Secret Italian Prince's Baby

“Never,” she hissed. “We’ll annul your marriage.”

“I’m the king,” he said. “Without a crown yet, but I get final say.”

The men in suits looked at each other. Evidently, he hadn’t clued in the people back home about our marriage.

“Your marriage changes everything,” one of the men said. “Perhaps we can turn it into a morganatic marriage? Your cousin will inherit when you die.” He looked me up and down. I felt as worthless as the dirt under his feet.

“She will be my queen,” Massimo insisted.

“Pietro,” his mother started.

“Massimo,” he countered. “Prince Pietro is the name that Father gave me. Massimo is the one that I chose.”

“Massimo,” one of the men in suits said.

“Uncle.” Massimo raised an eyebrow. “Your son will be happy to hear about my abdication if they cannot accept my commoner queen.”

I was probably cutting off the circulation in his hands at this point with my tight grip.

“Let’s not be hasty. Enrico has certain qualities that might not be ideal for our sovereign.”

“You mean his addictions to hookers and blow?” Massimo raised an eyebrow. “Ah, well, you can force him to renounce his claim to the throne if you wish. You simply haven’t done so before now since I haven’t had a child or been married.”

“You haven’t tried to advance the throne, that’s true.”

“That’s not true,” I said, my voice a little more shrill than I liked.

“You’re his wife,” his mother said, a touch of vinegar in her voice. “We’re referring to his refusal to marry and produce any children.”

I touched my stomach, a gesture that everyone noticed.

“You’re pregnant?” Massimo’s uncle asked.

I turned to Massimo and asked him with my eyes to respond.

“She is,” he said after a few seconds. Everyone gasped. “And we’re already married, so she potentially has my heir inside of her.”

His mother fell backwards into the arms of an elderly gentleman who looked like he needed help. Massimo quickly helped the gentleman gently place his mother on the floor.

“What’s the phone number for emergency services here?”

“We have a doctor on our staff,” Massimo said. He walked

to a phone hanging on the wall and dialed a number. He spoke in rapid Italian. I only caught the word “dottore.”

Within five minutes, a very slender man with white hair and a white coat knelt beside the current queen and soon-to-be dowager queen, if the nobles could accept Massimo as their new king and me as a queen. He put two fingers on her neck to check her pulse.

“She’s breathing,” he said in English, looking at me. “I think she’s just had a shock. I’ll take her to the infirmary.” He clapped his hands and two men came to lift the queen off of the floor and carry her away.

I was surprised that they had a doctor, but I guessed that it would be handy if I were going to stick around the palace. But whether or not I lived here would depend on the nobles who were still standing in the hallway.

“You’ve proven that you have no intention of being the king that your father was. So what do you want?”

Massimo stared at them. “Why don’t we sit down at a conference table?”

There was a mini-stampede that would’ve been funny if the moment hadn’t been so serious. Massimo sat down at the head of a giant oak table. It looked like it was at least 500 years old, maybe older. I would ask under other circumstances, but we were a little busy with other stuff now.

“What are your demands?” his uncle asked.