellin’ me my daughter is in an arranged marriage?”

“No!” I say. “Well, sort of, but not really. It started out as a marriage of convenience, yes, but Ike, I love Amanda.”

“Well, that much I know,” he grumbles.

He does?

“How?” I ask.

“I can see it in the way you look at her, stupid. Trust me, if I hadn’t seen that the first time I met you, I woulda taken you aside and had some words with you, face to fist.”

Part of me wants to laugh out loud. The rest of me wonders if there are any bodies buried here on the ranch.

“I gotta say, son, that is one fucked up situation you’re bringin’ me.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“You’re askin’ me?” His eyes go wide – well, as wide as they can. “What the hell do I know about that kinda shit?”

“You’re possibly the wisest person I know,” I say.

“Well then, you need to meet more people,” he says.

He walks into the kitchen and returns with two open bottles of Budweiser.

“I always think better with a cold one,” he says. “All right, so when the rubber hits the road, what’re your options?”

“I can fight for a ‘no’ vote on the referendum and hope it goes my way.”

“And the other?”

“I can concede the monarchy to my cousin and avoid the referendum altogether.”

He takes a pull off his beer and scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“What happens with that? He takes over runnin’ things?”

“It’s complicated, but essentially, yes. The government will have more control over the Trentini billions, though, and can use the fortune as they see fit. All they need is Emilio’s signature, which I’m sure Isabella will be more than happy to provide.”

He scowls. “I know she’s your aunt ‘n’ all, but that bitch is a piece of work.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So let’s say that happens – are you broke, then?”

“No, it’s virtually impossible for me to be broke. I have land, investments, art. I’ll always be wealthy, just not at the level I am now.”

“So why bust your hump? Who gives a shit if the people turf you? If they don’t like you, fuck ‘em.”

He makes a good point. I talk a good game about being the servant of the people of Morova, but in the end, if they vote to get rid of me, what do I really owe them? You get the government you deserve, and if they vote to bring in Emilio, it’s on them.

So why am I still so set on fighting? Because I’m finally forcing myself to acknowledge something that I refused to think about ever since the referendum was announced.

“It’s the children, Ike,” I say, swallowing hard.

Ike’s ears prick up. “The rugrats? What about ‘em?”

“There’s a chance that, if Emilio and Isabella win, she’ll petition for custody of them.”

“What?!” he barks. “You gotta be shittin’ me!”

“I shit you not,” I say, but there’s no humor in our running joke right now.

“How the hell would that work?”

“The same reason they’re calling for a referendum in the first place,” I say. “The councils think I’m not fit to be a parent. They see Isabella as more stable, especially in light of the bachelor party scandal.”

“All right, I get that. But why does your aunt want custody of the kids? She ain’t exactly mother material.”

“For the same reason she acted as my regent until I turned twenty-one: she wants control of the Trentini heir. In this case, once I’m out of the picture, that will be Vito.”

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I thought Emilio would take over?”

“He’s not actually a Trentini, he’s a Steiger. Isabella was my mother’s sister, so neither of them are technically royals.”

Ike shakes his head. “This shit makes my brain hurt.”

“I know how you and Amanda feel about the children.”

He straightens up. “Anyone who tries to hurt them is gonna get my boot so far up their ass they’ll be shining it with their tongue.”

I nod, trying swallow my emotions. I’ve never had many people on my side. I mean totally on my side, people I can trust with my life. Maria and Carlo, yes, but they work for me. Adriana and Albert, but they were gone far too soon.

To know that I can count on Ike to have my back, and take care of my children, after only knowing him a couple of months – it’s indescribable. Just like my feelings for his daughter. I’ve never been a religious man, but it’s hard not to make a case for God when you’ve been blessed the way I have.

I drain my beer and drop the empty on the table beside me.

“So we’re going to fight?” I ask.

“For Oriana and Vito? You’re goddamn right we are. Did you tell Amanda about this?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I didn’t want to scare her. And I didn’t want her to make a decision about me based solely on the children.”

Ike nods. “I can understand that. I love Amanda more ‘n’ anything in this world, but she can be a dog with a bone sometimes when it comes to kids and animals. If she knew the kids were at stake, she’d stay married to Hitler himself.”

“I hope that’s not a comparison,” I say with a wan smile.

He chucks me on the shoulder. “Nah,” he says. “I always figured you for more of a Mussolini type.”

I laugh. The man knows how to lighten a mood.

“Will you come back and fight with me, Ike?”

“’Course I will. My daughter and grandkids are in trouble. They need their nonno.”

“Yes, they do.”

“We’ll leave tomorrow. We can drive my truck back up to Calgary, and then you can charter a private jet back to Morova.”

I raise my eyebrows. “A private jet?” I ask.

“Duh,” he says. “You don’t expect me to fly on a commercial airline, do ya?”

He pops open another bottle of Budweiser and tilts it towards me in a salute.

“Or didn’t y’hear? My daughter married the friggin’ Prince of Morova.”