Chapter 22 – Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
“Iguess the holiday is over,” I muse with a sigh as we pull into the palace to find Emily and Javier standing outside to greet us. “Why does this seem to be our new way of ending our holidays?”
“Cursed,” is all Bellamy says, and I can’t help the bark of a laugh that climbs up the back of my throat. Rowan, too, practically chokes on his tongue.
“Oh yeah? Now you’re a believer?” I challenge, my eyebrows at my hairline.
She gives me a cheeky grin and a wink. “Nope. It’s just another day in the life of being the king of Messalina.”
“So it seems.” I kiss her and we all pile out of the SUVs.
“Go fix the country,” she tells me. “I’ll help Margarite whip up something for lunch for everyone.”
“You’re the queen. You don’t have to do that.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I like to. Don’t take away all my fun.”
Rowan and Javier start talking as they head inside. I’d like nothing more than to join them, but Emily intercepts me.
“Sir, the prime minister is here. He is waiting for you in the gold parlor.”
I grumble under my breath. “How long has he been here?”
“Not long,” she tells me. “But I believe he feels a strike so soon after his election doesn’t speak well for him as a leader.”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t. Then again, he is only half the leader of Messalina, so I won’t let him get into too much trouble.”
She gives me a wry grin. “Coffee?”
“God, yes. Please.”
I head into the palace and wind my way across the first floor to what has been termed the gold parlor, simply because most of the furnishings, along with the wallpaper, are, well, gold in color.
It’s one of my least favorite rooms here, but it is where a lot of state business is conducted, and it’s been this way since my great-great-grandfather’s reign.
“Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fernando says, standing and bowing when I enter the room. “I trust you enjoyed your time away?”
I don’t know Fernando all that well. He’s older and gentle and softly spoken.
Everything Samil wasn’t. He owned half the olive farms on the southern Italian border before handing them over to his son.
Thus far, he’s been a thousand times easier to work alongside than Samil, but I have yet to get a good read on the type of leader he is and will be.
“Indeed, I did, Fernando,” I reply, shaking his hand. “Only I wish it had been a few days longer, but a country waits for no man and does not care about family holidays.”
“Unfortunately not, sir. The transportation workers are unhappy about the number of hours they have to work.”
We each take our seats, and Emily comes in with a tray of coffee, mugs, and pastries and exits.
“So I’ve been told.” I fix myself a coffee and take a sip as I lean back against the stiff sofa. “What are their main concerns? Overwork? Unsafe conditions? Unfair wages?”
“Mainly the long hours without proper compensation for the overtime, Your Majesty. They feel that working more than thirty-six hours per week is too much, and it’s affecting their health and well-being.”
A typical workweek in Messalina is thirty-six hours, which isn’t uncommon in the EU.
“And how many hours are they generally working at the moment?”
There is a knock on the door, and Althea comes in.
“Sorry for the delay. I was gathering all the briefing details on the strike.”
“Not at all. Please, join us.”
Althea comes in and takes a seat at the nearby table, setting up her laptop and handing me some papers to glance over. Most of these were emailed to me overnight, so I’m pretty familiar with them.
“They are working roughly forty to forty-two hours a week.”
“All right.” I swipe my finger along my bottom lip as I think. “Clearly, we must find a way to address their concerns without compromising the efficiency of our transportation system. Have any proposals been put forth?”
“None that have gained traction, Your Majesty,” Fernando admits a bit sheepishly. “My office has met with the head of the transportation union, who was less than thrilled with what was offered. Many fear that decreasing the hours will lead to a shortage of workers and delays in transportation.”
“That’s what was proposed? Fewer hours?”
Fernando nods and I hold in my ire at that.
It’s required for the prime minister to assume all roles and responsibilities in my absence if there is no sitting regent.
Since Rowan was with us, the prime minister was in full charge as it says in our constitution.
However, he could have spoken with me prior to offering something so useless.
He’s new at this, and I get it, but the workers aren’t looking for fewer hours. They’re after more money or more jobs. How he didn’t put that together is shocking to me since he ran quite a large business himself.
I lift my mug and balance it on my knee, my hand wrapped around the warm porcelain as I speak to him. “I think perhaps additional resources to hire more workers to cover the longer hours or to incentivize overtime work with higher pay rates will likely hit their mark a little more accurately.”
“Yes. Likely. But I wanted to take the path of least resistance first and see how they’d respond. The country’s transportation budget isn’t all that robust and I have a feeling what they’re after might be terms we cannot meet,” Fernando remarks.
“Perhaps.” I hold in my smirk. Maybe he’s not so daft after all.
“I think the most cost-effective way to handle this would be a pay differential for overtime and see where they go from there. Adding on more jobs might be more than we can handle financially, but we’ll have to have our secretary of finance crunch better numbers to know for sure. ”
“I agree. I’ll have the team start exploring these options immediately.”
“Good,” I nod. “I want this issue resolved as soon as possible. The people of Messalina deserve a transportation system that works for them, and if we can achieve that while improving the lives of the workers, then all the better.”
“What are your thoughts on meeting with the head of the union ourselves?”
I think about that for a moment. It’s rarely, if ever, done. But right now, there are no buses or trains running, and a long strike is certainly in no one’s favor.
“All right. Set it up.”
Sunlight streams through the tall windows of the meeting room in Tourin, casting long shadows across the polished oak table. The air hums with tension as Fernando and Giancarlo Russo, the head of the union, stand to greet me.
“Your Majesty,” the head of the transportation union greets me curtly, his eyes cold and unyielding. He also doesn’t bow, which isn’t just disrespectful, it’s downright fucking unheard of. “I’m Giancarlo Russo. Let’s get down to business.”
I lift my eyebrow at him, unamused.
“Signori Russo,” I start, speaking in Italian since that’s how he greeted me. “While I am happy to be here today to discuss helping the people and workers of Messalina, I can tell you now, your disrespect for the throne of your country will get you nowhere.”
He gives me a displeased look but then dutifully bows. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
He leaves it at that, and though I’d love to roll all over him, I remind myself that I’m here to negotiate, not fight.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Signori.” I extend a hand in a gesture of goodwill, and he shakes it hesitantly before taking a seat at the table.
“We understand the concerns of your workers and their dissatisfaction with their current hours,” I begin, keeping my tone calm and measured.
“We’re here to discuss possible solutions and ensure the well-being of both the workers and the people who rely on our transportation system. ”
“Your Majesty,” Russo replies, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“With all due respect, we’ve heard these empty promises before.
Meanwhile, our workers are being pushed to their limits, and the people of Messalina are suffering the consequences.
How can we trust that anything will change this time? ”
He’s full of shit. The last transportation labor issue occurred when I was not even twenty, and he was certainly not running the union then. That I resolved within five days and without a strike.
“Signori Russo, as history shows, this is the first transportation strike in the history of Messalina, and I have already negotiated deals with your union in the past. I have no doubt we’ll be able to come to terms that everyone can live with,” I say evenly, refusing to let his confrontational attitude rattle me.
“Words are easy, King Sebastian,” he retorts, crossing his arms defensively. “Especially coming from a man who has been hiding away in his palace and not using the system of his people.”
I move to leave when he shoots forward, almost as if he’s going to physically stop me.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“I understand your passion and determination. I match it for my country and people, but if you speak to me that way again, you will be forced to return to your constituents and explain why there is no deal on the table.”
“Sì. It won’t happen again.”
I sit fully down in my chair, and he blows out a quiet breath. Fernando looks like he’s about to pass out, and I throw him a sharp look, silently telling him to grow some balls with this. He’s been all but mute since we sat down.
“Now, Your Majesty, what actions do you propose to support your workers?”
I exchange a glance with Fernando, who folds his hands on the table and says, “One possibility is to hire additional workers to alleviate the workload, allowing for more reasonable hours.”
Russo’s jaw sets, and I see now exactly what he’s after. It always comes down to one thing. Money.
“Alternatively,” I offer, “we could implement a pay differential for overtime.”
“Pay differential?” Russo parrots.
“Those who work beyond their standard hours receive appropriate compensation,” I say plainly.