By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced. Margaret Way

       5

      GIORGIO WET HIS HANDKERCHIEF and cleaned his mouth of traces of Renata’s lipstick, a wide smile reflected in the small mirror in the backseat. The day certainly hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected, but he took pride in the fact that he had been smart enough to take the opportunity of getting to know Renata.

      Especially since Stefania had accused him of being a, what was the American expression? Ah, yes, a stuffed shirt. The girl certainly had a way with words, much to his chagrin. Perhaps his day-to-day duties had encouraged a certain amount of rigidity—and not the good kind.

      He laughed out loud. Oh, the tabloids would laugh if they saw what his true life was like. The Crown Prince sneaking around and making out in the backseat of a car like some teenager, stopping his pursuit of passion because of his archaic ideas of proper behavior. He already went further than he intended with the lovely Renata, but her words and body had urged him on past his good sense.

      Stuffed shirt, hah! He rubbed his chest—no stuffing needed thanks to dutiful workouts, but maybe a bit sore. He took a deep breath and his muscles loosened a bit.

      The Brooklyn Bridge loomed overhead and they sped over it for the second time in a day. It was impressive, young or not. These Americans had an eye for design, he admitted to himself. Whether it was the bridge or Stefania’s dress, New Yorkers knew how to make things work.

      He patted his chest again—heartburn from that damned chili dog? He pressed a button to roll down the partition. “Have any antacids, Paolo?”

      “You are ill, signore?”

      “No, I don’t think so.” He chewed the chalky discs Paolo found for him and chased it down with a bottle of water. He closed his eyes, feeling Paolo’s worried gaze on him. Not to worry, the worst thing he had going was a bit of indigestion and a massive case of blue balls. And yes, he’d known that American phrase all on his own.

      They weaved through Manhattan traffic toward the hotel and Giorgio felt every bump. This was not good. The antacids hadn’t helped a bit and he was starting to sweat.

      Agonizing pain ripped through his chest up into his shoulder and down his arm. Dear God, was he having a heart attack? His sister’s face flashed to mind, strangely followed by Renata’s. Stevie he understood, but Renata? Stevie needed him—her only brother. And Renata—he needed her and he’d only met her.

      It felt like a fist was squeezing his heart. He couldn’t help groaning.

      “Signor! Signor! Are you all right?”

      Giorgio looked up at Paolo’s panicked face and spoke with a calmness he didn’t feel. “I don’t think so, Paolo. Get me to the hospital.”

      “MR. MARTELLI? I’M DR. WEISS.” Young and skinny with glasses, the E.R. physician was in need of a shave but looked awake enough.

      Giorgio extended his hand, IV tubing dangling from his arm. “I am George and this is my friend Paul.”

      Dr. Weiss laughed. “And where are John and Ringo?”

      Ah, a jokester. Giorgio suppressed a sigh. He guessed working in a New York City emergency department was grim enough that even the doctors tried to lighten things up.

      “Chè dice? What is he saying?” Paolo asked in Italian.

      “Niente—nothing. A Beatles joke,” Giorgio replied in the same language.

      “A joke? He dares joke with the Crown Prince of Vinciguerra when he is ill?” Paolo had no sense of humor under normal circumstances, and a doctor who thought he was a comedian was not helping.

      Giorgio gestured for him to calm down. “This place is sad enough, Paolo. It is harmless.”

      Paolo subsided, but stared hard at the doc, who cleared his throat and got down to business.

      “Okay, Mr. Martelli, I got your lab and EKG results back. The good news is, you’re not having a heart attack. We think you had a major attack of indigestion, probably from those chili dogs you mentioned.”

      Giorgio blew out a sigh of relief. He had avoided the one thing he feared for himself. He quickly translated for Paolo, who crossed himself in thanks.

      Dr. Weiss continued, “But the bad news is, I don’t know why you haven’t had one already. You look like a sixty-year-old man on paper. A sick sixty-year-old man.”

      His stomach churned. He was only thirty years old—what the hell was going on?

      “You have a family history of heart disease?”

      Oh, no, not that. He blinked rapidly. “Yes, my father.”

      “Okay.” The doctor nodded. “It can run in the family. Your good cholesterol is down, your bad cholesterol is sky-high, your entire body is in a state of silent inflammation and your blood pressure when you got here about blew the top of your head off. It’s minimally improved since we got your pain under control.”

      He muttered to Paolo what the doctor said. Paolo drew in a shocked breath. “So what do you recommend?”

      “I don’t know what you do for a living but you need to take some time off to get your health under control. Get to your primary care doctor and get a note if your boss gives you any grief. You have a primary care doctor?”

      Giorgio nodded. “Yes, yes, I will see him as soon as I get home.” He had been neglectful—it had been over three years since his last checkup.

      “I mean it. I see young, strong guys like you all the time roll in here grabbing their chests. Sometimes they only roll out in a box, capeesh?” His Italian accent was straight out of The Godfather, but Giorgio understood all too well.

      “I understand.”

      “Good.” Dr. Weiss extended a hand and Giorgio shook it. “Watch your diet—more fruits, vegetables, lean meats and a splash of olive oil. Cut back on the pasta, bread and sweets. A glass or two a day of red wine is actually good for you, but no more than that. You don’t want to rev up your liver on top of everything. Any questions?”

      He had a million questions—like how fate could be so cruel as to start him along the same path as his father, but Dr. Weiss had no answer for that—no one did. “No, and thank you.”

      The doc left and Giorgio dropped his head back onto the hard gurney, covering his eyes with his forearm. He didn’t want to be in the hospital, didn’t want to have this sword hanging over his head. What if he hadn’t eaten those damned chili dogs with Renata and instead had gone along his blissfully ignorant way until he dropped dead on the street, his office or God forbid, driving along the mountainous roads of Vinciguerra?

      What would happen to Stefania if he died? She would have to run Vinciguerra alone once their grandmother passed away.

      He swallowed hard and felt a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Signore. You will be all right—I promise.”

      “Grazie, Paolo.” He removed his hand and sat up. A prince of Vinciguerra did not swoon and cry like a Victorian maiden. “We leave out the back door. I don’t want anyone to know about