Crown of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

“Thank you,” André muttered, the words hard, but necessary. “For being here with my sister when this all happened.”

  Flynn nodded, his stare serious.

  “And…I should apologize for the poker game. My temper gets the better of me sometimes.”

  “Likewise.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time for those kinds of apologies later.” Alanna squeezed André’s arm, her face pained. “How is Gemma? I’ve been worried sick about her.”

  André nodded but couldn’t seem to get any words out.

  “How long is her recovery?”

  “Long,” he croaked. Though there wouldn’t be any recovery for his lost unborn child. He couldn’t bear to tell her. He cleared his throat. Change the subject. “Flynn was right. You shouldn’t have to do all of this by yourself. So, I’m here, where I belong.”

  She swallowed hard. The tension dripped out of her every pore, but she forced a smile. “I haven’t been alone. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  That gave him some comfort, knowing his sister didn’t blame him for the state they were all in.

  Alanna stepped into Flynn’s embrace, where he returned a gentle kiss on her nose.

  André turned away from their intimate moment. How do all the older brothers throughout the world stand this?

  “Go ahead and make your way to the balcony,” she muttered. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”

  Flynn smiled, a small but confident display of the deeper connection between them. With a final hug, he left the room, leaving the two royals alone.

  Her deep sigh echoed his heavy heart. She stood beside her brother, both looking out the window at their heritage.

  “Flynn says he feels out of place, but in that suit and tie, he will outshine all of the foreign dignitaries he’s sitting with,” she started. “I don’t think he’ll be wearing his normal deck attire anytime soon.”

  “He might be. Sooner rather than later, if today doesn’t go as we hope.”

  A long moment passed before she wrapped her arm around André’s back, leaning her head on his shoulder. The same sideways hugs they’d shared in their youth. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been worried sick about you, too.”

  “Isn’t the big brother supposed to be the one worrying about the younger sister?”

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “We’ve never been the conventional family.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned his back against the window. “I never really worried about you all this time. Well, except for recent events.”

  She scoffed and matched his posture, sitting on the windowsill. “Surrounded by guardsmen all the time; what’s the point?”

  “No, not that.”

  She cocked her head.

  “You’ve always been the curious one, to ask the questions others wouldn’t. No matter the problem, you figure out a solution. Always had a way with making people see reason over emotion.”

  “Not everyone.” Her face turned sad.

  It took him several seconds to realize whom she meant. Then an ache panged his chest, and he rubbed his sternum. “Father had enough stubbornness to fill all the ammephire mines on this island. No one could change his mind.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Father.”

  André lowered his gaze. His shoes had lost their shine, and his pants had wrinkled, much like his forehead.

  “For a smart man, you’re amazingly dense.”

  “Don’t sugar coat it for me.” He stood and adjusted his jacket.

  “You would give everything you own to help a stranger, and go all in with everything you do. There’s no halfway with you. But when trouble throws your plans sideways, you run. Ever since we were children.”

  André felt his expression turn down, along with his defensive nature kicking into high gear.

  “There it is, right there.” She pointed at his face. “Your pride shuts you down, and you flee. Every time.”

  Not every time. There’s one problem—a 300-pound hick—that I’d rather pummel into fish food.

  “It’s what kept you from coming home for eight long years.”

  “King Rodrigo kept me from returning.” André made sure not to call him Father then. Because in that moment of his exile, the man who gave the order was the king, not his father.

  Alanna stood and pursed her lips. “Had you set your pride aside for ten minutes, you would’ve seen his point. And you would’ve also seen the agony he suffered on your behalf.” When he didn’t say anything, she moved in front of him and straightened the gold hawk pin attached to his sash. “Each of you digging in your heels caused the other tremendous pain. I’m no therapist, but from what I saw, it’s because you were so similar to each other and refused to see the other’s rationale. Or lack thereof.”

  He glanced to the vaulted ceiling, sending a silent prayer for patience. Or maybe it was forgiveness or mercy. Whatever it was, he needed a higher intervention.

  “Father was still grieving from losing Mother, too,” his sister continued. “Yours was external, his was internal. But both equally self-destructive.”

  “Then I left.”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s what you do.”

  André grimaced. That’s three people who view me as a coward.

  “But you came back.” She touched his arm. Though she had to look up at him with tender eyes, his tiny sister held so much presence. “It took you long enough, but you finally came back. You fell off the horse, remember? But got right back on him and galloped down the beach.”

  He chuckled. When he was ten years old, the ornery stallion had thrown him into a pile of rose bushes. The scars on his leg were still easily visible. But Stefano had pulled him from the thorns and set him right back in the saddle.

  Alanna brushed a wrinkle out of his lapel. “That’s one of the best things about you. When you’re here, it’s one hundred percent of you. I think that’s what Gemma loves so much about you.”

  Something twisted inside him. Not anymore.

  André sighed, grabbed Alanna’s hands, and kissed her knuckles.

  A roar sounded from the door; another argument covering the floor.

  “It’s time,” he murmured.

  “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes widened.

  André smiled. “But I’ll give it everything I have. We’re in this together.” He nodded at the guard.

  Just as Alanna made the sign of the cross and kissed her thumb, the guard opened the door.

  “Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince André Miguel Peralta, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Alanna Safira Peralta.”

  The room hushed instantly, and he strode down the aisle, the light blue carpet plush under his shoes. Alanna glided beside him. The mahogany executive chairs were turned to them, everyone standing at attention per protocol. The opulent chamber housed centuries of tradition, pride, and mementos of their heritage. Portraits of the twenty-nine prime ministers since the country’s inception hung on the walls, the first gavel given to King Eduardo, a gift from Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom, sat poised on the newly refurbished head bench. State-of-the-art speakers throughout the room, microphones at every seat, large plasma screens at the front of the room, with an entire line of national and international cameras on a raised platform in the back of the room. The king’s chair sat just behind the prime minister, at equal height.

  Both positions conveyed equal responsibility to the people.

  Alanna rose into the private box off to the side, the queen’s chair, where their mother used to sit, visible to every member. She kept her chin high, her elegant neck straight and proud, the quintessence of elegance and regality.

  If we’re voted out of power, we’ll be front and center.

  Flynn smiled down at her, the affection between them palpable. Cameras flashed when André took the podium. The view of the floor and dozens of government officials looking to him for direction struck a chord inside. Their father ha
d seen this view consistently for the better part of fifty years. But what kept his gaze was the massive portrait of his mother and father over the balcony. They were young. Newlyweds. And the backbone of the government. His head hurt looking at the pride on his father’s painted face, but his heart rate settled.

  André nodded to the crowd, the cue for everyone to sit. A few whispers scattered through the mass of bodies. But he’d heard them loud enough through the door earlier.

  Judgment questionable.

  No confidence in a scoundrel king.

  Danger to the country.

  He shook his head to himself. “This country has been through more than our fair share of tragedy, of which the threat still remains. Our deepest condolences for the Macias family, the families of the yacht explosion victims, and those of the initial invasion.”

  He let the silence extend, drawing in a deep breath to continue. “All this turmoil has created unprecedented upheaval. The last thing the people need is additional scandal, or uncertainty in its leadership, when we should be focusing on securing the safety of our citizens and going after the responsible criminals. But I’m not one for avoiding elephants in the room. Normally, the royal family doesn’t comment on our personal lives. But I won’t let anyone continue to spread lies.”

  Several members in the crowd shifted in their seats, but most waited with bated breath. The creaks from the chairs slowly died off.

  “Most of you don’t know Gemma Westfall. But I do. I know what kind of life she’s lived. Not that it’s anyone else’s business. Of all people, how can I judge her for past mistakes? Mistakes made in grief. In fear. I can relate to that on a very personal level. I think many of us here can relate to choices made in fear.” His eyes fell on Representative Haani, who flexed his jaw. “Yet despite her harsh childhood, where many would have crumbled, Gemma made a life for herself. An honorable, independent life. As you all remember from her heroic actions two weeks ago, she’s tough, and selfless. I don’t know many who would risk their lives for the safety of complete strangers. She did. Above all, she’s infinitely loyal.”

  He swallowed hard, regaining his composure by staring at his white knuckles on the podium. Time to admit it to the world. He squared his shoulders and looked directly into his father’s eyes overhead. “Gemma Westfall made me better. Stronger. At the end of the day, I know her heart. I know my own. I love her. I always will. No matter what anyone else thinks.”

  If there was a muttering in the crowd, he couldn’t hear it from the blood rushing between his ears. “It’s because of her I’m here today. To stand at this podium, and tell you all that we’re here. For whatever the people need, Princess Alanna and I are here. We’re not going anywhere. Destroy our yacht, our plane, threaten our home…but we’re still here. Our love for this country and its people are soul-deep. Spent with our own blood. Spent with the blood of our family. We will always be here.”

  This time, he heard the murmurs ripple throughout the crowd, combined with countless head nods. But there were more than a few people with stoic faces.

  “Solana is not isolated from the rest of the world. Or its horrors, as many of us would wish we were. The loss of so many beloved people hurts.” His gaze moved to his mother’s image, so beautiful and young in her sage gown, the same color as the sea at dawn. Then his father, so proud. The epitome of honor. “Not just that they are gone, but how they were taken from us.” When he glanced at Alanna, the tears in her eyes formed a lump in his throat. He swallowed it back. “We will find justice for them and see those responsible for these atrocities pay the price. We will honor the memories of our loved ones by rebuilding and resuming our way of life.”

  He forced a deep breath for the next line, possibly his last as prince. “A secure future, by whatever means you believe best for all families. Whichever you decide, Alanna and I will be right beside you. As king, or queen, or devoted citizens.”

  A scattering of gasps and murmurs rippled through the assembly.

  He’d said it. Everything was out of his hands now. From the corner of his eye, Alanna took a deep breath and held her chin high. Her focus was on Flynn. Some in the crowd clapped exuberantly, even rose to their feet, while others kept a more reserved applause. A few kept their hands in their laps. Representative Haani didn’t move a muscle. Nor did Prime Minister Barilla.

  THE DEVIL’S BLACK EYES NEVER wandered in the interrogation room in the sheriff department headquarters. They stayed glued on the two-way mirror, right on Gemma, as if he could see through it, to her vengeful expression. At that moment, she was grateful for his wrist and ankle cuffs.

  The police investigators sat across from him, asking one question after another, which Vasco ignored. His black t-shirt fitted to his monstrous physique, but the jeans and black cowboy boots threw her. Not the image she expected of a cold, calculating killer.

  The gash on Stefano’s forehead required stitches, and a few nasty bruises prickled his face, but he was otherwise unharmed. He absorbed some of her weight as she gripped his shoulder, the recent dose of meds muting some of her pain. But not the bone-deep ache. Perhaps it was the adrenaline racing through her that kept her from screaming out at the possibility of getting in front of this monster. Justice is only a few moments away, Reyna.

  When she’d demanded to be taken to the sheriff’s headquarters to see the interrogation, the doctors had looked at her as though she were certifiable. But Brooks had made it possible. He wanted justice for Reyna too.

  But one thing kept nagging in her mind as she continued to stare at the man who nearly killed her. “Why didn’t he pull the trigger?” she asked aloud to no one in particular of the half-dozen individuals in the tiny room. The napkin he’d thrown at her burned a hole in her boot, where she’d shoved it earlier.

  The man in the FBI jacket—Special Agent Rover—spoke first. “We had men at every door. I want to know how the hell he got all the way up to her room without anyone stopping him.”

  “Because he’s smarter than you,” Sheriff Brooks chastised, still wearing his cowboy hat.

  The FBI agent scowled at him. “Enough of this. That police detective isn’t getting shit from him.” He stormed out of the room and, a moment later, entered the interrogation room.

  “You’re running out of tactics quickly, aren’t you?” Vasco’s lip twitched into a smile. “Que divertido!”

  How fun. Gemma’s Spanish wasn’t extensive, but she knew that much. This guy was just playing with them, and it made the questions swirl around the room.

  “You’re screwed,” the FBI agent started, ignoring Vasco’s jab. “The Lozanos have an official contract out on you. So, your attempt at Miss Westfall and the Peraltas is useless, and it’s only a matter of hours before the cartel hunts you down.”

  Vasco scoffed. Or was that a chuckle?

  “The kind of torture they do to people who double-cross them…” The FBI agent faked a wince. “Let’s just say begging for death is an understatement.” He rolled up his sleeves and sat across from the assassin. “Is that why you voluntarily turned yourself in at the hospital? In the unique dramatics you prefer. Like most prima donnas, the star burns out with a flash.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. Baiting him won’t accomplish shit. Not with a man like that, who repeatedly outsmarted all these agencies. “Well, now I know why he didn’t kill me when he had the chance.”

  “There was no money in it anymore,” Stefano answered for her. “He wants a safe place to crash while the Lozanos are after him.”

  “I have a hard time believing that man fears anything.”

  Stefano gingerly touched the stitches at his head. “He’s not.”

  “So, he’s trading in for lifetime imprisonment because he’s not scared of the Lozanos?” Gemma’s energy weakened, processing the insanity unfolding in front of her. “That doesn’t make any sense.” Stefano helped her sit in a chair in the back of the room, since the assassin wasn’t going to say anything. I need more pain meds. “All of that
crap in the hospital, that was just him saying ‘hey, I could kill you if I wanted. I can still get to you despite all of the guards around me.’ Doesn’t instill much confidence in all these authorities.”

  “He’s always had a flare of arrogance.” Stefano bit his tongue and turned away.

  “You know him, don’t you?” she asked.

  His shoulders slumped, and everything in his posture displayed exhaustion. But he didn’t respond. Some of the other men in the room turned to listen.

  She couldn’t forget the words that animal had said in the hospital. “As the former Head Royal Guardsman, you probably knew all of the guards. But Vasco sounded like he knew you personally.”

  That got the attention of the other FBI agent in the room, though his gaze was considerably less friendly. “If you’re withholding information about our suspect, we can charge you with obstruction.”

  “Forgive my impertinence,” Stefano replied lazily. “But no, you can’t. Diplomatic immunity. And I have in no way withheld information that would be of any use to you in capturing him.” He gripped the bridge of his nose, obviously needing more painkillers. “And to clarify, you didn’t capture him. He turned himself in.”

  The FBI agent glowered. That statement was a sticking point, for both him and Stefano.

  The interrogation door burst open and two men in black suits strolled in. Rover stood and moved in front of the table. “I’m in the middle of—”

  “We’re taking this suspect with us. Now.”

  “Negative. This man is in the custody of the FBI. He stays with me.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  One of the men raised a brow. “We’re from an organization with a particular vested interest in this individual.”

  The tension in the whole building thickened. Vasco looked up from his chair and smiled. Rover crossed his arms over his chest. “The CIA doesn’t have jurisdiction within United States’ borders. You can’t have him.”

  The man in the black suit pulled a paper out of his jacket. “By order of the FBI director, your boss, you are to turn over this suspect into my custody. Immediately.”