Slow Tango With a Prince (Royal Scandals) (8 page)

“I know it’s very late,” she’d said, then hesitated. It was the hesitation that unnerved him. And he knew.
 

“What has Carmella done now?” More than another painting or bauble showing up in the market.
 

“She’s passed away. Her body was discovered about an hour ago.”

Even now, he remembered the horrifying sensation as his stomach dropped and his mouth went bone-dry. He remained immobile while his mother gave him what few details she had: Carmella had hung herself. A neighbor heard a crash from the actress’s Madrid apartment, followed by silence, and had knocked to no avail. Firefighters eventually broke down the door. No note had been discovered. The crash had apparently come when Carmella kicked over a large ornamental vase.

“I’m sorry, Vittorio.” He’d blinked, realizing Queen Fabrizia had come to kneel before him. “Despite everything, I know you cared deeply for her.”

“Thank you.”
 

She’d squeezed his knee and left him alone. A few minutes later, his dinner arrived, followed by Alessandro. Unlike their mother, Alessandro didn’t bother to knock. Nor did he speak for several long minutes.

“Mother told me the news.”

“I assumed as much.”

“She also told me to leave you alone.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I waited until she was around the corner. I decided that was long enough.”

“I’m surprised you waited that long.”
 

Alessandro had bucked authority since they were toddlers in the nursery. If the children were told not to touch the fireplace tools, Alessandro would stick out a finger the instant the nanny’s back was turned.
 

“I was attempting to be respectful,” he deadpanned.

Vittorio stood and crossed the room to the table where his soup and salad had been placed. With deliberate motions, he unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. Without meeting his brother’s eyes, he said, “This will be difficult.”

“I know she meant a great deal to you.”

“It will be difficult for more reasons than that.” A tough admission, but true.

“Yes.” Alessandro cleared his throat. “She is—was—well-loved in Spain. Beautiful beyond words with a career on the upswing. The gossip rags will want a story to explain her death.”

“I know.” On autopilot, he lifted his fork and took a bite of salad. “I’ll go to the funeral. If her family wishes for me to speak, I’ll do so in glowing terms.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course.” He could speak to a crowd in his sleep. Say all the right words, smile at all the right people, console those who needed consoling. He’d been trained from birth for exactly such situations.

A knock at the door interrupted his dinner. Assuming it was another of his siblings, he waved for Alessandro to answer it, but was surprised to see one of the palace guards. “Your Highness,” the man said, bowing deeply, “I was handed a letter about ten minutes ago at the front gate. Normally, I wouldn’t accept such a thing, but it came from Ms. Rivas’s personal assistant. She said that Ms. Rivas gave it to her yesterday and asked that it be delivered to you personally this evening.”

“Is she still here?”

“No, sir, she left as soon as I accepted the letter. Should I take it to security to have it scanned?”

“No, I’ll take it.” He thanked the guard for his discretion, then had another a forkful of salad before opening the envelope. Immediately, he recognized Carmella’s handwriting.

The words inside left him sickened. He read it again, slowly, trying to absorb the double blow of both Carmella’s death and her final missive.
 

“Dear God, Vittorio. What is it?”

“Nothing.” Hoping he appeared calm, he folded the letter in thirds and slid it back into the envelope. Setting it to the side, he took another bite of salad, then realized what was in his mouth a split second before he swallowed. Onion. Nasty, odiferous, crunchy onion. Bile rose in his throat. Who the hell put onion in his salad?
 

Rage, hot and potent, wound its way through him, tensing his muscles. He gripped the fork tighter and began flipping through the greens in search of the offending vegetable.
 

“Put down the damned fork and look at me.” Alessandro’s voice was low and dangerously accusatory. “We both know it’s not nothing.”

Chapter Five

It was the wrong thing to say.
Anything
was the wrong thing to say.
 

Without thinking, Vittorio sprang from his chair and hurled the fork against the wall a few inches from Alessandro’s head, then grabbed the bowl and launched it in the same direction, unleashing his fury with every ounce of force his shoulder and arm possessed. Shards of china sprayed outward, leaving a bomb blast of arugula, tomato, almonds, dressing, and the infernal diced onion clinging to the brocade wallpaper and splattered across the hardwood floor below. The base of the bowl somehow remained intact, swiveling on the floor in lopsided circles until it hit the leg of a chair. Still, it wasn’t enough. He kicked the back of his chair hard enough to send it sailing across the room, then slammed a fist into the heavy dining table, causing the thick, centuries-old top to shudder as if rocked by an earthquake.

Alessandro turned toward the carnage, ignoring his brother as he ran a finger down the wall, then inspected the battered vegetables on the floor at his feet. “Shall I order another? Perhaps one without onion?”

Vittorio quaked with a mix of anger and bone-deep grief, but the urge to smash the rest of the apartment’s contents was diffused by Alessandro’s attitude.

“I believe I’ve had my fill.”
 

“Just as well,” Alessandro flicked a stubborn piece of arugula from the wall. “Most of the staff have left for the evening. You won’t mind if I give this a quick wipe? Save having to call housekeeping?”

Vittorio balled his fists, took a deep breath, then strode to the sofa, settling into it with an uncharacteristic oomph. He stared at his brother and the stained wallpaper without seeing, lost in the haze of his wretched emotions.

“May I?” Alessandro asked some time later.

The quiet words snapped through Vittorio like an electric shock. He blinked, realizing that the wall was now clean—though damp—and that Alessandro held Carmella’s letter aloft. Knowing the contents would go no further, he nodded.
 

A tremor went through Alessandro’s jaw as he read, but he said nothing. When he finished, he set the letter on the coffee table and took the seat opposite Vittorio.

“What will you do?”

“Nothing.” Vittorio answered. He rested his elbows on his knees and tented his fingers to his forehead. There was nothing to do. Carmella’s decision rendered him powerless. “And yes, I truly mean
nothing
. Attend the funeral. Pay my respects. But I can’t change what happened.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“It will likely take place in Madrid. There will be cameras. And Carmella’s family.”

“I’ll go with you.”

He nodded, grateful for his brother’s rare show of support. “I shouldn’t have thrown the salad at you. I apologize.”

“You threw it at the wall. If you’d have really wanted to hit me, you would’ve.”
 

“Nevertheless, it was wrong of me.”

“Always so formal. Fine. You’re forgiven.” He expected Alessandro to say more about the letter’s contents, or to simply leave and give Vittorio time alone with his thoughts. Instead, the younger twin said, “When it’s over, go away. Get out of here.”

“Of course. That was my first thought.”
 

“Vittorio.” Alessandro leaned over the coffee table and grabbed Vittorio’s forearm, forcing Vittorio to meet his gaze. “I mean it. Go laze on a beach or climb a mountain. Get out of your own head. Stop being so damned responsible.”

The idea was ludicrous enough to bring a smile to Vittorio’s face, despite the ache in his chest. “Easy for you to say. I’m responsible because it’s my duty to be responsible, but everyone expects you to disappear for weeks at a time.”

“Exactly.
I
can disappear. What good is it for you to have the perfect body double if you can’t take advantage of it now and then? Go be me for awhile.” He released his grip on Vittorio’s arm and grinned. “I’ll cover for you.”
 

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.” Alessandro stood, spreading his arms wide. “Let’s do it. Hell, I can fool anyone into thinking I’m you.”

“Not our parents. Or our siblings.” He shook his head at the impossibility. “Not that I’d even consider—”

“From now until the funeral, I’ll be you. You be me. See if anyone outside the family notices. If not, then take off. No one should have to endure what’s happening to you, let alone endure it in the public eye.” He shot a pointed glance at the wallpaper. “Even you, dear brother, are not perfect, and the coming days will be harder. The media will pick apart your every utterance and facial expression. They’ll conjure up all kinds of interpretations in terms of your private life and your ability to govern.”

“I’ve always acted professionally, and I’ll do so now.”

“Until life hands you a bowl of onions at the wrong time.” Alessandro barreled on, despite the threatening glare Vittorio gave him. “I’ve never seen you lose your temper, even when we were little. Go. Live my life for a few weeks. Trust me, it’ll help you refocus. It’ll make you a better…well,
you
. And it’ll be better for the country in the long run if you get all that angst out of your system.”

“First, I don’t have
angst
—”
 

“Or a complete set of china.”

“—and second, it’s impossible.” He flattened his hands on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Even if I wanted to do it, you couldn’t be me for the funeral.”

Alessandro’s eyes glittered with the realization Vittorio was considering the possibility. Vittorio didn’t deny it. Despite its ridiculousness, the idea held its allure. Vittorio wasn’t one to lose his temper. His control was a point of pride, and the tidal wave of emotion that caused the breach in his control…he had to stem it. Somehow. Because Alessandro was right. If Vittorio stayed, he couldn’t simply lie low, not without raising questions, which meant he’d be faced with Carmella’s betrayal over and over again for the next few weeks. A betrayal so deep and personal only he and Alessandro—and God forbid, possibly a coroner in Madrid—knew of it.
 

How would he react when faced with endless inquiries from reporters, reporters who didn’t—and couldn’t—know the full extent of Vittorio’s anguish?

For the next few hours, they talked about the logistics. About the insanity of it. About the strain on Vittorio and ramifications for the country if they didn’t. How they’d convince their parents to go along with the plan. Then for two weeks before Carmella’s funeral, during the investigation into her suicide and the resulting media attention, Vittorio stayed out of sight as Alessandro took his place, acting the role of the polished crown prince. A minor snag occurred when Alessandro stood a hair too close to a French pop singer and shot her a flirtatious smile during a palace garden party, but thankfully Sophia noticed and interrupted before Alessandro’s slip was caught by a photographer.

Much as Vittorio loved women, he didn’t flirt with the devilish flair of his brother. Vittorio considered his approach to be more straightforward and refined. Appreciative of a woman, her intelligence, and her unique personality traits…not merely her figure or the ease with which he might get her into bed, which seemed to be Alessandro’s priorities.

But Alessandro handled the funeral itself with aplomb. No one knew that the brothers, sitting side by side in the rain, had switched places. That it was Alessandro, rather than Vittorio, who went to the podium and spoke the heartfelt words Vittorio had prepared for the emotional event.

Two days after the service, Vittorio left, a thick scarf over his face and wool cap covering his head as he took a late evening ferry to Italy, then an overnight train to Vienna where he boarded a flight to Montreal. No one was the wiser. After a few days in Montreal, he made his way to Buenos Aires, simply because it was the most interesting city he spotted on the airport’s departure list and there were seats available.

All thanks to onions.

During the first two weeks he considered going home more than once, certain he and Alessandro would be found out. He changed his accommodations nightly, keeping to less popular hotels and apartment rentals so he wouldn’t be noticed. Used different names, kept a disposable cell phone, and only answered calls from Alessandro. Grew out his facial hair and chose clothing that wouldn’t give away his wealth or status, ensuring he could blend into any crowd. Avoided restaurants and museums frequented by the glitterati or recommended by Italian-language travel guides, given that tourists of Italian and Sarcaccian heritage would be more likely to recognize him than those from other countries.

As the days lengthened into weeks, he grew more comfortable, not simply with the fact his disappearance had gone unnoticed, but in his own skin. He’d explored Buenos Aires, discovering what it meant to be completely free for the first time in his life. Reveled in the ability to walk anywhere he pleased, visit the city’s famous cemeteries, and eat ice cream from walk-up windows. He’d spent more than one afternoon on a rented bicycle, pedaling his way through parks and along trails. Taken public transportation for the sheer joy of it, looping through the city and observing people he’d never have interacted with in his day-to-day life as a wealthy crown prince. And not once had he needed to make a speech, present a head of state or local dignitary with a gift, or pose for a photograph. He had no schedule. No expectations. Not even an alarm clock.