by Holly Hart
“Please, Ike,” they beg in unison, sounding like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel in the classic movie.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, hoisting them up over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing at all. “You two need a good bath, anyway. You’re startin’ to smell like my cows.”
The children giggle as he turns to head back to the palace. Before he leaves, he glances back at me.
“Good talkin’ to you, son,” he says.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I say. Truer words were never spoken. “Now move along and get those cows down to the watering hole.”
The man who will be my father-in-law tomorrow retreats to the palace with the children, leaving me alone to contemplate whether I’m about to make a colossal mistake.
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Nine
34. WEDDING BROADCAST, LIVE ON 4ROMA AND STREAMED WORLDWIDE
SERGIO: Valentina, I’m being told that we have cameras on Amanda right now. Let’s go to that feed from the hallway outside the nave of the cathedral.
VALENTINA: Oh, my, Sergio, look at that dress! It’s absolutely gorgeous! It’s Andreas Fortuna at his finest!
SERGIO: Rumor has it the gown cost over 200,000 euros.
VALENTINA: Well, it’s worth every cent and more. Look at her, she’s absolutely radiant. This American lady has come out of nowhere and stolen the hearts of continental Europe overnight.
SERGIO: Can we get a close-up? Yes, there we go. Stunning. Just stunning. Maybe a little too stunning for some of those stuffy Morovans. What do you think?
VALENTINA: If the prudes on the National Council have a problem with that dress, then they need to have their heads examined. Why can’t a royal bride be sexy? Where is it written?
SERGIO: Simmer down, you’re preaching to the choir.
VALENTINA: I can’t simmer down, Sergio, because we’re looking at Prince Dante now. Drink him in, ladies, because this is the last time you’ll see him as a single man.
SERGIO: His outfit, of course, is the traditional Morovan military uniform. It was originally worn by his father, Prince Nero, when he wed the commoner Lia. Obviously Dante had to have it altered to accommodate his frame and height…
VALENTINA (sighing): Ah, his frame. His height. So serious looking, like a commander on the battlefield. Even though he has to be nervous, you’d never know it from those steely gray eyes.
SERGIO: On his hip, of course, is the legendary Trentini sword, carried into battle by his ancestor, Prince Valerio the Bold.
VALENTINA: I think all of us ladies would like a closer look at the prince’s sword…
SERGIO: Ahem. Anyway, as you can see, the palace cathedral is one of the most intricate and ornate in Europe. The Trentini family were patrons of a number of Renaissance masters, who paid them back with some of the world’s finest masterpieces. The building itself was designed by none other than Leon Battista Alberti.
VALENTINA: Well, I personally think the bride and groom are the greatest works of art in this building right now. Such a beautiful couple. With genes like that, their children will be magnificent.
SERGIO: Speaking of children, there are Vito and Oriana, looking equally gorgeous in their formal wear. This is a rare glimpse at the royal twins, who spend most of their time far away from the public eye.
VALENTINA: Perhaps that will change now that the prince is finally settling down and leaving that playboy lifestyle behind, Sergio.
SERGIO: One can only hope. Excuse me, I’m being told the procession is about to begin. And yes, there it is, the opening strains of the traditional Morovan bridal march.
VALENTINA: Amanda’s showing just a touch of nerves as things start to proceed. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head. Less than a month ago, she was a simple graduate student studying Renaissance texts in Malta. Today, she’s about to become princess of the richest principality on Earth.
SEEGIO: Yes, and only a handful of days ago, she was punching out a supermodel in Cannes.
VALENTINA: Let it go, Sergio, that was self-defense.
SERGIO: Possibly taught to her by this man, Isaac Sparks of Montana, USA, standing by his daughter’s side, ready to walk her down the aisle. Signore Sparks is a true cowboy, running the family cattle ranch.
VALENTINA: Look at him, he could be a gunslinger in an old Sergio Leone Western movie.
SERGIO: He actually looks more nervous than any of them. And is he – Arturo, can we get a close-up of his feet? There. Yes, it’s true. He’s actually wearing cowboy boots under his formal wear.
VALENTINA: Grrrowwrr. He can ride my range any time.
SERGIO: There are children watching, Valentina.
VALENTINA: Shh! It’s starting!
Chapter One Hundred Eighty
35. AMANDA
Dad isn’t so much walking me down the aisle as he is holding me up so I don’t fall over. The pipe organ drones in my ears like white noise.
This is insane. I’m in one of the most famous cathedrals in the world, walking towards a handsome prince who’s waiting to take my hand in marriage. And the whole world is watching.
Don’t look at the kids or you’ll lose it. Shit! Too late. Their smiles are so sweet. Oriana waves at me. Should I wave back? Is that a serious breach of protocol?
I wave back anyway and return her smile. Dad does, too. I’m sure there are plenty of people clucking their tongues right now – if not for the wave then for the dress – and I don’t care. I may be in a golden cage from now on, but that doesn’t mean I have to jump through hoops.
Why are we stopping? Oh my God, we’re here already. Dante is so gorgeous close up. His uniform and that sword make him look so dignified. Suddenly my dress seems almost slutty in comparison.
Dad kisses my cheek and wipes away a tear as we lock eyes. I always expected him to walk me down the aisle, but I always just assumed it would be at St. William’s in Shelby. Not here.
I love you, pumpkin, he mouths as he turns and begins the walk back down to the family section at the front, where he’ll take a seat next to Emilio and Isabella.
Keep it together, Amanda. You can do this.
Dante’s wide eyes roam all over the dress. Judging by that look, he likes it – a lot – and that’s all that matters.
My heart gallops like a runaway bronco in my chest as we clasp hands and look into each other’s eyes.
It’s show time.
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-One
36. DANTE
I want to rip that dress off and make love to her right here and now, in front of the world.
Instead, I take her hands and look into those soft eyes. Every doubt I’ve had over the past two weeks disappears. This is the right thing to do. I know it deep in my core.
The Archbishop of Morova, a man who has scolded me more times than I can remember over the past twenty years, begins to speak in measured, official tones. I’ve often wondered if he can in a manner that doesn’t sound like he’s giving a lecture.
He drones on about hallowed this and purest that, and that something was ordained for the mutual society. I don’t listen to any of it. I only want to hear my own heartbeat and see Amanda’s face.
He asks if there if anyone has any just cause, and an image of Chancellor Huber’s fat face suddenly flashes through my mind. As I do, I see Amanda bite her bottom lip. The media will have a field day over that, but I don’t care.
The vows are, thankfully, simple tradition: loving, honoring, and cherishing. To have and to hold, from this day forward. The longest part of the whole thing is listing off my endless stream of middle names. Amanda manages to get them all correct.
She says she will.
I say I will.
We exchange rings.
We’re now man and wife. And Amanda Sparks is now an honest-to-God princess.
The archbishop doesn’t tell me I may kiss the bride; royal protocol says we don’t kiss until we reach the balcony that overlooks the gardens and the crowd below.
> Fuck royal protocol.
I pull Amanda close and press my lips against hers. I hear her sudden intake of breath, followed by a contented sigh. Behind us, a dozen gasps echo through the cathedral’s 300-foot ceilings. None of them matter.
Suddenly, the sound of Oriana’s giggles reach our ears, and our lips part so we can giggle ourselves.
This is our life now. For better or for worse.
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Two
37. AMANDA
“Are we going to have enough food?” I wonder aloud.
“Who cares?” Dante says, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me deeply. It’s wonderful, but it would be better if there weren’t so many flashes going off.
I suppose that’s life as a princess. Better get used to it.
We disengage and sip a little more champagne as we wait for dinner to be served. The gardens are wall-to-wall people, just as we planned. I knew it was a huge risk inviting so many commoners to the reception, but it seems to be working out. The weather is perfect, everyone is having a good time, and the media coverage has been amazing.
Even Marco finally has something to do, leading a security team through the gardens. They’re dressed so inconspicuously, you’d never know there were more than a hundred highly trained men and women patrolling the grounds.
“Maria and her people have it well in hand, I’m sure,” says Dante. “The reason we pay so many people so much money is so we don’t have to worry about things like that. All you need to think about is looking beautiful for your new subjects. And that will be easy for you.”
“I wish Maria and Carlo were here,” I sigh. “They’re an important part of this.”
He shakes his head. “Believe me, they’re much happier working behind the scenes.”
Dante wraps an arm around my waist as we scan the gardens. There are approximately 15,000 people here – basically a good-sized outdoor concert. The major difference, of course, is that these people are all dressed to the nines, not in cut-off jeans and bikini tops.
And the fact they’re all getting free food and drinks, of course.
“I have to admit, I thought you were crazy at first,” he whispers in my ear. “Inviting half the population of Morova was a huge risk.”
“Mmm, but what better way to distract people from the fact their monarch is marrying an American commoner with less than two weeks’ notice?”
“That dress helps,” he says, scanning the area to see if anyone is looking, then grabbing my ass once more. It sends an electric jolt right between my legs.
Dante’s been risking a major scandal by grabbing my ass through the dress every time the cameras aren’t on us. He’s also risking the wrath of my dad.
Not that we have to worry too much about him. He’s been playing with the twins practically non-stop since the ceremony ended.
“It should be tight enough to squash any pregnancy rumors, anyway,” I say.
“I can’t imagine a shotgun wedding to the daughter of Ike Sparks.”
“You’d have his whole collection pointed at your back.”
In the distance, I see a crew setting up a piano and sound equipment on the stage near the entrance to the palace. A few taptaps ring out as someone tests the microphones.
“I still can’t believe Elton John is playing our wedding reception,” I say. “As if this whole thing could be any more like a dream.”
“He was good friends with my father,” he says. “And you know how he feels about princesses.”
We’ve had a break in the procession of well-wishers for a couple of minutes, but the next wave is coming in. After a while, it just turns into a sea of faces with automatic hand-shaking and smiles. It’s my own fault for inviting so many people.
A pair of well-dressed young women look at us sheepishly after introducing themselves.
“Would it be okay if we got a photo with you two?” one of them, a compact blonde, asks. The hope in her voice is sweet.
“Of course,” I say, positioning them between me and Dante. The girls blush furiously as they set up the shot with a telescoping selfie stick. We each wrap an arm around their shoulders and smile.
A moment later, they’re staring at their screen with their mouths open, starstruck. Over a photo of me. The girl who was buried in a vault in Malta less than a month ago.
“Thank you so much,” one of them breathes. “This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”
“Don’t forget hashtag Amandante,” I say.
“She’s so cool!” the other squeals as they scurry away with their prize.
“You’re going to regret that,” Dante says out of the corner of his mouth. “Now everyone will want one.”
“Bring it,” I say with a laugh. “I’m a star today, and I’m going to act like one.”
After what seems like thousands more well-wishers file past, we finally get a chance to steal away to where our family is seated. The twins are eating ice cream from crystal dishes while Isabella chats with a frumpy looking man in formal wear. Emilio’s eyes are the same shade of red they’ve been for the past week or so.
“Any sign of my father?” I ask him.
“He’s over there,” Emilio says, pointing to a small clearing. Dad’s holding court with a couple of people who have cameras on him and another holding a microphone.
I wince. “Has he been doing all right?”
“They love him.” He shrugs, knocking back the last of his drink. “What more could you ask for?”
“Is everything all right, Emilio?” I ask, taking a seat next to him. “You haven’t seemed yourself for a few days.”
He gives me an odd look that I can’t read: a mixture of surprise and… is it embarrassment?
His hand finds mine on the table. “I’m fine, princess,” he says. “Don’t worry about me, especially today, of all days. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Amanda, darling!”
Isabella’s voice cuts through the air from behind me, making me think of Cruella de Vil in 101 Dalmations, for some reason.
“Your Grace,” I say, standing to greet her. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
She gives me a European peck on both cheeks.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Auntie? We’re family now.”
Dante appears at my side and pulls me close.
“Who was that gentleman you were talking to, Auntie?” he asks.
“Him?” She shakes her head. “Some bore of an undersecretary for the National Council. But better that I take the brunt of the bureaucrats than you two, wouldn’t you say?”
I smile. “I appreciate your efforts, Auntie. Keep up the good work.”
At that moment I hear a groundswell of applause coming from the stage area. A few moments later, the opening keyboard refrain of Crocodile Rock blasts through the air and the crowd goes wild.
The bass line kicks in and suddenly I feel my dad’s big hands on my waist.
“C’mon, pumpkin,” he hoots. “Let’s go show these stiffs how it’s done!”
As the music begins, we find an opening in the crowd and dance to the bopping beat of the song. Despite his size, Dad’s a pretty good dancer, thanks to a few decades of Friday night get-togethers down at the legion hall. I’m not half-bad myself, especially when it’s the oldies.
We hop and step and swing around until the opening of the first chorus before I notice everyone is staring at us.
On the edge of the crowd watching us are the twins, nodding their heads in time to the music. Dad and I both have the idea at the same time, reaching out a hand towards them. They come running into our little circle to joins us, jumping around and shaking their little behinds.
If Dad notices any of the dozens of cameras recording our every move, he doesn’t show it. This is Ike Sparks in his element, cutting a rug with a couple of Buds in him. And if the people around us have a problem with it, they can go pound sand up their asses.
I don’t care what the circumstances were th
at led up to this: today is my day.
Apparently realizing that royals won’t spontaneously combust if they have fun, Dante joins us. I’m sure he can do the Viennese waltz with the best of them, but his rock ‘n’ roll dancing sucks. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As the song ends and the crowd roars, I lean into his ear.
“If that doesn’t break the Internet, I don’t know what will. Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian’s ass.”
The people around us start clapping, some of them still sporting shocked looks on their faces but most of them laughing. As Dad picks up the twins and heads back to the table, Dante reaches behind me and grabs my ass again. This time, he works a finger in there, sparking a live wire in my groin and making me weak in the knees.
“We need to get out of here as soon as we can,” he hisses in my ear as I try to keep my composure. “I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you. I can’t wait any more.”
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Three
38. DANTE
I’m almost ready to tear that Andrea Fortuna masterpiece right off of her as the heavy ironwood doors to my quarters slam shut behind us. But I don’t. As much as I don’t want to, I have to take this slow.
“Alone at last,” Amanda says almost shyly. “No one to get between, for as long as we want.”
I nod. “Nothing to stop us anymore.”
She looks around the room for the first time, noticing the line of tall, heavy candles that leads through the parlor into my – our – bedroom. The floor is strewn with rose petals that lead all the way to the bed.
“Oh,” she sighs. Candlelight reflects in the huge antique mirrors around the room. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” I say, gliding my fingertips along the exquisite sleeves of her dress.
“Andreas is a genius,” she says.
“I like you better without it,” I say, pulling her to me and taking her face in my hands.
Her lips are as sweet and warm as mulled wine on my tongue. Her hair, so perfectly coiffed, comes loose from her wedding stylings with just a few strategic moves of my hands. Once free, it spills down to its natural place on her shoulders.
