CHAPTER THREE: Nikolay “Nick” Rostov

I tugged my iPhone from inside the leather jacket I was wearing and held it to my lips. “Siri, remind me to kill the idiot in the Kosnovian travel office who sent me to this horrid place.”

I was seething as I tucked the phone back into my jacket so I could focus on the road. Here I was, the crown prince of Kosnovia, one of the few remaining Russian monarchies, driving a Budget Rent-A-Car through a blinding snow storm in upstate New York, trying to reach the Overlook Hotel where the economic summit was being held.

I cursed my father for sending me here.

Fine, I have a Masters in Economics from Oxford, but surely someone less important than I could have made the trip.

It’s not about economics, I thought. It’s about finding a bride and producing an heir; preferably a bride from America so the American people would feel connected to our tiny monarchy. My father had seen too many old movies. He had become a romantic in his old age. Real life doesn’t work that way. Not even for someone like me.

Granted, when the Kosnovian travel officer asked if I would need a chauffeured car to drive me from the airport in New York City to the summit in Snowcap, New York, I gave him a condescending look and told him that I was quite capable of driving myself. He gave me a respectful nod and said he’d have a car waiting for me.

I had no idea at the time that the summit would be held in November, a hundred miles from the airport, and the car he reserved for me would be a Ford Focus; a car aptly named because if you didn’t focus, you might just run the damn thing over.

I also had no idea that snow starts falling in upstate New York in late fall. When I told the woman at the car rental office that I was driving to Snowcap for an international economic summit, she shot me an amused look and wished me luck. I thought she was just flirting with me, as most women do.

In reality, she was probably thinking that I was a moron who really needed luck. At this point, I cannot prove her wrong.

That was four hours ago, and now it was getting dark and the snow was falling heavier by the minute. Great gusts of snow and ice swirled around the dark road in front of me. I was starting to feel like my luck was running out.

* * *

My father, Anatoly Rostov -- rather KING Anatoly II -- the ruler of the tiny monarchy of Kosnovia, would have laughed at such a storm. He would have poked a stiff finger into my chest and said, “You are a Rostov. Rostov’s are afraid of nothing.”

That may normally be true, but this Rostov, his only son and heir, the one that was educated at Oxford and raised with everything handed over on a silver platter, was afraid of freezing to death on the side of the road in a FUCKING FORD FOCUS!

Would it have made matters any more palatable if I were to die in one of my Ferraris or Lamborghinis safely-housed back home? Perhaps, but only slightly less.

I was just twenty-five years old, and one of the few remaining crown princes left on earth. I was most certainly the last monarch of a Russian bloodline. And if things in Kosnovia didn’t change, I would be the last to wear the crown that had been in my family for over two hundred years.

We were a dying breed, the Russian royals. And like Britain, the monarchy had turned over the running of the country to parliamentarians. It was a difficult decision for my father to give up his power, but he was not a man entirely driven by ego. He understood that we royals were mere figure heads now.

Unlike the British citizenry, who still held their royals in high esteem, the people of Kosnovia were growing tired of supporting the lavish lifestyle my mother and father – and I – enjoy.

There had been rumblings for years that the royal family was a costly symbol of a bygone era.

The anarchists wanted parliament to seize all land and holdings of the Rostov family, which was estimated to be in the hundreds of millions of US dollars. My mother and father would be exiled from the central palace and given a modest honorarium to see them through to their deaths.

Yours truly, the one TMZ dubbed “The Kosnovian Playboy”, would be out on my ass with nothing. I had no doubt that I would survive such a coup, but I would miss the comforts that I had come to know and expect from life. Yes, I was a spoiled brat. But I was a prince. Royal blood flowed through my veins. I was allowed a bit of spoilage…

“There is but one hope for our family,” my father said when I met with him before coming to America. We stood on the balcony outside of his office on the third floor of the royal palace, looking out over the city square below. It was past midnight and the city square, a mecca of activity during the day, was dark and quiet. The temperature had dropped into the teens. The air brought a chill that shivered me to my bones.

My father, the strongest man I’d ever known in every aspect of the word, looked old and frail standing there next to me wrapped in a heavy blanket from his bed. His once coal black hair, bushy moustache, and pointed beard had all turned grey. The posture that had once been so straight and proud was slouching a bit, as if the weight of history were baring down on his shoulders, causing his spine to bow.

He put a hand on my arm and said, “I received a message from the prime minister this morning. Parliament is going to consider the people’s demand that the monarchy be put to an end.”

“What? They wouldn’t dare.” I hitched my chin proudly in the air, but deep inside, I knew they would indeed dare. The monarchy was an endangered species. It had been since before my birth. It was just a matter of time until the palace was taken over and turned into a library or a school or some other building of public use. We both knew that we couldn’t stop progress. We could simply prolong the past.

I turned to face him. My breath clouded the cold air between us. “So, father, what do we do?”

My father sucked in a deep breath and put a hand on my shoulder. “You must find a bride and produce an heir as quickly as possible, my son. It is the only way to preserve the life we lead.”

I regret it now, but I was my usual arrogant self. “Are you insane? Do you really expect me to get married and have a baby just so you can keep your throne?”

“Show me the respect I’m due boy, or you’ll be picking yourself up off the floor,” he said, glaring at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I may be an old man, but I am still your father and your king.”

The look in his eye put me squarely back into my place. I’m six-foot-three and all muscle from playing rugby at Oxford for the last six years. I hold black belts in karate, taekwondo, and jujitsu. I’m not afraid of any man and very few women (I didn’t just play rugby at school you know).

My father is five-foot-ten and two hundred pounds of over-indulged fat. Even so, he still had the ability to make me feel like a little boy again just by giving me the look he was giving me now.

“Apologies, my King,” I said with a nod of respect. “But you can’t be serious. How am I supposed to find a wife so quickly?”

“You do what men in our family have done for centuries,” he said. He held out his hand and rolled his fingers into a fist. “You simply take the woman you want and make her your wife. She has no choice but to comply to your wishes.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “You can’t be serious. You truly expect me to kidnap a woman and force her to marry me?”

“It has been our way since your great-grandfather,” he said. “I took your mother, your grandfather took your grandmother, and so on and so on for generations.” He leaned in close and narrowed his eyes at me. “You are a future king of Kosnovia, Nikolay. It is your birthright to take any woman you desire, whether she desires you or not. Over time, she will accept her fate and come to love you for choosing her. Look at your mother and me. We have been married for nearly thirty years.”

“And according to her, she hated you for the first ten years because you stole her from her bed in the middle of the night and forced her to marry,” I said with a smile. “I’m not sure the old ways work in this modern age, father. If I were to kidnap a woman and force her to marry me… well, I’m just not sure that is a viable option in the twenty-first century. It’s certainly not something parliament would approve of.”

“The public is calling for our heads, Nikolay,” he said with a heavy sigh. He braced his hands on the marble railing and let his breath go out into the night. “We have very little time left.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” I said, giving him a dismissive wave. “This isn’t the eighteen-hundreds, father. And you’re not Marie-Antoinette.”

“I’m speaking figuratively,” he said. He closed his eyes and inhaled the cold night air. “Rebellion is in the air, my son. And nothing quells a rebellion like a royal marriage and a royal baby. The Brits have known this for years. Each time the public demands abdication, one of their lot gets married or has a baby and the public laps it up like kittens sucking their mother’s teat.”

“Father, please…”

He turned to face me. He put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “You are our last hope, Nikolay. You must find a wife and produce an heir as quickly as possible. And it must be an American woman.”

I scoffed at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“If you take an American bride and produce an heir, the American people will flock to support our right to rule. The Americans are a shallow people. It’s all about reality television and the internet. Perhaps we could film your quest and put it on Facebook!”

I smiled. “How do you even know what Facebook is?”

“I’m old, but I’m not uninformed,” he said, looking at me with a smile beneath the thick moustache. He held up a finger. “Perhaps you could wed a Kardashian! Even an ugly one.”

“I don’t think there are any ugly Kardashians,” I said, smiling, rolling my eyes at him. After a moment, I let the smile fade away, then turned to face him.

I asked, “And if I don’t kidnap a wife and produce an heir while I’m in America?”

He shook his head as a tear came to his eye. “If you do not, then I’m afraid life as we know it will be lost forever.”