Page 19 of Royally Roma
A voice droned in the background. A familiar voice. A chill made its way up Niccolo’s spine when he realized it belonged to Peter Hunt, the BBC’s royal correspondent. “His Royal Highness Niccolo La Torre is due to arrive at the Roman Auto Works at any moment. As you can see, a crowd has gathered in anticipation of the crown prince’s arrival...”
Brilliant. Just brilliant. He was on the news. Correction—hewasthe news.
“Mano?” Julia said. “Mano? Hello?”
It took him a moment to realize she was addressing him, distracted as he was by the broadcast. The fact that he was having trouble remembering that his name was supposed to be Mano wasn’t helping matters.
He forced a smile and tore his gaze from the television. Peter Hunt droned on in the background. “No word has been given as to whether or not Prince Niccolo will be making a statement regarding the scandal in which his younger brother Prince Cassian is currently embroiled. But we wait in anticipation of the man who has become the face of the monarchy.”
The face of the monarchy.
The hooded poncho suddenly seemed insufficient. He longed for a bag to place over his head. “My apologies, Julia. I’m afraid I was, ah, preoccupied for a moment.”
Julia waved a hand toward Gio, whom Niccolo liked even less since he’d spotted the television on his desk. “Gio was just asking where you’re from, and I realized I didn’t know.”
“Where I’m from?” Niccolo echoed. Once again, he could see James Bond shaking his head in judgmental dismay. “The Mediterranean. Small town. You likely haven’t heard of it.”
Gio glanced impassively at him before he resumed staring at Julia. His gaze crept downward, toward her chest, and Niccolo had to suppress the urge to rip off his precious poncho and cover her with it. Either that or knock Gio’s head clear off his body.
“Try me.” Julia gave him a tight smile. “I might be smarter than you think I am.”
Impossible. He had a feeling Julia Costa was one sharp cookie. Too sharp.
He struggled to come up with the most obscure town he could name. All the while Peter Hunt’s crisp voice droned in the background, describing Niccolo’s schedule in detail as the camera panned the sea of paparazzi assembled outside the factory. Watching the mob scene, Niccolo felt alternately guilty and vastly relieved. Then the live shot from the Auto Works was replaced with a large photo...of himself. His name and title flashed beneath the image.
Niccolo La Torre, Crown Prince of Lazaretto.
Niccolo coughed—loudly—and pulled his hood farther down over his forehead.
Julia peered at him beneath his green plastic shield. “Mano, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just something in my throat.” He coughed again, lest she turn her attention back to Gio and his godforsaken television.
“Do you need some water?”
Yes. A glass of water...and perhaps a new face.“Water would be nice. Thank you.”
“All right. Let’s go on in and I’ll grab you a bottle from my backpack.” She flashed Gio a quick wave. “See you, Gio. Don’t work too hard.”
Gio, apparently taking her advice to heart, turned back to his television, where Niccolo’s image had been replaced with a commercial for mouthwash. Thank God for halitosis.
He waved them through with a dismissive flip of his wrist. Apparently, the admission fee was indeed included with the cost of the tour. The tour that someone else—the mythical Mr. Romano who Niccolo assumed was a registered guest at the Hotel de Russie—had already paid for.
Bits of the earlier exchange with Julia came back to him.
At my disposal, are you?
So long as you’re footing the bill, I am.
Niccolo considered this exchange as he followed her to a low stone wall, where she commenced digging through her backpack for his bottle of water. The tickets, the water, the tour itself...these things weren’t free. And seeing as Mr. Romano wasn’t the one riding around on the back of Julia’s Vespa, he wouldn’t be keen on picking up the tab.
It’s only money, he told himself.
Money had never been a problem. And it wouldn’t be now. At the end of the day, he would fix this. Somehow. He was a prince, after all.
It’s only money.
He had far more important things to worry about at the moment than a few euros, the most pressing being the phone buzzing away in his pocket.
