Three Years Later

“Sir, I don’t believe this is a prudent course of action,” Carlo says. I’ve never seen him fret like this before.

Dante smiles. “I’m not asking for your opinion, Carlo. You wanted to see this.”

“Yes, sir. But I want it on the record that your father would not have approved of this.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “But my father’s busting at the seams with pride.”

I point across the dirt field to Dad as he helps tie Vito onto his bull, an ornery little cuss named Spitfire. They’re safely behind the gate right now, but in a couple of minutes, it’ll open and Spitfire will come charging out, twisting and bucking until he sends Vito flying into the dirt.

“I still don’t understand why he can’t do something sensible,” says Carlo. “Perhaps barrel racing, like the princess.”

Oriana rolls her eyes in the way only a thirteen-year-old girl can.

“Barrel racing is for girls, Carlo,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe.

“Hey,” Maria snaps from beside her, beating me to the punch. “Respect.”

Oriana flashes her a sheepish look and turns to Carlo.

“I beg your pardon, Carlo,” she says.

He smiles, sending up fans of laugh lines at the corner of his eyes.

“There’s nothing to pardon, Your Highness.”

From the stands behind me, I hear a young boy say: “Mom, that old guy called that girl ‘your highness.’ What does that mean?”

“He’s probably drunk,” Mom says absently. “Just stay away from him.”

Dante squeezes my hand as the announcer comes over the public address system: “Up next is Vito Trentini on Spitfire!”

“Here we go,” Dante says.

He’s trying to hide it, but I see the tension in his face.

“Sure,” I whisper. “Big tough guy when Carlo shows concern, but you’re really just as nervous as he is.”

His eyes widen. “That bull is about to trample my kid!” he hisses.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carlo make the sign of the cross over himself.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!”

Dad lets go of Vito as the gate opens. Spitfire’s having none of this shit and starts kicking the second his front hooves hit the dirt. Vito holds on like a champ, moving his body back and forth in time with the bull’s kicks so that he can absorb some of the momentum.

I watch the clock on the electronic scoreboard count off the seconds: four, five…

Come on, sweetie, you can do it…

His hand is still in the rope, but now Spitfire is spinning. Vito slides to the side but keeps his grip tight.

Six, seven… EIGHT! Vito lets go and tumbles to the ground, rolling with the impact and jogging back towards the gate.

I leap to my feet, spilling my soda on the floor of the old grandstand.

“Woo-hoo!” I wail. The crowd behind us claps, but their lack of enthusiasm is pissing me off. That’s my boy out there! Didn’t they see that incredible ride?

When things calm down, Maria climbs out of her seat and into the empty stand behind me, leaning in towards me.

“So Vito wins, correct?” she says. “He stayed on for eight seconds.”

“You have to stay on for eight to qualify,” I say. “His score is based on the ride. He gets points for technique and for how hard the bull fought.”

“That sounds needlessly complicated.”

I turn to face her. “Hey, at least he had a reason to fall on the ground. Not like a European soccer flopper who drops because someone looks at him wrong.”

She grins and flicks my earlobe with her finger. For some reason it makes me think of the first time I met her: how poised she was, how professional and sophisticated. Goes to show we’re all a lot more complex than we let on.

The hissing static of the microphone comes on again.

“Our judges have their score: it’s a 78 for Vito Trentini!”

There’s an appreciative smattering of applause behind us, but all of us Morovans are on our feet cheering.

“The heir to the Morovan monarchy just rode a bull in a Montana junior rodeo,” Dante says, shaking his head. “You couldn’t make this stuff up.”

I plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Just another page in our storybook,” I say.

* * *

“Who wants theirs well-done?” Dad hollers from the grill.

“I would, please,” Maria calls from her seat at the table on the patio.

“All right, then,” he says. “There’s a Sizzler ‘bout forty miles south of here. Go tell them you want ‘em to ruin your steak. Medium’s as high as we go at Chateau Sparks, and even then I’m gonna give you a dirty look.”

Maria grins at me and shakes her head. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I suppose.”

That draws a belly laugh out of me. When Dad comes to Rome, he’s constantly telling the chefs how to prepare the beef.

“By the way, how are your shoes?” I ask.

She crosses her legs to get a look at them.

“Still remarkably shit-free,” she says with a grin.

It’s a beautiful afternoon to be out in the sun. Living in a palace on an island is incredible, of course, but there’s something about wide-open spaces and the sound of cattle in the distance that just feeds my soul in a way nothing else can.

Dad’s only used a tiny portion of the money he gets from the Trentini fortune on the ranch itself. Most of it has gone into a stability fund for other ranchers in Montana who’ve been hard hit by drought and low prices. They can borrow against it at zero interest to help them through the hard times.

But a little of it has gone into the house. It’s still the place I grew up in, just a bit bigger, with a half-dozen new bedrooms to accommodate the kids, and guests like Carlo and Maria. Marco, of course, has his own permanent room on the main floor, even though he’s still never had to lift a finger to protect any of us.

“Sometimes I think we should set up an attack on you,” I whisper to Dante.

“What?!”

I nod towards Marco, who’s standing in the big door of the hayloft on top of the barn, surveying the situation.

“I mean hire a stuntman to take a swing at you sometime. It would make Marco so happy.”

“So I get to take a punch just to make sure my security chief feels like he has a purpose in life?” He sighs. “Fine. I live to serve, and all that nonsense.”

As if reading our minds, Dad calls up to Marco in the hayloft.

“Hey Terminator, you want your rib-eye smoked?”

“Yes, sir!” he calls back.

“He may not have a purpose,” Dante chuckles, “but at least he’s well-fed.”

“Are we late for supper?” Vito calls from the gate.

He and Oriana amble into the yard on the backs of their horses, with Carlo riding pillion behind Vito. The old fellow refused to wear the cowboy clothes we bought him for the trip, but he’s at least wearing a short-sleeved shirt and no jacket or tie. That’s a step in the right direction.

“Just puttin’ the steaks on now,” Dad hollers. “Did you close the gate behind you?”

“No,” Oriana says.

“Well then get back there’n do it, Your Highness. This ain’t Morova; I don’t got a staff to cater to your every whim.”

Oriana rolls her eyes again – the girl could teach a class in it, I swear – but she does as she’s told. At times like this, I can see the woman she’s on the verge of becoming – passionate and willful, but tempered with respect.

After they’ve taken care of their horses, the twins go supervise Dad at the grill. Oriana climbs on his back so that she can look over his shoulder.

“I think that one’s ready to turn,” she says, pointing at a steak.

“You do, you ya? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s not smoking anymore.”

“Good girl,” he says, handing her the tongs. “Git ‘er done.”

“Is Spitfire going to end up as a steak someday?” Vito asks.

“Nah.”

“That’s good,” Vito says, clearly relieved.

“Bulls are tougher’n boiled owl shit,” Dad says. “They’re only good for hamburger.”

I put a hand over my mouth to cover my giggles. This is my crazy family, ladies and gentlemen: royals, cowboys, and the Terminator in the hayloft, keeping a watchful eye over all of us.

Dante takes my other hand in his.

“What’s so funny?” he whispers.

“Life,” I say. “Especially ours.”

* * *

With supper over and dishes done, all that’s left is the cake. Dad carries it out from the kitchen, lit up by thirteen sparklers instead of candles – his idea of a joke, since it’s a play on words with the family name.

“Happy birthday to you,” he croons in his bass-baritone. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, you spoiled rotten little royal beggars. Happy birthday to you.”

He kisses Oriana on the cheek as he sets the cake down in front of them (she rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her face) and takes Vito’s hand, pumping it twice.

Dante looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I nod and smile.

“Okay, everyone,” he says. “I know we have a no-gift policy in this family, for obvious reasons. But Amanda and I thought, since thirteen is a major milestone, we’d do something special for the two of you”

They give us matching skeptical looks. After all, what do you get the kids who have literally everything? Meanwhile, Dad takes his seat at the table beside Maria and Carlo, all of them sporting wide grins. We told them about this beforehand.

But we didn’t tell them everything.

“Are you going to let us drink wine?” Oriana says hopefully.

“I don’t want wine,” Vito says, making a face. “I’ll have a Budweiser.”

“You’ll have a glass of milk,” Dante says. “Now stop talking about drinking. This is serious.”

They glance at each other and giggle, their telepathy obviously sharing some private joke.

I reach into my purse and retrieve a manila envelope. Dante takes it and slides it across the table towards them.

“Open it,” he says.

They look at each other again, then at the envelope. Vito finally picks it up and opens the flap. He pulls out a sheaf of papers and the two of them look at the cover page.

Oriana looks up at Dante.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “These are adoption papers. I thought you were already our guardian?”

Dante wraps an arm around my shoulder and smiles.

“I am,” he says. “But these papers would make you my legal children. And they add Amanda to the mix. Basically, in the law’s eyes, we would be considered your mother and father.”

Vito frowns. “So it’s just, like, a formality? I mean, we already think of you that way.”

“Sort of,” says Dante. “But it’s also a little more important than that.”

“What do you mean?” asks Oriana.

“Well,” I say. “Technically, the legal children of the monarch are considered the official heirs to the Trentini fourtune. This would make it so that you’re officially first in what they call the line of succession. Basically, you’d inherit everything.”

Their eyes widen. Oriana’s look quickly sours, though.

“Well, Vito would, anyway,” she scowls. “I wouldn’t, because I’m a girl.”

I reach across the table and take her hand in mine.

“Actually, your uncle is talking to the councils about changing the constitution.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

Dante smiles. “It means royal girls are equal to royal boys.

“Yesss!” She turns to Vito and sticks out her tongue.

He ignores her. “This is great,” he says. “Thank you. But I always just assumed we’d be the heirs anyway. How come you’re doing this now?”

Dante and I exchange a look and a smile. I look around to the others and see the curiosity in their eyes. I think Maria may suspect, but I’m sure Carlo and Dad are in the dark.

“You’re a smart kid, Vito,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “There is a reason we’re doing this now.”

Dante pulls a small plastic stick from his pocket and hands it to my father. Dad peers at the pair of thin lines that cross the center of the stick for a long time before it finally dawns on him.

He looks at me with wide eyes.

“Is this…?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

“A stick I peed on?” I say, grinning widely despite the tears forming in my eyes. “It sure is. Dante and I are having a baby.”

I expect Dad to let loose with a “yahoo!” but instead he’s quiet. He comes over to me and folds me in his big arms.

“Well that’s just about the greatest thing I ever heard,” he whispers. “Your mama would be so happy for you.”

I hug him fiercely. “I love you, you old coot,” I whisper.

“Love you too, pumpkin.”

After a few moments, he stands up and looks Dante in the eye.

“Took you long enough,” Dad says, pulling him into an embrace.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Dante says.

Dad slaps him on the back of the head.

“That’s my daughter you’re talkin’ about, Charming.”

I turn to the twins. They look a bit confused, which we expected. I hope they’re happy for us.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“It’s brilliant!” Oriana grins. “We’re going to have a new cousin.”

“Sister,” I say. “Or brother. Remember, you’re our children now. Or you will be, if you agree to it.”

Vito looks on the verge of crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so emotional.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, snuffling back a tear. “Adopt us, I mean. It’s okay if you want your baby to be the heir.”

“It’s not okay with us,” says Dante, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You are our children. It’s time we made it official. If that’s what you want.”

They glance at each other.

“It’s what we want,” they say in unison.

“Well, hot damn!” Dad barks. “Three grandkids in one day!”

Maria gives us a hug, followed by Carlo. They cut the cake and hand out pieces on paper plates instead of antique china. No one seems to notice the difference.

* * *

Later, in our bedroom, Dante holds me tight as our sweaty skin cools in the night breeze blowing in through the window. We kept our lovemaking quiet so as not to bring down the wrath of Dad.

“I can’t believe Carlo hugged us,” Dante says. “If I hadn’t experienced it, I never would have believed it.”

“There’s hope for him yet,” I say, stroking his chest.

“Did you see your dad sneaking Vito a sip of his beer?”

I giggle. “It’s funny because he thinks we don’t know. Dad knew all my tricks when I was a kid. Now I know all of his.”

We lie in silence for a while, listening to the frogs croaking far away on the banks of the Marias river.

“I’m so glad they agreed to the adoption,” Dante says.

“Me, too. I suppose we should let Renaldo know. Have him put out a news release. And about the baby; we’re past the ten-week point now.”

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Dismiss what you did like it’s not important. You’re the one who insisted that we adopt them. By doing so, you essentially gave up your own child’s right to be the royal heir.”

“So what?”

He rolls over to face me. “So what? Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? To give another’s child the birthright of the monarch?”

“See, that’s what you don’t get,” I say. “Oriana and Vito are my children. That stupid paperwork just confirms what I’ve known all along. I’m not just saying that, it’s the truth.”

He shakes his head. “If only I’d known what was behind those pale blue eyes when we first met,” he says.

“What?” I say. “What would you have done, Mr. Prince?”

“I would have proposed to you on the spot, royal tradition be damned.”

“Yes, you made me wait a whole two days for it.”

We break out in quiet giggles.

“Nothing about our life together has been normal,” I say. “Maybe this will be a first step towards something a little more ordinary.”

“God, I hope not,” he says. “Why on earth would I want normal when I can have what we have?”

I snuggle into his shoulder and kiss his neck.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “Normal is boring.”

As we drift off to sleep, I see a flash in the clear night sky outside the window. It’s a falling star.

I don’t make a wish.

What would be the point?