Page 112 of Kingmakers, Year Two

I ordered a midnight blue Brioni, along with calfskin loafers, a crisp white dress shirt, and opal cufflinks. The concierge also provided an array of toiletries on the marble countertop of the sumptuous bathroom.

I rinse the sea salt from my skin, shave, dress, and then style my hair, tucking a silk pocket square into my jacket.

The man looking back at me in the mirror seems ten years older, infinitely confident, anticipating the night to come. The small part of me still squirming inside tries to voice an objection, and I crush it down ruthlessly. There’s no room for fear or nervousness. One thing I know for certain: no man on this planet ever accomplished a goddamn thing without believing he could.

I check my watch. 12:50. Ten minutes to go.

I seat myself at the opulent boardroom table, the laptop closed and quiet, the only item on the table. I take the head seat, which may offend some of my visitors, but will set the appropriate tone for the evening.

Three minutes later, the concierge buzzes:

“Your first guest is here.”

“Send him up,” I say.

The door to the suite is unlocked so Alvaro Romero can walk right in. He strides in, shoulders stiff, jaw already tight, eyes bright with fury. He chooses the seat at the other end of the table, directly opposite me, and I suppress a smile because that’s exactly where I want him. He’s refusing to cede the position of power—I prefer to have him at the end where his objections will be distant.

“You have a lot of nerve summoning me here, boy,” he snarls, by way of a greeting.

And yet, I notice that he dressed just as carefully as I did. Which means he’s not uninterested in what I have to say. He just wants to vent a little spleen first.

His thick gray hair is freshly combed, and he’s as neatly attired as Zoe herself. Other than that, I don’t see much of his daughter in him. He’s coarse-featured and weak-chinned, whereas Zoe radiates beauty and confidence.

“Thank you for making the journey,” I say. “As you know, I’m a little restricted in how far I can travel at the moment.”

“Yes . . . I wonder how your Chancellor would like to hear that you’ve taken a field trip to Dubrovnik. I could solve my problem with one phone call.”

“I’m sure I’d be expelled,” I say, calmly. “I don’t think that would solve your problem, however.”

Romero leans across the broad expanse of shining table, his dark eyes blazing. “I don’t know where you get the gall to speak two words to me, when you’ve been defiling my daughter in defiance of your own school contract and her marriage agreement. I ought to have you castrated, boy.”

That’s the second time he’s called me “boy.” I’d like to shove the pejorative back down his throat, but I tuck it away in a mental file of grievances, so I can stick it to him later if I want to. For now, I need to focus.

“Mr. Romero,” I say, politely, “Though we haven’t met in person, I feel that I have some sense of you all the same. Your daughter Zoe is brilliant, disciplined, deeply loyal. I know those characteristics must have come from her parents.”

He narrows his eyes at me, not liking my familiarity with his daughter, but influenced by the compliment all the same.

“I think you’re a man of honor. A man who wants to uphold his agreements. Also a man intelligent enough to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself.”

“I have an opportunity in place,” he says, coldly.

“Yes, but it comes at a cost. The cost is your daughter. I don’t expect you to bend to sentiment . . . but you cannot be unaware of Rocco Prince’s nature.”

Romero’s heavy brows sink so low that his eyes become mere slits underneath.

“This younger generation,” he hisses. “You’re soft.Romantic.”He utters it like a curse. “Daughters are not sons. Your parents may allow you to play these games. My daughters will obey.”

I hear the venom in his voice. This is a touchy point for him. His pride is hung here, and his anger at Zoe for the sin of being born a girl.

Dieter and Gisela Prince walk into the room.

Romero startles, because I didn’t inform him that his intended in-laws would be attending this meeting.

I’m likewise surprised. I was only expecting Mr. Prince, not his wife.

They seat themselves on my left side, a little closer to me than to Romero, which I think is a good sign.

Dieter Prince is in a little better mood than Romero. He examines me with cold blue eyes not unlike Rocco’s. His black mustache conceals the expression of his lips.

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