A Great Prince: A Royal Bad Boy Romance (6 page)

And they’d done it, they’d really done it. Like a movie, they’d put a uniform on him, his grandfather’s old uniform recreated, medals and all. They’d marched him down a red carpet in the Cathedral of Szombathely, a choir singing
Gloriana
, and they’d put a crown on his head.

And now at the age of twenty, Niko the boy who’d lived on the streets — scavenging garbage cans behind restaurants, taking beatings from cops and knowing not to fight back, roughing up shopkeepers for protection money — had been transformed into Nikolas I, King of Danubia by the Grace of God.

He partied that night – damn, did he ever party. He’d never had such good blow, he’d never had women throw themselves at him like that. Fine women, not hookers – every woman, it seemed to him, set their moral objections aside given the chance to bang a king. Especially a gorgeous, fit young king like Nikolas.

“Enjoy this while it lasts, buddy,” Nikolas said, throwing an arm around Erik, whom he’d made a baron only hours after he’d been crowned. “I mean, ‘Your noble whatever they call you.’”

Erik laughed. “I think you get to call me whatever you want. You can just say, ‘You there! Come here and lick my boots!’”

Nikolas laughed. Only Erik was his real friend. His buddies, the other street kids, they were here too, his new entourage. He was no fool, and he knew they were here as long as the getting was good, and they’d be gone again when it wasn’t.

When.
He knew that was the word. This was a joke, a game, it couldn’t be real, it couldn’t last. There’d be another revolution, right? People wouldn’t stand for a fucking king in this day and age. Right?

But when he’d gone onto the balcony after his coronation, a balcony as hastily tacked onto the Szombathely Town Hall as his crown had been tacked onto him, the people in the town square were cheering. And it wasn’t the old forced cheering of the Communist cadres, the people leaping to their feet as one to applaud some Premier who’d send them to the gulag if they didn’t… no.

They loved him. Their strong, handsome king, a symbol of survival, the family that had outlived the Communists, the oligarchs, the Westerners. He was Danubia, what Danubia could be, something that could rise from the ashes.

He felt it for a moment, the weight of the crown. The responsibility. But then Erik clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a glass of champagne. He toasted the crowd and drank it off in one swallow, and they cheered even louder.

He was hung over the next day. So very hung over. And yet, here he was at an old oaken table, with two lines of old men on either side, and the oligarch István Szabó at the opposite end. The way the men were looking at István and not Nikolas might make an observer less blurry-eyed than Nikolas wonder who was really king here.

“Viktor,” István said smoothly, regarding the papers in front of him. “As our new Minister of Transportation, we’ll need a report from you on the roadways.”

“Your ass can tell you that, if you went over as many potholes as I did this morning,” the old
gengzter
grumbled.

The other men laughed at Viktor’s coarse humor. And Nikolas thought it was pretty funny himself, that the man in charge of Transportation was the same man who’d once been responsible for putting
gengzters
on the payroll as “no shows,” men who would draw a check for road work projects without ever showing up and doing a lick of work.

Only Karl Lengyel wasn’t laughing. The Minister Without Portfolio cut his eyes at the king, and Nikolas sobered. He lifted his eyebrows, as if to ask,
what’s wrong?

Karl’s face was a mask, but his eyes registered his astonishment.

So it went around the table, with old cronies given the keys to the country’s various treasuries, until Karl abruptly stood up, his chair screaming across the floor and silencing the table, and walked out of the room without a word of excuse to his king.

“Karl!” Nikolas shouted, jumping up and pursuing him.

He was faster than the old man, but just barely. He grabbed his arm halfway down the hallway of the temporary Palace.

“Where are you going?”

Karl looked at him sternly. “Where are
you
going, Nikolas? Where are you taking this country?”

“These guys, I can handle them, Karl. You know I can’t just throw them out. They put me here. Change takes time.”

Karl laughed. “There will be no change, I see, unless it’s for the worse. I’m retiring from politics, and moving to the countryside. Make sure they know that, so I don’t end up tied to another chair in another basement, Nikolas.”

Nikolas watched, stunned, as Karl walked away from him.

It amazed him, the hurt he felt, the sense of loss. He had masked his emotions all his life, because always, everywhere, displaying them would be a sign of weakness. How had that old man gotten under his skin?

István appeared at his side. “We’re better off without him. We need to present a unified front to the people, to the world.”

“No,” Nikolas said. “We’re worse off without him.”

István shook his head. “Niko…”

Nikolas wheeled on him. “I believe you address me as Your Majesty now, István.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, the men we’ve selected for your cabinet, they’re hand picked for your benefit. They’re men of… influence. They’re needed.”

“So nothing really changes? Same thing, different king?”

“No, of course not, Majesty. You can of course remove them, over time. But for now…” He shrugged, his hands wide. “We need continuity, stability.”

“Right.” Nikolas thought about it. In time, he could do it properly. He could take real power, later. Right now, he had to see how the ground lay before him, who his enemies were, who his friends were. Yes, later.

“István – about Karl. Don’t touch him,” he said, seeing the look in István’s eyes. “He’s under my protection. I will personally kill you if anything happens to him. Understood?”

István smiled. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

King Nikolas sat and listened to Count Barnabas detail the marriage that had been arranged for him, as if he was a mere second son or minor princess. How had he let it come to this, how had he let go of the reins that had been put in his hand that night in a dark basement?

He’d become a worldwide celebrity, the “royal watchers” around the world delirious at the presence of fresh meat, especially such young and tasty meat, with such a penchant for partying all around the globe. Nikolas had given them what they wanted, too – so many movie stars wanted him to fuck them, and he did. So many princesses wanted to marry him, and he led them on.

They called him “The Punk Prince” and celebrated his bad boy antics. And the country seemed to do all right. Tourism was up, crime was down, the people left homeless by the Crash of ’08 must have been helped because he never saw any on the streets, or in the news.

He had a private jet, a massive yacht, a penthouse in New York on the Upper East Side, a mansion in Belgravia in London. He lived like a Saudi Prince, and anything he wanted was his with a wave of his hand.

He’d felt like king of the World, and yet… here he was, István and János and even Barnabas standing in his Throne Room, smiling and telling him about this decision that had been made for him.

“I won’t do it,” he said, cutting them off. “I won’t marry that bitch.”

István was still smiling. And the “old Niko” knew that was when he was not only at his angriest, but at his most certain that he’d get his way.

“Your Majesty. The union of the Almásy and Hapsburg-Esterházy lines will be the Wedding of the Century. It will open the door to new trade opportunities with Burgenland, and, who knows? Perhaps an heir to both lines might result some day in reunification?”

Nikolas listened as the glorious benefits of the alliance were laid before him, his face impassive, while streetwise Niko, hardened criminal Niko, tried to get his head around it.
What was in it for these guys?

It made no sense. They were criminals, running drugs, identity theft rings, counterfeiting currency and pharmaceuticals. Why would they want to ally with Burgenland, or more to the point, why would a sober and…

Karl flickered in front of him, the memory of the old man forcing the question. Why would a sober and
legitimate
country like Burgenland want to ally with rotten, corrupt Danubia?

He hadn’t seen the old man in years. Maybe it was time for a trip to the countryside.

He stood up, ending their chatter. “We will discuss this later.”

Nikolas stormed back into his royal apartments. “Get out,” he shouted at the servants. They scurried out, shutting the doors discreetly behind them.

He got on the computer to see if there was any news about this, any rumors or press releases – was it too late to head it off? Was Burgenland really on board with this?

A headline caught his eye. PRINCESS OPENS GATES TO REFUGEES. He clicked on the video link.

He watched with amazement as Princess Francesca Albertine dropped her oversize cardboard scissors and marched south. The cameras followed her shakily, and Nikolas couldn’t help but notice her ass in her fine pastel skirt suit.
Damn that is tight.

Then she walked right up to those big security men of hers, and kept walking as if they weren’t there. She was going to run into them, she was going to be picked up and hauled away…

But they moved. A game of chicken, and she won. And then, another game when she reached the fences, behind which refugees were desperately shouting to her. And the gate opened, and the camera captured her voice, strong and clear.

“I am Princess Francesca Albertine, and I grant you safe passage through Burgenland…”

Nikolas grinned.
Damn, she has some balls on her. And that rack… she kept that under wraps in Davos, but there it is now…

Then he flushed with shame.
She’s a real royal, isn’t she? Nobody stopped her from marching right to that gate and overturning her government’s entire policy.

That’s how real royalty behaves. They don’t get pushed around. They do the pushing.

Nikolas resolved then and there.
This uptight bitch is not going to make me look like a little chickenshit! And besides… she couldn’t want this any more than I do.

He grinned, a plan forming in his mind.

Francesca fled the Palace, her security detail scrambling to keep up. She got into the armored Suburban that was always waiting for her and commanded the driver.

“Take me to Rust.”

The quaint little town on the edge of Lake Neusiedl had less than 2,000 residents, one of whom was Sonia, her old governess, now comfortably retired far from the machinations of the Palace.

Sonia was on the porch of her house when the three black SUVs pulled up. She extended her arms to Francesca.

“I’ve been waiting for you, dear.”

Francesca buried her face in the old woman’s chest and started to sob. “Oh, God, it’s horrible. How did you already…”

“I still have my sources in Eisenstadt. Come in, dear, where Little Pitchers with Big Ears can’t hear us,” she said, her glare cowing the security men into remaining outside.

“They’re all right,” Francesca said. “They’re my men, not the Palace’s.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t be so certain. I saw some new faces out there,” the keen-eyed old lady noted.

She got Francesca seated and gave her coffee and a biscuit. “Now. In your own words.”

Francesca nodded, composing herself. “I was sent to a ribbon cutting…”

Sonia grinned mischievously. “I know. You single-handedly overturned a nation’s refugee policy and posed a new dilemma for the entire EU. I hear Angela Merkel is very pissed at you.”

Francesca laughed. “I bet. When I got home, there was Father and… her. Not in the least bit troubled by what I’d done. And then I learned why.” She shuddered, clutching the coffee cup for warmth.

“They want you to marry ‘the Punk Prince.’”

“Oh, Sonia, he’s awful. I met him at Davos, he’s a beast. He doesn’t care about anything but partying, he has no concern for his people. He told me to my face that the criminals who run his country don’t engage in human trafficking, in sex slavery! And he believed it!”

“He’s a very handsome young man, don’t you think?” Sonia probed.

The princess snorted. “If you like that sort of thing. Big and hulky with those brutal cruel features. Not a man who’d handle a lady gently, I’m sure.”

Sonia raised an eyebrow.

Francesca’s mouth gaped open. “No! Not in a thousand years.”

“You’re blushing when you talk about him.”

“Sonia. No. He’s awful. Does he have… animal magnetism? Of course he does. Why else is he so famous, why else do so many women throw themselves at him?”

“But you’re immune to it.”

Francesca hid her face behind her cup and composed herself. “I will admit he’s got… charm. But it’s a sociopath’s charm, that’s all.”

“Just remember what he came from. A great noble house, thrown down, and he came up with nothing. Less than nothing – his father, his grandfather, whipping boys and punching bags for the Communists. Forced to live on his wits, and live on his wits he did. Then one day, out of the blue… from having nothing, to having everything. And when he’s just barely out of his teens. So have some compassion.”

Sonia sighed before continuing. “Besides, maybe you’re jealous.”

“Jealous! Of what?”

“If he has a whim, he acts on it. He gets on his plane and he goes where he wants. He has no royal schedule, no duties, other than signing whatever they put in front of him.”

“Exactly. He has no responsibilities, he lives only for himself. Yes, I hate all this… ribbon cutting and garden partying and train station opening. But I don’t want to be that irresponsible. I owe my people my heart but not my hand in marriage to… well, not to him.”

“What do you think he thinks about this plan?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “My reading of him from Davos… he’s got to hate the idea as much as I do.”

“So ask yourself, dear, why? Why do your father, your stepmother, the Palace and the Landtag all want this?”

“To punish me,” she said bitterly.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Sonia said sternly. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and
think
.”

Francesca nodded. As always, her old governess had allowed her a few moments of Pity Party before bringing her back to reality.

“It’s hard to fathom. Danubia is a criminal enterprise, as far as I’m concerned. Like Russia, run by oligarchs and gangsters and it’s hard to say which is which, and each are both. And that man, István Szabó, he’s basically their Putin. The man who runs the show.”

“And who runs Burgenland, really? The king?”

“Ha. The queen, more like it. And her little faction.”

“Composed of?”

“Well, we’re like a little Lichtenstein, a banking haven, a…” She blinked. “A white collar criminal enterprise, when it all comes down to it.”

Francesca shot up in her seat. “That’s it! The bankers and the oligarchs! They’re working hand-in-hand. If we marry, if there’s reunification, or at least more porous borders… It’s easier to move drugs and sex slaves into the rest of Europe. Then the bankers of Burgenland take the deposits, launder the money... Our people, their wages will collapse with the influx of cheap labor from the East.”

She laughed, bitter and astonished. “My royal wedding is the ultimate criminal enterprise.”

Sonia sighed. “Well, there’s only one way to stop it.”

“Tell me,” Francesca said eagerly.

“You won’t like it.”

“I know that tone of voice. I’m sure I won’t.”

“You have to meet Nikolas again. And the two of you have to figure out how to blow this plan to kingdom come.”