I suppose the Cirillos want him to carry on their name and legacy at the school, even if they’re barely mafia at all in real life. They were a founding family, after all. One of only seven still surviving. They must look at the wealth and status of the Hugos and think that’s where they could have been . . . perhaps where they should be . . .
“I understand family demands,” I tell him. “I’m an Heir, remember? I’m supposed to take over for my father in Chicago. But I’m not doing it. Let my brother take his place, or my sister. I’m making my own way. You can do that, you know. You don’t have to do what they ask.”
“Maybe not in your case,” Ares replies. “My family isn’t yours.”
I try to draw him out again as the boat speeds on, but apparently Ares has decided that’s enough conversation.
We pull up to the marina in Dubrovnik. Ares throws the ropes down, planning to disembark with me, but I tell him, “Stay here with the boat.”
“Don’t you want me to come in with you?” he asks, glancing in the direction of the Oasis hotel.
“Nah,” I shake my head. “They’ll either take the deal or they won’t.”
“You should have someone there backing you up,” Ares says, gripping the rope tightly in his hands.
“I appreciate it man, but I’m outnumbered either way. Stay here, and if I’m not back in three hours, go back to Kingmakers on your own. Can’t have you getting expelled on my account.”
Ares frowns, but stays onboard.
I walk up the dimly-lit streets of Old Town on my own, laptop tucked under my arm. Golden lamps burn all along the sea wall. The red-roofed buildings glow as if each one is a burning furnace.
I booked the presidential suite in the Oasis, which encompasses the entire top floor and includes its own private concierge. That alone cost me $20,000 of my bankroll, but it’s a drop in the ocean compared to what I’ve spent. I’ve cleaned out the whole fund, and I don’t regret a penny of it, not for a minute. I only hope it works.
The concierge greets me, looking surprised when I give him my name. It’s the school uniform—I’m sure he expected someone older.
“Right this way, Sir,” he says. “I have your suit ready.”
He takes me up to the top floor, to the four-room suite. I survey the private boardroom, the full bar, and wide-open glass doors leading out to the rooftop deck. The sea breeze blows in. I could probably see Ares from here, if the boat wasn’t stealth-painted.
My clothes are indeed laid out on the bed as the concierge promised.
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.
“My helicopter is waiting,” he says, briskly. “I only intend to stay an hour. So please explain to me why I shouldn’t gut you here and now for trying to steal my son’s bride.”