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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

NICO

T ell me a story,” he said.

Of all the things Nico had been imagining …

This.

Was not one of them.

“My grandmother always told me a story when I wasn’t feeling well.”

She frowned. “You were feeling well enough to eat half a box of chocolates.”

“Probably why I’m not feeling good now.” He grinned. “But even if I was feeling okay, she would tell me a story before I went to sleep. And if she wasn’t around to do it, my mother or one of my aunts would.”

Nico chuckled. “It sounds like you grew up in a Fellini film.”

He grinned. “Like in Eight and a Half .”

Exactly , thought Nico. A beautiful boy with a harem of women fawning over him.

“And did they call you emir?” she asked, her tone sardonic.

His eyes flashed as he shook his head. “The little prince.”

That explains a lot.

“I can’t think of a story,” she said, trying to pull her hand away.

He placed his other hand over hers, holding on with both hands. “Make one up. I know you can. I heard you do it with my nieces.”

Her brow furrowed.

How is it possible to look pleading and arrogant at the same time?

Sighing, she gazed out the window opposite them.

The trees were black set against a deep and dark purple sky.

Her eyes drifted out beyond the walls of the garden below, beyond the racetrack, even beyond the cities of Monza, Milan, and Lake Como, flying north until she reached the Italian Alps.

It was there her story would take place.

Still gazing out the window, she began.

“Once upon a time …”

She paused, glancing down at his hands clasped over hers.

He let go, jumped onto the bed, and shut his eyes.

Charles is never going to believe this. I’m seeing it with my own eyes, and I don’t believe it.

“Once upon a time, at the foot of Mount Bianco, there was a kingdom, very remote and hidden deep within a circle of jagged stone and sharp cliffs. It was quiet there, and the people were left to themselves. Because the journey there was both difficult and dangerous, there were never any visitors.

“There in the kingdom, life was peaceful, and the people were happy. They were ruled by a benevolent king and queen, who had only one son—the little prince. The little prince was beloved by all who saw him. He was kind and generous.”

“And handsome,” he interjected.

“No,” she replied, “not handsome.”

His eyes flew open. “He wasn’t handsome?”

“He was not. But his dearest friend was. They had grown up together as boys, and the little prince thought of the boy as a brother. He knew he could always rely on him for wise counsel. He was so beloved that when he grew up to be a man, he was knighted by the king and queen.”

Rocco narrowed his eyes. “What is the name of this knight?”

Nico had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Dario.”

Rocco made a face. “Okay, so he was a pretty knight.”

“Indeed.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“As I said, Knight Dario was very handsome. All the ladies of the court pined for him, longing for him to cast even one glance their way. He was known far and wide as the handsomest, prettiest knight who had ever lived.”

Rocco’s eyes flew open. “Is this going to be a story about the pretty knight or the little prince?”

Nico folded her arms and waited. Finally, he huffed and shut his eyes.

“But an astute eye might get tired of looking at handsome Knight Dario because his face was always the same, unlike the little prince’s, which was always changing. One could never grow tired of looking at his face. Though not pretty like Knight Dario’s, it was far more interesting.”

She looked down to see him with one eye open, grinning. He quickly shut it when she caught him.

“All the women of the court fawned over the little prince. They were eager to bathe him and feed him when he was a baby; they combed his hair and dressed him. Even when he grew up to be a young man, that never changed.”

“Even as a man?” Rocco said, grabbing a pillow. “This story is getting interesting.”

Nico chuckled.

“They never tired in their efforts to make the little prince happy. They cooked him whatever he fancied, always trying to make the baby, the boy, and finally the young man happy. For they had never seen a boy more wonderful than he. Even though the king was generally known to be wonderful himself, they thought his son, the little prince, had surpassed him.”

“It’s good to be the prince,” Rocco said.

“Indeed. Everyone who looked upon him thought he had sprung from the mountain itself. For in his face and body and character he carried the mountain with him.

“He had a face that looked as though it had been carved from stone. His cheekbones formed a bold precipice on which to hang his flesh. The descent from there to the hard rock that was his jaw was a perilous one. There was nothing subtle about him except for his eyes.”

Nico’s eyes drifted from the window down to Rocco’s face.

Her breath shuddered in her rib cage as she saw him looking up at her. But he quickly shut his eyes when her gaze met his.

She waited a moment before she continued.

“While his face and body told the story of the mountain, his eyes told another story, a secret he kept hidden: his desire to see what lay beyond it. It would have pained the king and queen as well as the people of the kingdom to know this, so he kept it to himself. And because it was a secret”—Nico cast a sidelong glance at Rocco—“whenever he spoke of it, it was always in a whisper and only to himself.

“No one had ever ventured outside the kingdom. Why would they? They had everything they’d ever need and want. They were ruled by a magnanimous king and queen, and when they were gone, they knew the little prince would be as generous and kind to them as his father and mother had been.

“But the little prince had this restless desire.

It was a mystery to him where it had come from, and because no one ever spoke of such a thing, he thought this desire must be a sin.

The desire made him anxious. It weighed upon him.

It was as though he had shackles around his ankles, and with every passing day those shackles became heavier because with every passing hour another massive link had been bound to the chain and thus to him—so that the chain of that desire became a heavy burden indeed.

“He discovered that the only way to release those shackles—even if only for a moment—was to race. And so he did. And no matter with whom he raced, he was always the fastest. Even pretty Knight Dario couldn’t beat him.

For Dario was too pretty for his own good.

Many a lady would faint at the sight of him as he ran past them, and being the gallant knight he was, he could not help but stop to revive them.

And since reviving them required a kiss, it was not unusual for the lady to require much kissing before she came to. ”

Rocco laughed.

“But after a while, the little prince began to slow down. He was still the fastest in all the land, but not as fast as he once was. They soon discovered it was because of his head, which had begun to grow in size and become quite heavy. At first, the queen thought it was because of his diet, then they thought perhaps it was the heat that was making his head swell.”

Rocco’s eyes popped open. “Is this going to have a happy ending?”

Nico hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He sat up. “Well it’s a fairy tale, isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You began with Once upon a time . That means it’s a fairy tale. So, it has to have a happy ending.”

“Is that some kind of law?”

“I think it is. In fact, I’m sure it is. I think I read it somewhere. I just can’t remember where.”

Nico sputtered as a laugh escaped her lips. But she quickly stopped when she saw the look on his face.

He looked almost serious.

“Not all fairy tales have happy endings,” she said.

“Name one that doesn’t.”

Nico thought a moment. “Snow White.”

“What do you mean? The prince revives Snow White with a kiss, and he takes her to the castle where they live happily ever after. The end.”

“But that isn’t the end. The queen is punished. They put shoes made of iron in the fire, and she’s forced to wear them and dance until she drops dead. So, it’s not a happy ending for the queen.”

Just then the bells from the cathedral began to ring.

“It’s midnight,” he said.

“Time for you to go to sleep,” she said, taking an intentionally light tone.

“What about the story? You didn’t finish.”

“I guess you’ll just have to be left in suspense.” She turned toward the door. “If you even remember it,” she muttered, not intending for him to hear.

“I’ll remember,” he said. “By the way, I lied tonight when we were playing that drinking game.”

“Good night,” she said, hurrying out of the bedroom.

She’d lied too, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Especially not to him.

Whatever he’d lied about, it wasn’t what she’d lied about.

And then she recalled what Carolyn Wickham had said as she sat down.

Bottoms up, darling.

She’d said it with such confidence. Like she knew. The same way Celeste had known about Dario. But Rocco didn’t drink.

She realized then that they had lied about the same thing—having a sexual dream about someone sitting at that table.

For Rocco, that someone was Carolyn Wickham. But for Nico, that someone had been him.