Coup D'etat (The Alpha Prince) Book 3 (7 page)

The Prince directs the guests to a nearby bar. I begin to mix amongst them. Many of them seem excited to meet me. Some of the others - the ones who seem terrified to be here - ignore me and attack the open bar like drunks who have recently fallen off the wagon. Some of the guests ask me many questions about how the Prince and I met. One particular woman, Vanessa, is an American. She whispers into my ear, “My husband swept me off of my feet and took me to Mondorra. It looks like your dream is coming true.” Well, she is certainly on our side. I look at some of the men at the bar. The ones who have fear and hate and confusion in their eyes. They seem like wounded lions. Though these men are in the inner sanctum of the Prince, I do not regard them as any less dangerous.

A bell announces the commencement of dinner. The Prince and I walk to the grand dining room where a massive table has been laid out for the Prince, myself and all eighteen guests. I notice placards in front of each chair. Assigned seating! It looks like the Prince is ready to control every aspect of this evening. The guests make their way to their respective chairs. The Prince, naturally sits at the head of the table. I find myself seated on the right side of the table, right next to my royal lover.

The Prince sits down first. We follow suit. The many servers are quick to provide wine and other libations to the guests. The Prince is presented with an ancient bottle of wine that looks to be at least 300 years old. I can only imagine the significance and importance of that particular bottle of wine. He is poured a glass into a golden chalice. The Prince then directs the head wine server to pour me a glass from that ancient bottle. No one else is allowed to sip this coveted bottle.

Just as the Prince is ready to have the chalice touch his lips, one of the older gentlemen stands up. He was one of the men, at the bar, who had been leering his disapproving eye at me. The older gentleman looks at the Prince with the glass of wine in his right hand. “Long live the Prince!” The other guests stand up and repeat that same toast to loyalty. “Long live the Prince!”

I rise up last and look at my lover, proclaiming, “Long live the Prince!” Prince Julian rises to his feet and holds his chalice up high. Then he takes a healthy drink from his cup. We follow and drink in salute to the Prince.

Everyone sits back down. Though every guest has at least three bottles of wine in their system, the atmosphere is still thick with tension. The servers bring out an appetizer of fine cheeses and fresh vegetables sliced in intricate geometric shapes. I snack on the cheese. Many of the guests only pick at the food in front of them. The Prince? He has no problem enjoying the first course of his meal. Throughout the beginning of dinner no one dares to say a word. I wonder if this is out of fear. Or if it is because the guests do not want to speak unless they are addressed by the Prince. Nevertheless. An eerie silence reigns, broken only by the occasional clattering of silverware on plates.



“Geneva was quite pleasant,” the Prince says, breaking the silence.



“I was in Geneva for the past month. I was sad that I did not see you, Your Highness” one of the guests mentions.

“It was quite an impromptu getaway,” the Prince mentions as he finishes his plate. “Besides, not many people knew I was in Geneva. Paris is another story,” the Prince says as he runs his eyes across the table. Of course, it was in Paris where I was confronted with the bribe. I notice a couple of the guests look away from the Prince at the mention of the French city. The tension rises.

Prince Julian puts down his fork and calls out, “I am excited to present the main course for the evening. I personally captured and killed the dinner myself.” Everyone is a bit caught off guard by the statement. The Prince snaps his fingers. We all hear the rolling sound of a massive cart pressing against the stone floors of the palace. We all turn our heads to the right and see four servants roll in a massive, cooked, great white shark.

There is a collective gasp that sucks the air out of the room. Even I am horrified. Now I know why the Prince insisted that I have my favorite dish - fajitas - for the evening. I have no idea what a great white shark tastes like. And frankly, I am glad that I don’t have to know first hand. The guests force a smile through their horrified stares. The twelve foot shark is wheeled to the head of the table, right in front of the Prince. The royal leader stands up and pulls out a short sword from his side. The Prince cuts the fin off of the shark and places it on his plate. The servers then proceed to cut off pieces of the fallen fish for the rest of the guest. Not one of the guests appear too happy about tonight’s main course. Yet, no one dares to raise a protest with their master.

As the guests receive their piece of the shark, a server arrives with my freshly grilled chicken and steak fajitas. I smile like a giddy little girl. “Amy wanted fajitas for this evening,” the Prince says to his guests. My royal lover looks at me and proclaims, “And whatever my little Amy wants, my little Amy gets.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You are so welcome, cupcake.”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that Prince Julian’s cutesy talk is designed to aggravate those who have conspired against us. As the guests stare down at their horrifying meal, I happily watch the servers pour grilled onions and peppers over my chicken and steak.

“Would you like guacamole, Madame Rousseau?”

“Yes. Yes I would,” I say with a wide smile.

The server takes a ripe avocado and proceeds to prepare the guacamole right on the table. He expertly adds Serrano chiles, cilantro and lime, creating the perfect complement to that damn fine looking fajita dish.

The Prince dives into his shark fin while the other guests tread carefully. When the server is done preparing my guacamole, I playfully grab a nice hot flour tortilla and proceed to put together a chicken fajita. I am having the time of my life and the Prince is clearly enjoying the uncomfortable shifting around of his guests. I take another drink of that ancient wine and take a nice big bite out of my fajita. It is the tastiest, juiciest fajita that has ever touched my mouth. I take another bite and smile at my Prince as he slowly devours the shark fin.

“That fajita looks good,” the Prince remarks as I wipe my mouth.

“It certainly is, Your Highness.”

“I insist you offer me a bite of your entree,” Prince Julian orders.

I cut a piece of the fajita and offer the fork full of food to my royal lover.

“Why don’t you come over and feed it to your Prince.”

“As you command, Prince Julian.”

I get up from my seat and walk over to the head of the table. The Prince grabs me and places my small frame on his lap. I giggle and playfully push the fork towards his face. Prince Julian opens his mouth and eats my fajita.

“That was great. Now, I’ll let you sample some of my shark fin!” the Prince says as he pushes a fork full of fish towards my face.

“Ah!” I yelp as the Prince playfully makes me taste his unusual dish. The Prince and I continue to laugh while I sit on his lap and wrap my hands around his head. The other guests appear anywhere from bemused to confused to aggravated. Prince Julian is certainly adept at controlling the emotions of his guests. I am simply playing my role as femme provocateur!

“Alright. Alright. I’ll let you get back to your fajita,” the Prince says as he lifts me off of his lap. As I walk away, he gives me a nice, firm slap on my backside. I sit back down and continue to enjoy my delectable meal, the Prince attacks his shark fin and the guests continue to contemplate what on Earth is going on.

Prince Julian takes a glance of his watch while he continues to eat. I remember my master promising Carole that he would uncover the traitor before midnight. I check my watch. It is 10:50. The Prince has a little over an hour left to fulfill his promise. As each minute passes, I begin to get more and more anxious. Things are about to get interesting indeed!

“That will do,” the Prince says as he puts his silverware down. As per royal tradition, when the Prince is done eating, all others must cease to dine as well. The guests don’t seem to be too upset about the fact that dinner is over. The servers dispatch the dinner with lightning efficiency. Within two minutes, all evidence of the shark has left the table. In its place is a dessert of cafe latte and a cup of Vanilla Crème Brûlée topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

Everyone seems relieved and even excited about the dessert. And everyone at the table dives into their sugar infused dessert. Everyone, that is, except for the Prince. The royal leader quietly converses with one of his men. I wonder what is going on? Could it be that the dessert is a mere distraction while the Prince readies his trap for the guest? Judging by the intense look on Prince Julian’s face, it appears that my royal master is ready to pounce.

Prince Julian taps the side of his latte cup. He raises the cup to his mouth and takes a hearty gulp. He then slams down the empty cup and rises to his feet. “And now, on to the unpleasant business of this evening,” the Prince says as he walks around the table. The guests put down their drinks and desserts. They all sit upright with posture that would rival any Marine. “You may be wondering what earned you an invitation to the Palace this evening. You are all among the richest subjects in the Principality. There are certainly other rich members of my realm who are not here this evening. So how exactly did you earn a seat this table?” the Prince asks as he allows that question to hang in the air. I look at the face of each guest. Some are genuinely confused while others sit in white-faced terror.

“According to my Intelligence Minister, each of you privately own at least twenty-five million dollars in gold bullion inside Mondorra. Eight days ago, that very amount of gold bullion was exported out of Mondorra and sent to Geneva to be secretly converted into a cashiers check. Four days later, that check was presented to my lovely girlfriend as a bribe to break-off our relationship. Now, I do not care what any one person thinks of my private life. Your opinion is yours. However, directly interfering with the Prince’s relationship in hopes of steering my heart to another, is treachery,” the Prince proclaims with cold words that cut a dagger into the heart of every person at the table.

The Prince snaps his fingers. A well-dressed man walks up to the table with a leather portfolio in his hand. The man begins to drop a single piece of paper in front of each guest. As the guests look down at the paper, the Prince begins to explain, “As you know, this is Monsieur Claude Jean of the Justice Ministry. Right now, I have ordered him to hand each of you a piece of paper. On that piece of paper is your name. And on your name is my decree that you be expelled from the Principality of Mondorra at Midnight tonight.”

Audible gasps erupt from the table. One woman begins to cry. “My family has lived in Mondorra for over four hundred years!” one of the older gentleman cries out.

“Well, I hope you and your family have enjoyed your stay. All of you will lose your tax haven status in 58 minutes. But do not worry, you can seek citizenship in France, Spain, the UK, Germany, Italy or Belgium. I hear the tax rates on millionaires are anywhere from 80% to 90%. That’s a shame. Maybe you can bribe the tax collectors in your new homeland,” the Prince lectures. A wave of shock and hysteria permeates around the table. All of these millionaires and billionaires stare at that single piece of paper. Their hands shake. Their eyes water up. I swear any one of them could have a heart attack at any moment.

“As Prince, I am the only one who can rescind an expulsion order. And I will be happily to rip up that piece of paper in your hands,” Prince Julian explains as every guest looks up at him like a scared child. “I want to know who financed the bribe,” the Prince demand. The guests begin to look at each other. Some of them shift in their seats. Other guests seem genuinely clueless about the entire bribe itself. No matter what the disposition, no guest at the table wants to lose their coveted citizenship - and tax free status - at the stroke of midnight.

I notice that a group of the guests become increasingly tense. Some of them seem as though they are on the verge of attacking one another across the table. My heart begins to race. I am wondering if I am watching many co-conspirators or just one traitor. Prince Julian stalks around the table like a tiger ready to pounce on a selected prey. I just want to make sure that my royal lover is safe. He could have twenty enemies at the table and not even know it.

“Dammit! Mr. Robaire is the one responsible,” Mr. Beatrix yells while his wife breaks down into tears. A tall, intimidating older man looks at Mr. Beatrix with a face that is practically on fire. The Prince does not walk towards Mr. Robaire. Instead, he walks to his old friend Mr. Beatrix. The Prince looks down at the shaken old friend.