Page 4 of Royally Roma
“Shall we go over today’s schedule of events now, sir?” Piero asked, nodding at the ubiquitous iPad in his hands.
Do I have a choice?
“Fine.” He took another healthy sip of his drink.
“Your driver will arrive in...” Piero glanced at his watch and looked back up. “...precisely fifteen minutes. You’re due at the Roman Auto Works at nine o’clock.”
“The Roman Auto Works.” Niccolo frowned. “What am I to do while I’m there?”
“You’ll be given a car. A prototype of their new convertible.”
Niccolo’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
Piero shook his head. “You won’t accept it, obviously.”
“Of course I won’t.” Another swig, and miraculously the glass was drained. Already. A full one appeared in its place the moment he set it down on the café table. Stealthy bartenders were one of the many advantages of five-star hotels.
“Ahem.” Peiro shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “After the Auto Works, you’ll go directly to an organic garden, where you’ll be given a tree.”
“A tree?” Niccolo echoed.
Piero’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, a tree. Which you will accept.”
“Naturally. Because a tree is just what I need to drag around on the rest of this pleasure cruise.” Niccolo rolled his eyes.
Piero regarded Niccolo with concern. He wasn’t normally like this. He’d never made it a practice to comment on the schedule. On a typical morning, he simply listened and nodded while he ate something healthy like an egg-white omelet.
But this morning wasn’t exactly typical, was it?
He knew what was coming. The Hotel de Russie was a safe haven, a Garden of Eden of sorts. The piazza was carved into a hillside, completely walled in on one side by lush greenery. The scent of lemons swirled in the air, and especially now, in the morning solitude, he could almost believe he was in paradise.
But Niccolo had been down this road before. He knew that the moment he stepped out the front door and onto the cobblestone streets, he’d be mobbed by a crowd of paparazzi. The odd reporter or two might sneak their way into the bar during the aperitivo hour, but generally the Hotel de Russie kept the press at arm’s distance. Once he left this five-star shelter, they’d shadow his every move, waiting for him to say something—anything—about Cassian and his water nymphs. And whatever he said, it wouldn’t be enough. It never was. They’d want more. They always did. And whatever he didn’t give them, they would take. And take. And take.
Just as they’d taken from his mother.
The familiar black fury of yesterday swirled in his veins, and he took another drink. Thank God this tour was nearly over. He’d been to eight European capitals in twelve days. London, Dublin, Amsterdam, Budapest, Monaco, Paris, Athens...and now Rome. Or was this Moscow?
A waiter drifted toward him and placed yet another Bloody Mary on the table. “Buongiorno, Vostra Altezza Reale.”
Good morning, Your Royal Highness. Italian. So yes, he was definitely in Italy. Whose idea was it to put a Russian hotel in the middle of Rome? It was downright confusing, given his travel schedule. At least the end was in sight. This time tomorrow, he’d be back at the palace. Lazaretto, nestled right between Monaco and Cannes. Cool breezes blowing off the Mediterranean Sea, sunsets that contained more colors than a crayon box. His own bed.
“Grazie.” He reached for the more probable source of his disorientation and took another gulp. Things were beginning to get a bit fuzzy. Perhaps it was a good thing he wouldn’t be driving away from the Auto Works in that experimental convertible after all.
“Shall we continue, sir?” Piero asked.
Niccolo frowned into his drink. “What kind of tree?”
“Pardon, sir?”
He looked up. “What kind of tree are they giving me? A fruit tree, like lemon? Or something more exotic? An umbrella pine maybe? A quintessentially Roman tree.”
Piero consulted his tablet. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
Niccolo shrugged. “Go on, then. Where am I toting the tree? What comes next?”
“At ten fifty-five you’re expected at an orphanage in Prati, a neighborhood across the river, just north of the Vatican City. At eleven forty-five you’re scheduled to meet with members of the press.”
His hand tightened around his cocktail glass. The press.Miserable excuses for human beings.
