Page 70 of Prince

“Ew.I would never shoot an animal I didn’t intend to eat.”

“Monaco used live homing pigeons for years after everyone else had gone to clay pigeons because it was decadent and callously elite to kill live birds for fun, sort of like trophy-hunting endangered animals on a game ranch. It’s a blood sport. The wealthy like blood sports.”

Dree’s lip lifted. “That’s disgusting.”

Maxence couldn’t seem to shut up. “Live birds were considered more sporting. Clay disks sail in a trajectory preordained by physics. Birds fly erratically and have free will. You have to be a better shot to hit a bird.”

“That is gross.”

Maxence surveyed the harbor, the pristine water crammed with the ships and yachts of the uberwealthy, the ones who engaged in blood sports to whet their appetite for domination. “It seems that I’m just another Monte Carlo homing pigeon who returns to the traps on the rooftop. It calls me back. I can’t stay away.”

And yet, he was a Grimaldi, so he was also the hunter.

The sun had drifted westward, and it was time to return to the palace.

Maxence turned back to the terrace and the gardens behind the casino where tourists milled, gawking and pointing.

Sunlight showered the plants and people, shining and glinting on the people’s vibrant afternoon clothes as they strolled along the Riviera next to the Mediterranean Sea.

Except for one man.

He wore a dark gray boxy suit, and the sunshine glinted on the silver in his close-cropped hair.

Quentin Sault stared straight at Maxence, touched his ear and said something, and then faded into the crowd like a puff of pale smoke.

Chapter Nineteen

Norberta von und Lichtenstein

Maxence

The cool days accumulated into weeks. The calendar on Max’s phone told him where to go every minute of the day.

Maxence wished Dree was at his side for that evening’s cocktail party, but the electors on the Crown Council would look askance at him if he escorted an admin to a royal soirée.

The event had been “sponsored” by a large wealth management firm. Their sizeable contribution to Monaco’s coffers had purchased pictures with Monaco’s royal family standing on their red carpet in front of a large screen with their logo embossed on it. The firm would also pay a percentage of their annual gross revenue into Monaco’s treasury the next year.

Pierre had enjoyed photo ops and networking opportunities like this one. If he hadn’t committed suicide, Monaco’s treasury would have been flush with cash from his celebrity.

Prince Rainier IV had detested these events. After his wife had died tragically young, his sisters and nieces had pitched in to keep him company and make these galas tolerable for him.

Uncle Rainier had been a good man, Maxence mused. He’d been grumpy at events like this to the point of turning it into a joke, but he’d left Monaco in better shape than he’d found it, both financially and as a society.

Marie-Therese had done more than her fair share of hanging on her uncle’s elbow at events like this one, claiming the events also benefitted her social media role. She’d halfway become the face of Monaco because paparazzi pics of royal bachelorettes sell magazines and invite clicks.

But not as well as those of single, royal bachelors, Max noticed.

He was walking between velvet ropes on the red carpet, approaching the photo-op area.

Camera flashes became a wall of light rushing at him. He squinted and smiled with one hand tucked in the pocket of his new Tom Ford tuxedo trousers.

The light became a tsunami cresting over him until he walked inside the door.

Darkness.

Maxence’s breath caught in his throat. He froze.

His feet contained in his rigid dress shoes, the left one laced slightly tighter than the right. The soles of his feet bearing his weight and planted on the firm floor. The crook of his thumb pressing on the seam of his pocket. His silk tie around his collar and neck. Cool air settling on his cheekbones. Over a hundred voices chattering and laughing, dissonant strings grinding in the moist air. Frying meat, spilled alcohol, women’s perfume, his fresh-wood cologne, and the sweat of human animals herded tightly together.