Virgin (Vitali's Legacy)

Angelo was surprised Mr. Brown seemed to be willing to choose a peaceful option, but the reason for that soon became clear as Mr. Brown continued to spill his little beige heart out.

“It has not escaped our attention that Digby Spencer and Willow Spencer are both dead. These are two assets we spent decades cultivating only for both of them to end up very much perished in a matter of months.”

Everybody assumed Willow was dead, a remarkable convenience.

“Now, Matilda Braybrooke has surfaced with an infant in tow and is marrying the Prince of Liechtenstein. You, Mr. Vitali, have had more influence on European politics in the last three months than my group has in the past three decades. It was a masterstroke and I applaud you.”

This was not the time to say that absolutely none of it had been planned besides the initial extraction of Matilda Braybrooke.

“In all the great many eons we have been undertaking our projects, we have never once managed to plant our own seed in a royal house.”

“I doubt that, and I doubt I know what you mean.”

“Your son is to become an adoptive prince. This means the offspring of Matilda Braybrooke and Angelo Vitali have been placed firmly in our domain. Even a relatively small kingdom is of interest when it comes to bloodlines and inheritance.”

It was disconcerting and disorienting to be referenced in the third person to his face, but the implied threat, which had not been directly made, was clear.

Angelo gave a brief shrug.

“Are we to believe you are not attached to your infant?”

“I have never met that child,” Angelo said.

“I see. Well, Mr. Vitali. Shall we call a truce? You seem to be keeping our asset nice and safe and largely under control. We will ensure that your seed enjoys a long and happy life if you are able to maintain confidentiality.”

“I don’t need to be threatened to do what makes sense.”

“Of course you don’t, Mr. Vitali. You are, beyond a doubt, one of the more fascinating people we have interacted with of late. A true original is rare in this world, and yet you are undeniably original..”

“Mr. Brown, your flattery will get you everywhere,” Angelo purred. He knew very well that the man at the other end of the line was a calculating, cold-blooded monster of intergenerational proportions. But he also believed there was shared respect and understanding of their mutual capacities for almost unending cruelty.

“We appear to have an agreement and an understanding. We are going to make excellent if uneasy allies.”

“Allies?”

“A man of your talents must either be destroyed or brought into the fold. I know you are too independent to ever join our Organization. But I believe you are intelligent enough to see how greatly we might enhance one another’s endeavors. So I would like to offer an olive branch.”

“And what might that entail?”

“You have moved abode fifteen times in the past three years. You are practically a gypsy, a state of affairs which cannot be satisfactory. There is a small castle in a distant European principality which I believe would serve very well as a fortress for your family. I am willing to gift you the title to the castle, so you may live as the king you would have been if only the world had not changed and done away with such things.”

Angelo ignored the offer of a castle. That was a red herring, a shiny, sparkly distraction from what was really on the table.

“So you want to know where Gemma is at all times, where the boy you believe to be my son is, and where we live. You want my household to be under your control.

“Make no mistake, Mr. Vitali. We are in the business of control. We have exerted influence over royal houses all the way back to the Plantagenets. Your motley crew of misfits is barely a speck on our radar.”

“You don’t waste time courting specks. You wipe them away.”

Mr. Brown allowed himself the smallest smirk of amusement. “I do not make this offer with small-minded notions of control, Mr. Vitali. I make this offer, as I mentioned previously, for the sake of building an alliance. Neither one of us can spare the resources or invest the energy into pointless hostilities.”

He had a point.

Chapter 14

“We’re moving to Transylvania? What the fuck are we going to do in Transylvania? I don’t speak Transylvanian.” Bobby cursed and somehow managed to pronounce Transylvania incorrectly in three different ways in one sentence.

“I don’t think the language is called Transylvanian…” Mark murmured.

“I don’t give a fuck if it's called Titsylvanian,” Bobby growled. “I hate foreign countries. I’m American.”

“You’re Polish,” Angelo reminded him.

“Romanian,” Mark interjected. “They speak Romanian. And we will be much closer to Tilly, should she need us for any reason,” he said with more casualness in his tone than he likely felt.