The Illegitimate King / Friday Night Mistress. Оливия Гейтс
was swept aside on a tide of fury. For a moment, Clarissa could see once again the formidable man and king who’d ruled for forty years, who’d made Castaldini a piece of heaven on earth for almost thirty of those. “What did he do? Tell me.”
As if she would. She waved it away. “What’s important here is that you knew he wasn’t interested in my professional acumen. Why did you send me to him when you knew he had a personal agenda?”
“Why would you be so against that?” Typical. He never answered questions, always volleyed one back. “I never understood why you were so…reticent with him. I thought it might be a good time to settle this. He’ll become my crown prince and your future king. And I wasn’t against the possibility of him becoming even more.”
As in her groom. Her skull suddenly felt too small for her brain. “So you thought the opportunity to indulge in some matchmaking had presented itself?”
“What father doesn’t take every opportunity to try to see to his daughter’s happiness?”
“And you thought Ferruccio, of all people, was the way to mine?”
“Who else could be, but someone like him?”
“There’s no one like him.”
“My point precisely.”
“Dio, Padre…” The lament of how deluded his belief was recoiled in her chest as a terrible suspicion descended on her.
What if this was some side effect of his illness? He’d told her he’d been forgetting things, had been unable to focus. What if this skewed thought he’d formed of Ferruccio as her Prince Charming was a delusion he was suffering from? Brought on by his brush with mortality, his current condition? What if he was scared to die and leave her alone, and he’d latched onto Ferruccio as guardian-angel material based on his power and affluence? Maybe fueled by Ferruccio’s expression of interest in her? Or maybe he’d gotten wind of Ferruccio’s pursuit of her and built this imaginary scenario around it?
If that was the case, she should let it go. How could she possibly berate him for wanting the best for her, blame him for trying to see to it the best way he thought he could?
It didn’t matter, anyway. What mattered was the real catastrophe Ferruccio had so coldly informed her was in progress.
She inhaled. “Is it true? Is Castaldini in danger?”
Her father blinked. “Ferruccio told you that?”
“Please tell me he was at least exaggerating.”
“I don’t know what he told you.” He averted his gaze as he said that. And she knew that every word Ferruccio had told her was true. “But maybe it’s time for me to tell you the truth.”
“Maybe? Dio Santo, why did you even think you should hide it from me at all? Padre, I’m a grown-up, PhD-holding professional, I’ve been elected a Council member by the people. How could you possibly keep something of this magnitude from me? How did you even manage it, when it seems everyone else knows?”
His lips twisted. His condition leant the grimace even more irony. “I may not be the king I once was, but my word still carries some weight. I demanded that no one tell you.”
She’d start tearing her hair out any second now. “Why?”
“Because no matter how much you’ve grown, how strong you’ve become, you’re still my little girl, Rissa. Because all of Castaldini’s troubles are my fault, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how big a mess your father has made of everything. I hoped I could fix it, and never have to admit it to you and see disillusion or disappointment in your eyes.”
Her tears gushed. She threw herself at his feet and hugged him around his waist with all her strength, sobs tearing out of her as she burrowed her face in his chest the way she had countless times during her tumultuous childhood, when he’d been the impenetrable fortress she’d taken refuge in. “You’ll never see either in my eyes, Padre. You’ll always be my hero.”
He tried to hug her back, managing to apply real pressure only with his healthy arm, the other one barely capable of smoothing her hair a couple of times before the tremors of weakness made him drop it to his side.
They remained like that, locked in the cocoon of their souldeep connection, the king kissing the top of her head and crooning to her the soothing endearments and the unconditional love that had once been the sole thing that had made her safe enough to sleep, brave enough to live.
Then he began to talk. “It began about ten years ago. I started to lose my perspective in external affairs, to slack off in internal ones. I made many enemies within Castaldini, making it easy for outside enemies to find openings through which to infiltrate our land, take a foothold. I am guilty of glossing over too much, hiding it from all but the highest ranks of Council members. Then I had my stroke. To the world, to the people of Castaldini, the only serious thing seemed to be the market crash, but that is only the tip of the iceberg of problems. I know what you’ll say, that Leandro and Durante are dealing with the financial situation, that things seem stable now.
“But it’s the calm before the storm. With Leandro and Durante regents only, with me still the king, a crisis is inevitable. Without a formidable crown prince and future king, it’s a matter of time before the internal decay weakens the kingdom, until it collapses under the pressures applied by the nations vying to assimilate our resources to feed their expanding needs. Only Leandro and Durante have enough power to stop that temporarily, but they both declined the crown. For the best of reasons, I admit. In their positions now, they’d stave off many immediate dangers, but only a king can have the long-term influence to do it permanently. Ferruccio is the only one left who has the power needed, both financially and politically, to maintain Castaldini’s sovereignty.”
Clarissa lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the wave to crash.
Next second, like clockwork, it did.
She shook with it, the fury that had been wreaking havoc on her since she’d left her father’s apartments last night.
She hadn’t slept a wink, had risen from her bed as dawn stretched its first fingers across the sky and paced her room for hours. It was 10:00 a.m. now, and she felt exhausted, beaten.
Castaldini was in clear and present danger.
When she’d realized in how much danger the kingdom was in, she’d raved and ranted that her father should draft either Leandro or Durante to the duty, that they weren’t entitled to refuse when stakes were that catastrophic. But he’d told her why either Leandro or Durante would still end Castaldini as they knew it—Leandro by his incompatible political views, and Durante by bringing an end to the very law around which Castaldini had been built.
She’d struggled to enumerate the measures that could be installed so that either man’s reign wouldn’t do the predicted damage, but her father had countered every one with an undeniable projection of how it would fail. He’d told her that, before she’d become part of it, the Council had discussed everything in dozens of raging closed sessions, until they had admitted there was no other way out. Did she think anything less could have made them reach the decision to make the offer to Ferruccio?
So this was it. It was down to Ferruccio. It was up to him to save Castaldini. He was, in every way, the only one who could.
And that bastard—and the epithet had absolutely nothing to do with his birth, but with his character, his behavior—cared nothing about it. He cared only about getting his way. He wanted his “incentive.” Her.
She’d once thought him a god. He lived up to the belief in many ways. He now did in the most maddening way of all. To save king and country, she had to offer herself at the altar of the vicious deity he’d turned out to be.
She twisted around in bed, reached across to her nightstand, picked up her cell phone.
Time