By Royal Decree. Оливия Гейтс

men’s voices in the living room. Many men. She followed the voices.

      She clutched her robe around her when she saw how many guys there actually were. Giorgio glanced up at her from an intense photo conversation and lifted his finger in a “wait a minute” gesture.

      She turned to the beefy guy standing next to her. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

      He turned his head to stare at her with blank brown eyes but didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t speak English, or maybe he wasn’t paid to speak.

      She retreated into the bedroom and dressed hastily in a button-up white blouse and denim capri pants, slipping her feet into plain white sneakers. The sexpot look was inappropriate for a serious situation.

      She returned to the living room and sat in the floral armchair. Giorgio continued speaking in rapid Italian on the phone, gesturing emphatically. She understood that he was asking about the safety of his sister and grandmother and started to get alarmed.

      For once, though, she kept quiet, realizing that she would only at best be a distraction and at worst a nuisance if she pestered him in the middle of his conversation.

      He paused to bark orders at Paolo, who pulled out his own phone and made a call as well.

      Renata forced herself to stay calm—until the night exploded with noise. A two-hundred-fifty-pound man was pulling her to the ground and covering her with his bulk.

      The clattering noise continued in bursts for several seconds. Was some nutjob shooting at Giorgio? They still assassinated princes and prime ministers. She pushed at her own bodyguard but it was as futile as pushing on the wall. She yelled Giorgio’s name but the other men were drowning her out as they called information to each other.

      Renata slowed her breaths. Finally the noise stopped and she thought Paolo shouted something. Her bodyguard heaved a sigh of relief and eased off her. “Petardi,” he said. “What?”

      “Like American Fourth July. Pop, pop, pop.” He imitated a string of fireworks.

      “Oh, firecrackers.” She started to sit up, but he pulled her back down and shook his shaved head. “Well, if we’re going to get horizontal together, I should atleast know your name.” It was a feeble attempt, but at least it gave her something to think about besides the adrenaline shakes starting up.

      He gave her a puzzled look.

      “Never mind.”

      “Okay!” Paolo shouted. “All clear!”

      Renata sat up this time and spotted Giorgio across the room. His bodyguards had dumped over the couch and coffee table, sandwiching him between two of them as well as the furniture. He sat up looking mussed but not particularly upset. This must have happened before—maybe even with real bullets instead of firecrackers.

      “You okay, Renata?” he called.

      “Fine.” She lifted a hand to wave at him, and her shakes made it wave on its own. She quickly dropped it.

      He looked concerned but lifted his phone again. “Pronto? Pronto? Si, petardi.” He laughed about how firecrackers could send them all into a state of siege.

      Renata wasn’t. She didn’t think she could stand yet. She scooted so her back rested against the bottom of the chair and pulled her knees up.

      Giorgio talked on the phone for another minute and then passed it to Paolo.

      Giorgio came over to her. “Are you okay? Giuseppe there is a pretty big guy so I hope he didn’t hurt you when he pulled you down.” He extended a hand. “Come here.”

      She took his hand and only wobbled a bit getting to her feet. He guided her to the couch, which was back on its feet as well.

      “Giorgio.” Her voice quivered a bit. “Giorgio, what is going on?”

      He sighed and gestured at the front windows. “That was firecrackers. Probably the local football team won a match, or someone got married, or just teenagers fooling around.”

      “You have eight huge guys standing in the living room on the remote chance firecrackers go off and they need to hurl you to the floor?”

      “No, of course not. These men are the rest of Paolo’s team. They’ve been staying nearby in case of incident.”

      “What incident brought them all out here? Is your family all right?”

      “Yes, and thank you for asking.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back. He kept hold of it, his warmth starting to ease her chills. “But there was a bomb threat at home. At the palazzo.”

      “A bomb threat? Where your grandmother lives?”

      Giorgio nodded. “Of course the anti-terrorism squad was deployed immediately with the bomb-sniffing dogs. They did not find anything. But when one member of the royal family is threatened, it is standard protocol to deploy extra protection to the other members in case of muliple points of attack.”

      “So Stefania has her own team swarming her in New York.”

      He gave her a sad smile. “Yes, this doesn’t happen often, but this is not the first time. My grandmother is probably more annoyed than frightened. She has seen Vinciguerra through worse.”

      “Worse than bomb threats?”

      “She was a girl there during World War II, and during my grandfather’s reign many different factions wanted control of the country. We have a natural deep-water port and the original palazzo is a heavily fortified citadel. Violence was not rare.”

      “Oh.” Renata had imagined his country as sort of an Italianate theme park, untouched by darkness or pain. However, one glance at the serious men around her told her that violence was not part of the past. “Who called in the bomb threat?”

      Giorgio snapped his fingers and Paolo immediately came to his side. Renata blinked. She didn’t think she’d like Giorgio snapping his fingers at her, but the bodyguard wasn’t offended by the princely gesture. “Paolo, who did this?”

      Paolo replied at length. Giorgio signed at the end of his explanation and turned to Renata. “He says the Vinciguerran police have arrested a local group with anarchist affiliations. Their landlady overheard part of their phone call and put two and two together. They had been acting strangely—even more strangely than usual—the past couple days.”

      “Anarchists?”

      He smiled, which startled her. “One advantage of dealing with anarchists is that they’re pretty disorganized. No one is in charge, after all.”

      “Giorgio!” His gallows humor was disconcerting.

      “Sorry, sorry.” He put his arm around her. “I know you aren’t used to this. We try our best to stay safe, but we have to live our lives without fear.”

      “You’re not scared?” Renata was terrified, disorganized would-be terrorists or not.

      He shrugged. “Not for myself, but for Stefania, my grandmother. And you.”

      “Me?”

      “Of course.” He kissed her forehead. “I am responsible for your safety. Anyone who tries to harm you will have to come through me.”

      “And Paolo and the rest of his guys.”

      “That goes without saying.” His eyes filled with pride as he surveyed his team. “They’d do anything to protect us, and I hope to God they never need to.”

      Renata shivered. Assassination attempts and squads of bodyguards were something from the nightly newscast, not something she’d ever expected to experience. “What do we do now, Giorgio?” she whispered. She meant it as a rhetorical question, but he took her literally.

      “Pour us each a glass of wine. Your nerves don’t need any caffeine.” His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Pronto. Si.” He listened and gave