The Playboy Prince (Piacere Princes, Book One) (3 page)

Inside, she set her purse and keys on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. Relief coursed through her at the sight of the empty soup container, but was quickly replaced by fear when she glimpsed a white envelope on the table next to her things.

She picked it up, her mouth going dry at the return address: Matrigna Holdings.
 

They weren’t going to stop until the Rossis, and others like them, had nothing left to call their own. Maggie’s mouth went dry at the thought and she blinked back tears.

The envelope crumpled inside Magdalena’s fist as she crossed the room and chucked it into the fireplace, then buried it under the few remaining coals. The heat fanned over her face and stoked her defiance until it glowed.

There had to be a way to fight the real estate company quietly bullying the people of Arcobaleno into selling off their land to make room for new developments. She needed to figure out what it was, and soon. Her father would not go to his grave without even the meager possessions he’d managed to accumulate over the past seventy years.
 

She wouldn’t let that happen. No matter what.

“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m sure you’re getting better—back to normal soon, you’ll see.” Maggie did her best to reassure her father while they waited in the stark office for the doctor to come and discuss the results of the latest round of tests, but she didn’t think it worked.

Not for him, or for herself.

Her father gave her a small, tired smile. “You look tired,
bella mia.
You are worrying too much. I can hear your mind.”

The choice of words startled her, dumped her into a memory of an afternoon at the palace with Salvadore. They’d been alone at the swimming pool after Nico had been summoned for royal duties, and Salvy had been his typical, happy-go-lucky self. Maggie had been fretting about school, about how her father would pay for the design college she wanted to attend in London, and the younger prince had said the same thing to her.
 

Come and swim, Moo Moo. Stop worrying.

How do you know I’m worrying?
She had smiled despite the questions without answers that rattled around in her head.

I can hear your thoughts when they’re not happy.

It had pleased her, at the time, how well he knew her. They were twelve or thirteen, on the cusp of shedding their childhood, and even though she didn’t understand how yet, Maggie’s feelings had begun to change.

In the present, Magdalena
was
tired—she’d taken over all of the behind-the-scenes work at their tailor business and sent her father only on the calls where his missing presence would raise red flags. Gabriel Rossi was the famous, royal tailor of Cielo, but his daughter was no one special. Without his name, the business could fail, so they said nothing of the changes to their structure and hoped no one would notice.

It had never been the plan, for her to take over. Gabriel had been going to retire while Maggie started her own fashion line. Then he’d gotten sick, and their plans had crumbled. She couldn’t support them both on the salary of an up-and-coming clothing designer.

Based on the drawn expression on the doctor’s face when he entered the office, Maggie guessed that was about to happen again.

“Mr. Rossi, I’m afraid your Parkinson’s is getting worse. You need to think about retiring, sooner than later, because managing the sort of equipment you need will quickly become dangerous to your health.”

Maggie frowned. Not to mention that it was already affecting the
quality
of his work. She spent more time undoing his uneven stitches than it would have taken her to simply fill the orders herself.
 

“You have a capable daughter, and I’ve had the nurse put together a packet of information as far as what to expect, timelines, things like that.” He raised his eyebrows, pinning Magdalena’s father with a serious look. “This isn’t going to get better, Gabriel. It’s going to get worse, and you need to think about making arrangements to make the transition as smooth as possible. For everyone.”

The doctor cast a meaningful glance at Maggie. She averted her eyes as her father grunted. They got the message. They had gotten it months ago, but neither had been willing to accept the truth of it.

It sounded as if the time had come to do just that.

“Thank you, Doctor. We’ll show ourselves out.”

The doctor sighed and stood, shaking her father’s trembling hand when it was offered. Magdalena knew he wished that his patient would be more forthcoming, but that wasn’t her father’s way. He kept everything to himself—his clients, his feelings, his techniques, his pain—and she didn’t expect the end of his life to go any differently.

“Papa, do you want to stop and get something to eat? Maybe talk?”

He nodded, leaning on her arm for support as they made their way through the parking lot. “Yes. I think it is time to discuss how we will pass the business from me to you.”

She sighed, feeling half-exasperated and half-guilty over not wanting to be the new royal tailor. Magdalena had turned twenty-seven on her last birthday and even though her skills were more than up to snuff, she had to wonder whether the fact that she preferred to diverge from traditional fashion trends would play well with the crown.
 

They walked a block and took a seat at an outdoor café, the wrought iron table and chairs as wobbly as Maggie’s heart after the appointment. After they’d ordered, she cleared her throat and went first, hoping to make things as easy as possible.

“I can take over your clients, but we’ll need to hire someone to do the bookkeeping and answer phones. I can’t do it all.”

He reached over and patted her arm with a hand that used to be strong. It had always been the two of them—her mother had died and the one stepmother hadn’t worked out—which meant those hands had wiped tears, braided hair, cooked dinner, and bandaged scrapes and cuts. It hurt to see them spotted and withered, to watch him struggle to stop them from jerking. His fingertips were littered with scabs and scars from the slips of countless needles.

“Are you sure this is what you want,
bella mia
? To take over the shop?”

Surprise slowed her response. “Of course! Why, do you not want me to?”

It hadn’t been the plan, and perhaps she wouldn’t continue after…after he was gone, but he must know it was the best option for them both at the moment.

“I do, I do, settle down. I just wanted…I want it to be what
you
want, that’s all.” He frowned. “You’ll have to love it, because people won’t make it easy. They won’t look at you and see me, they’ll see someone new, someone they don’t know they can trust.”

“That’s silly. I’ve worked at your side my whole life.”

“I agree, dear girl. I’m telling you how people
are
, not how they should be, and if you search your sensible mind you’ll agree.” He frowned. “You’ll have to make your own way.”

Magdalena pressed her lips together as the waiter dropped fruit and scones off with their tea, and they ate in silence. As much as she wanted to argue with her father, she knew in her heart he was right. She wished the world were different, but until men decided to pull their heads out of their collective asses, she supposed that, like countless generations of women before her, she had to find a way to make the system work for her.

Which meant continuing to let people think her father was in charge, that his illness was temporary, and she was only filling in. Then, she’d have to hope that people realized the work hadn’t suffered while she’d been doing it.

They finished breakfast and headed back home, where Maggie figured she would spend the morning finding someone to replace her in the office. They would have to advertise as temporary so word didn’t get around.
 

At home, her father went straight for his easy chair and pulled the worn afghan her mother had made over his frail legs. Magdalena stared into the fire for a moment, thinking about the letter she tossed into it last night, but the morning had tired him.

She would wait to bring it up another day.

Chapter Three

Salvadore

With its heavy velvet drapes, oversized wooden furniture, and rich color scheme, the King’s office was arranged to be at least as intimidating as the throne room. Too bad royal intimidation of all means and measures had ceased to be effective years ago, at least as far as encouraging Salvy’s compliance was concerned.

Keeping subjects waiting was another trick designed to make an audience sweat. Salvy
was
feeling a bit hot under his collar, but only because he was hungover and the damn thing was too tight. While he waited, he shed his sport coat, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top two buttons. He could breathe, then, and walked over and cranked open the large, old-fashioned windows to drink in some fresh Cielo air.
 

He loved his country. Some might think otherwise, with the way he traveled and flipped the bird at his family on the regular, but especially after a few days in Vegas, he appreciated the clean freshness of the little mountain nation he called home.

“His highness, the King,” a loud voice announced from the doorway.

Salvy rolled his eyes at the not-so-subtle pronouncement that he would be greeting the King this morning as opposed to his father.
 

He turned to see King Alfonso stride into the room, coffee in one hand and a stack of newspapers in the other.

“That will be all, Martin, thank you.” The King dismissed the steward and rounded the desk without looking at Salvadore.

Salvy moved to the chair on the other side anyway, taking a seat without being asked. He’d be damned if his father—or the King—would treat him like a common subject and not a crowned prince of Cielo, in good graces or not.

Once the door shut firmly, his father set his coffee down, then looked his younger son in the eye. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen this morning’s news?”

“I just got off a fifteen-hour flight. I haven’t had time.” Salvy assumed his father was referring to the pictures and video that had resulted from his antics in Vegas, but as the King slammed down the local paper, then five tabloids from Italy, France, Greece, Holland, and Great Britain, it became clear that something else had happened.

I’m Carrying the Royal Baby

Woman in Monaco Claims to Be Impregnated with Prince Salvadore Piacere’s Son

Once Night of Bliss…Now This

How Much Can the Crown Take - A Look Back at a Year of Prince Salvadore of Cielo’s Poorest Decisions

Will Prince Salvy Ever Settle Down?

Prince Salvadore Piacere Gives Prince Harry Windsor a Run for Most Eligible Royal

Salvy nodded toward the last one. “Well, you have to admit that one counts as good news. Ginger Prince and the Brits could use a little competition, don’t you agree?”

“I do not agree,” the King snapped, chucking the papers into the trash can one at a time. “And don’t think I haven’t been apprised of what happened in Las Vegas. Half the country is talking about your dong.”

Salvy smirked. “That’s not exactly news.”

“Salvadore, this is getting out of hand. I’ve tried to give you time to settle down, to come to the conclusion on your own that your duties to this family are important.”

“You have to admit I’ve done more for publicity than you or Nico.”

“This is not the sort of publicity we require.” King Alfonso sighed, leaning back in his giant leather chair and casting a glance out the window.

Salvy felt a pang as he noticed the deep grooves around his father’s eyes. His hair was almost entirely white, his beard thinner than it looked the last time Salvy had been in this office. The King had aged.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sir. I’m the second in line. This kingdom will never be my responsibility, so I don’t see the point in cultivating a reputation like it’s going to be.”

“Salvadore,” his father said, his tone softer now as he turned his gaze back toward his son. “Just because you will not be king one day, that does not mean you are not responsible for the people of Cielo. They depend on our family to guide them, to protect them, to help them prosper. One man cannot do that.”