“Yeah, so they had tied me to a chair with bungee cords and duct tape—this was after I tried to escape by distracting them by planting malware on their computer from a website that screamed it was watching porn—and Matryona and Kir were talking in Spanish to some guy on a video call. I guess they didn’t remember I spoke Spanish because they were talking while I was sitting right there. I had tried to speak Spanish to Matryona earlier because I don’t speak French, when she and her goons had recaptured me after I escaped the first time.
“And when they were talking to the guy who spoke Spanish on the video call, Matryona and Kir were arguing a bunch. They’re brother and sister, and you could really tell by the way they were fighting. I have some brothers and sisters, and we fought like that all the time when we were growing up. You’d think those two would have gotten over it by now.
“Anyway, when they were talking with the Spanish guy about how to get their drugs off of a ship at the Port of Marseille, Matryona wanted to do something about it right away, but Kir was being a slacker. This does not surprise me. Kir has been a slacker this whole time. He didn’t even know my ex-boyfriend Francis was ripping him off in Phoenix for years. He seems to be the type who doesn’t keep a close eye on the family farm, if you know what I mean.
“And then, when they were all riled up, Matryona suddenly stopped arguing with them. And she said something really funny. Like, funny hmmm, not funny ha-ha. She said that after that afternoon, which is today, that they would never have to worry about getting drugs stuck in the Port of Marseille or about how to ship their drugs around Europe ever again.
“And when the Spanish guy called her on it, Matryona said that even though they sold illegal prescription drugs, especially highly regulated opioid painkillers, their most valuable commodity was people. Then she said some stuff about Facebook, and how Facebook wasn’t selling advertising, they were selling access to their Facebook users.
“And so, she kind of insinuated that she had sold the votes of a whole lot of people who were on the Crown Council—meaning drug addicts and casual users—to the highest bidder. The bid was that the Sokolov crime syndicate wouldn’t be hassled about imports and exports anymore. Oh, and she also said that the Sokolovs would not have any competition anymore for selling their drugs in Monaco.
“And then the Spanish guy made fun of Matryona, telling her that Prince Jules would never have agreed to that, and Matryona said that she hadn’t made the deal with Prince Jules.
“Then she said that women got the job done.
“So, it seems to me, the Russian drug smuggler Matryona Sokolov made a deal with Lady Marie-Therese Grimaldi. Matryona Sokolov got an exclusive license to sell illegal prescription opioid drugs in Monaco, hassle-free shipping through the port of Marseilles, and free reign to ship her wares all over southern Europe.
“In return, Marie-Therese Grimaldi got the votes of the Crown Council members who were beholden to the Sokolovs, and Matryona specifically mentioned Louis Grimaldi, Lady Clémentine Gastaud, and Lady Henri Giordano, and she also mentioned an Ethan and a Nathan, but they sounded like more casual users than addicts.
“And that’s how Marie-Therese stole the election, kind of like how she tries to steal other people’s boyfriends.”
Silence.
The crowd was a mass of round, open mouths.
Marie-Therese stood with her hand pressed against the red satin of her dress over her black heart. “It’s all lies.”
Dree said to her, “Oh, don’t act so shocked. I heard about Rae Stone and Wulfram von Hanover and how you tried to steal him after they were already married. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that you tried to crawl in bed with Maxence.”
Marie-Therese scowled, actually baring her teeth with anger.
Lady Valentina Martini rolled her eyes. “I knew you’d slept with Pierre, Marie-Therese, but you tried it with Maxence, too?”
Marie-Therese stormed out of the throne room, the satin of her red dress rustling in her wake.
Prince Jules watched her leave, and even from where Dree was standing, she saw his eyes narrow. He turned on his heel and walked to the double doors on the other side of the room, where he stood.
When Dree looked out over the shocked-silent crowd in the throne room, every eyeball pointed at her.
They were all freaking staring at her like she’d grown three heads.
Dree stared back at them. “What?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
First Try
Maxence
Maxence inhaled, still stunned.
With the mass murder and Max’s kidnapping, Prince Jules had set the plot in motion to take the throne, and then his daughter, Marie-Therese, had double-crossed him.
It was all quite surreal.
Over a billion euros was at stake, yes, but the damage, the suffering, the deaths.
It wasn’t worth it. What kind of a person would think that money was worth the murder and chaos of last night?
Maxence grieved.
And now, he had to begin to pick up the shattered pieces of Monaco.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears, but he folded his hands and gazed steadily at the crowd, his mind grinding through the options.
If he called for the arrest of Marie-Therese, Jules, and the others who had been complicit in treason, Maxence would look like the ringleader of a violent counter-coup. The citizens of Monaco would not know who to believe was the rightful sovereign.
But, not punishing coup conspirators always led to more attempts at insurrection, and more violent ones, until the traitors overthrew the lawful government. If the instigators are not punished, a failed coup becomes a practice run.
Every choice Max could think of would lead to anarchy.
His uncle’s words came back to him, Listen to what the people tell you.
Maxence announced, “As the acting sovereign of Monaco, I will direct the police to arrest Matryona Sokolov and Kir Sokolov. Any other arrests for the murders at the Sea Change Gala will be contingent upon their testimony and other evidence.”
Slowly and methodically, but soon.
Murmurs scurried in the hushed room.
Maxence drew a deep breath in through his nose, holding himself upright and very straight. “The roll call vote will resume. The motion is whether I am to be disqualified from the line of succession because I am not present at this meeting. Ms. Clark, please continue to record the vote.”
A man’s voice called from the side of the room, “I object to the continuing of the roll call vote. According to our bylaws, the previous vote is binding.”
Alexandre stepped forward. “I object to your objection, Prince Louis. I called for a roll call vote at the correct time. I demand it now.”
Arguing broke out in patches amongst the crowd. Voices rose. Fingers began to wag.
Maxence rubbed his temple, shocked at the behavior of the nobles in the room. The Council of Nobles was supposed to be a civilized method of direct election, not a free-for-all like this.
Maxence nodded toward Alex. “Duc Alexandre de Valentinois made the legal motion for a roll call vote during the first round of voting. It should have been done then, but we are rectifying the situation now. Also, I remind you that you are implicated in this, Uncle Louis. Unless you are entirely innocent and this is all an unlikely misunderstanding, I would advise you don’t say anything else that might incriminate you.”
Louis Grimaldi looked at his phone, looked back up at Maxence, and looked back at his phone again as he stepped backward.
As well he should.
Maxence announced to the crowd, “We will now continue with the roll call vote.”
Thirty more voices stated their titles and names and voted, “Nay.”
And with that, Maxence was reinstated as the heir apparent to the throne of Monaco.
He nearly sagged with relief, but that wouldn’t do for such an occasion.
And the election wasn’t over.
Far above the
aristocrats’ heads, past the chandeliers suspended from velvet-wrapped chains, the artist Orazio de Ferrari had painted Zodiac symbols and Alexander the Great’s surrender on the ceiling of the throne room centuries ago.
Maxence had seen it all his life, from the time he was presented to his grandparents as a week-old infant in his mother’s arms, looking up at the blur far above, to all the times as a small child when he’d lain on the floor and stared up at it, to the many times his attention had wandered during ceremonies in the grand space.
His life always came back to this room, to this castle, to Monaco.
His cousin Alexandre, still standing behind him, stepped forward to the edge of the dais. “I, Lord Alexandre Grimaldi, Duc de Valentinois of Monaco, nominate His Serene Highness Prince Maxence Grimaldi to rule Monaco as the sovereign prince.”
A woman’s voice from the crowd shouted, “Seconded!” Alexandre’s sister Christine Grimaldi pushed her way forward through the crowd. “I, Lady Christine Grimaldi of Monaco, second the motion to nominate Prince Maxence as Sovereign Prince of Monaco.”
That was all very wordy. Maxence wasn’t sure it was necessary.
As a child, Maxence had been kidnapped from a sailboat in Monaco’s waters, and assassins had hunted him every moment he’d been on its soil. His body was prepared to fight every moment he was there.
And yet, Maxence was drawn to Monaco with the obsession of the sea turtle returning to the beach where it was born.
The possibility that he might be able to live in Monaco without a jealous psychopath snarling at him every time he stepped over its borders was almost more than his heart could bear. That Dree might be here with him was his personal vision of Heaven. He felt like he could float through the air of the throne room and trail his fingers through the crystals dripping from the chandeliers far above.
Max’s uncle, Prince Jules Grimaldi, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and a black tie, his white beard gleaming like silver, stepped out of the crowd and closer to the dais. “Prince Maxence, before we resume, what are your politics?”
This wasn’t a casual interrogation. Jules was triple-crossing his daughter and launching a last-ditch effort to take the throne, and he would fight like a wildcat because if he didn’t win, he was going to prison for murder.
Maxence said, carefully, “Pro-Monaco.”
Jules’s eyes narrowed. “When I talked to Pope Celestine this morning, he said you had not been ordained as a Jesuit because you espoused Liberation Theology.”
Ex-Pope Celestine had been busy today, giving the Monegasque aristocrats several types of ammunition to use against Max.
One of Max’s cousins asked Jules, loudly enough that everyone in the room could hear, “Who cares what his theology is?”
Jules told him, again loudly enough for his words to be an announcement and an indictment, “It’s a radical socialist religious belief that the Church considers heresy. It says that the nations of the Earth are responsible for the poor, rather than charity being a personal responsibility. Isn’t that why you were never ordained, Prince Maxence?” Jules asked him. “Because you are a heretic who believes that governments should take our wealth we’ve accumulated and give it to the poor who haven’t earned it? Are you a socialist?”
The nobles’ expressions here and there turned dubious, and they looked at Maxence to answer the question.
Maxence didn’t have time to formulate a response that would equivocate his beliefs. “The Church’s position on Liberation Theology is that it is heresy. The Church’s doctrine is that it is everyone’s personal responsibility to do good works and emulate Christ in the world. Previously, when I thought I had a vocation to be a Jesuit, I would have promised to obey the church and the pope in all things. I would have taught personal responsibility, not Liberation Theology.”
Prince Jules’s blue eyes sharpened at the corners. “You didn’t answer the question.”
Maxence raised one finger, signaling that he wasn’t done talking yet. “Look at me. I was raised as a billionaire among billionaires, a position of privilege almost impossible for ninety-nine percent of people to conceive of. Last night, I wore a Kiton tuxedo worth more than most luxury cars, and this morning, I ripped it to shreds. This watch”—he lifted his arm and displayed the Patek Philippe watch Arthur had given him for Christmas as both a lark and, evidently, a tracking device—”is worth more than a decent house in three-quarters of the world. I am the heir to a literal country, albeit a small one. I don’t think anyone who was raised as I was could ever, even with the best of intentions, ever be called a socialist.”
Max took a breath, and he poured his heart out to the aristocrats in that room. “I give a damn about other people. I believe every one of our citizens deserves a fair chance in life to do their work or grow their business, own their property with dignity, and be treated fairly. Too many of our citizens do not get that chance. I believe educating our children benefits everyone as a society. I believe companies and countries should focus on good work, and demanding every last fraction of a cent of profit to the exclusion of all else is to everyone’s detriment.”
Persuasion filled Maxence’s voice. “When I was running my charities, I didn’t collaborate with idle billionaires. They dropped off their checks and mingled at the galas and left. They had nothing substantial to offer because they don’t care. Most billionaires don’t even live anywhere. They don’t have connections to a town or a community because they travel by private jet from their apartment with a private entrance in New York to their country estate outside London to their walled compound in Los Angeles. They don’t talk to their neighbors because their neighbors are usually at one of their other houses. They have no friends. Their family is at war for their money. No wonder they don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves.”
His heart and his soul and his voice filled the room, surrounding and permeating the people standing in front of him. “I worked with CEOs of Fortune 100 corporations. One of the most important things I saw was that CEOs who focus on every last percentage of a percent of profit to the exclusion of everything else in their company, lose profits. Their people burn out and leave. They have constant turnover, and the best people won’t work for them. They eventually destroy the company by gambling on short-term projects to turn a quick buck for that quarter’s earnings, instead of investing in long-term, sustainable growth and a decent lifestyle for their employees.”
Maxence continued, “But CEOs who have a mission to change the world—whether it’s to give everyone access to a computer so they can start companies, or putting patients first in a pharmaceutical company—their profits explode. They become best in their industry. The best people want to work with them, and their people stay for years because they’re glad to be part of the mission.”
When Maxence drew a breath to speak, he was drawing in life and delivering truth. His soul spoke. “People want to be a part of something larger than themselves. They want a why. Monaco can be something larger than a micro-nation, one of the smallest city-state countries on the planet, just a beach and a casino. We can be more. We can lead the world if we work toward something larger than ourselves. We can be at the forefront of making the world better for everyone.”
As he let the words go and reverberate in the air, taking his thoughts and his spirit with them, persuading anyone within the sound of his voice, Maxence’s gaze returned to the crowd of nobles standing in the throne room.
Everyone was watching him. Some of them were reaching, their hands outstretched, as they listened to him. Gasps popped as people remembered to breathe.
Maxence hadn’t realized he’d been doing that. He hadn’t meant to persuade them, but his heart had overflowed.
Most people in the room were affected. A few staggered. Many shook their heads as they came back to themselves.
Alexandre was staring at him. He whispered, “Jesus, Max. It’s too bad you can’t sing.”
Prince Jules frowned, mostly unaffec
ted by Maxence’s charisma. “And just who are you going to tax to give things to other people?”
There was a small subset of people in the world whom Max couldn’t influence. Most of them were diagnosable as sociopaths. Maxence’s brother, Pierre, had been practically immune to his influence.
His uncle Jules was the same, if not worse.
Maxence shrugged. “Monaco has never had an income tax.”
“Again, you didn’t answer the question.”
Losing his temper in this situation would only be useful to Jules. “Monaco has never had an income tax, and I believe it is impossible for Monaco ever to collect an income tax. We’ve structured our treasury differently. We don’t need one.”
Jules scowled. “Then how would you pay for these grand schemes of yours? How would you make everyone equal and give everyone everything without someone else paying for it?”
Prince Jules had been educated at home with tutors. He hadn’t attended Le Rosey like Casimir, Arthur, and himself, so he hadn’t had the benefit of a world-class education in economics and finance. Le Rosey prepared its billionaire-offspring students to balance portfolios, not checkbooks. It was the difference between addition and calculus.
Max explained gently, “Politics and global responsibility are not zero-sum games. Just because someone else has something, it doesn’t mean they took it away from you.”
Jules stopped smiling, and his face contorted into a snarl. His lips retracted and bared his teeth back to his incisors. “You have no concept of protecting what is ours. You have to let the poor people fend for themselves. You would feed a hundred people because one of them might be hungry!”
Royal: A Royal Billionaire Novel (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 6) Page 16
