2. Wesley
2
WESLEY
KOSITA, MALDANA
“Why don’t you just stay with me for the summer?”
“Because you have enough on your plate,” I say, folding an arm behind my head. To prove my point, Joey begins crying, and Peanut barks in the background.
Cora huffs and yells off-screen. “Babe!”
I hear John’s distant “I got it,” as my sister focuses on me again.
“Told you,” I say, situating my hand around my phone so I don’t drop it.
“Wes, you’re never a bother. Me and Mom are worried. You should be with family right now.” Her concerned blue gaze melts my heart a little, so I look away. I spot a fly on my open window and hear a nasally beep-beep from a motorbike on the street.
“It was just a job,” I say. “I have more than enough money saved to last me until I get another one.”
“I’m not worried about the money or the job. I’m worried about my little brother.”
I open my mouth to speak; no words come out. It’s hard to tell her not to worry about me when I’d be just as concerned if I were in her place.
Questions and concerns are a constant when your brother pops up out of the blue after years of radio silence. But there was no purpose for me in the underground anymore and I’m skeptical of my purpose in my family’s life, too. If I tell Cora that, she’ll panic, and she’s too good to worry about me. Guilt shreds my gut. I don’t know how to get rid of feeling useless if I’m not hunting or eliminating my targets. It solidifies my identity as a ghost.
“If you’re not killing men for me, then what are you good for?”
I don’t resent Santiago for saying that. For six years, that was my duty.
I glance around my dingy room. The French doors leading to the kitchen have hand-cut sheets nailed above the glass to give me some hint of privacy. Not that my roommate ever leaves his cave.
Before I can convince Cora of something I’m struggling to convince myself, John shouts, “Babe! Where are my keys?”
My sister looks off-screen. “Where are you going?”
“To get ice cream.”
“I haven’t cooked dinner yet!”
“Well, then when’s dinner?” John asks.
She scoffs. “You know, you can cook, too. If you—” She cuts herself off with a groan. “Wes, I gotta go.”
Thank god.
“All right.”
“Love you. Call Mom ,” she insists.
“Love you, too. I will.”
Cora hangs up FaceTime, but I still catch her saying to John, “You never help?—”
I chuckle and toss my phone across my bed as another call comes in. My stomach clenches at the name. Jack Costas.
Police sirens erupt from the street below, and my heart lurches from the sudden sound. Memories begin to surface, ones I’d prefer to forget.
But I can’t decline this call.
With a sigh, I answer. “Jack.”
“I half expected you to send me to voicemail,” he says in Maldanian.
I switch languages to reply. “It’s rude to ignore the man who saved my ass. What can I do for you?”
“Got a job for you. It’s temporary, but it could help you out.”
“I’ll take anything,” I admit. “What is it?” I glance at my door to ensure it’s shut when my roommate lets out a string of curses at his video game.
“Can’t speak of it over the phone. Gotta come in.”
I sit up. “All right. Where should we meet?” I don’t have expectations for this job. Expectations cost money, but I don’t anticipate Jack’s reply.
“The royal palace.”
I stride down the palace’s elegant corridors with two security guards flanking me.
It’s not the royal palace that intimidates me; it’s the fact that Jack seemingly found a job here despite what happened a couple of months ago.
When reaching a secretary’s desk, the straight-nosed older woman behind it goes over the required confidentiality paperwork before I can meet with Jack. I sign several contracts and hand over my phone for her to put into a safe. Everything spoken inside the palace is under complete secrecy. I cannot share that I even attended this meeting. The security guards search me for any wires or other listening devices. The secretary points and instructs me to wait in this chair. No, that one.
I sit in the correct chair, twiddling my thumbs before chiding myself to stop. Shoulders squared, I brace my hands on my knees. Awkwardness isn’t becoming. El Revalté was deadly and quiet. Military Beck was confident, sure of himself. Civilian Beck is nervous. Desperate, even. I need Military Beck to return and El Revalté to stay in the shadows for good.
Perhaps I could be Wesley at some point and shed the past entirely.
“Beck.” Jack opens his office door with a pleasant expression.
I rise. “Jack. You’re working at the palace now?”
It hasn’t been long since I last saw him, but I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. We hug swiftly and pat each other on the back. “Head of royal security,” he says. “It’s a good gig.”
“The big boss, huh?”
He shrugs. “Head of palace security. Not the royal guard or anything. Come on in. How’s the hand?”
I hold up my unwrapped burn wound as we step into his office. “Better. Doesn’t hurt as much.”
Inside, another man waits. Middle-aged. Slicked-back thinning hair that reaches his chin. When he rises from his seat, I notice he’s at least six feet tall—still a few inches shorter than me.
“You must be Mr. Troutbeck.” He reaches out. “My name’s Andrew Elias.”
“Beck is fine.” I shake his hand, watching him curiously. “Elias? As in?—”
“The royal family, yes,” Andrew confirms. “Princess Beverly is my wife.”
Before I can react, Jack guides us over to a seating area. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, gesturing for me to sit in the chair. “What do you know about the royal family?” The men lower onto the couch.
“Other than the queen dying from cancer twenty years ago, little to nothing.”
“Good,” Andrew says.
“Good?”
Andrew nods slowly.
My childhood in Maldana was restricted to summers and Christmases. I remember the parades and memorials after the queen’s death. As far as I know, the royals weren’t interesting enough for the media to exploit, and their importance diminishes each year. By the time I moved here full-time, I focused solely on the military.
“Indeed, she died about twenty years ago,” Andrew begins. “However, it’s not public knowledge that Queen Ophelia had abandoned her role six years prior to her death.”
I cinch my brows. “How is that possible?”
“As you might know, Maldanian royals were hardly in the public eye to begin with. When she abandoned her role, we released a statement citing prolonged illness about why Princess Beverly would take her place. The plan was to eventually convince Ophelia to return.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She fell in love with an American and wanted a normal life with him. They had two daughters together.” Andrew reaches across the coffee table to hand me a file. “Maia Laffley, the younger one. And Nina Laffley, the older one.”
I open the manila folder. “Do they know about their mother being queen?”
Elbows on his knees, he laces his fingers. “No. Queen Ophelia didn’t die from cancer, either. She died in a car crash when Nina was five and Maia was two. Their father, Pierce Laffley, raised them in a Massachusetts suburb where they knew nothing of who their mother really was. Pierce remarried when the girls were teenagers to a Ruby Conner.”
“What does it say on their birth certificates? How did they never find out?”
“Pierce was adamant they didn’t know the truth so they could have normal childhoods. However he avoided the topic, that’s for him to say. We kept tabs on the girls throughout their lives.”
I look down to see a scanned college ID from Wilton University. Nina Laffley. The princess of Maldana is beautiful. Sharp jaw, knowing eyes, a cloud of curls around her head and down her chest. Her brown skin tells me Pierce is Black.
“We want the girls to take on their birthrights as princesses and for Nina to eventually become queen. From our research, we see both are very educated and kind. Not to mention beautiful. We believe they would make excellent royals.”
The following documents include transcripts from Nina’s college and grade schools, letters of recommendation, pictures of her childhood home in Massachusetts, her playing volleyball in high school, and anything and everything about her life.
“So, what’s the job for me, then?”
Jack clears his throat. “The royal family and their advisors will spend the summer convincing them to take the crown. Although their identities will be kept tightly under wraps, there’s always a risk of a leak. We want to assign you to Nina as her bodyguard until—or if—she goes public.”
They need a security detail—and they called me ? I tilt my head and admit, “I don’t have the experience.”
“You were on our radar because of Jack, yes. But after researching you, the rest of the security team believes you’re more than qualified. You’ve been an outstanding soldier for over a decade and single-handedly took down a subversive organization responsible for the deaths of many Maldanian citizens. Jack tells me you know the city like the back of your hand. Is that true?”
I nod once. “I know it well, yes.”
“Then you’re qualified. The only question now is whether you’ll accept the job. Housing in the palace guest quarters is included.”
A summer of following around a suburban American. There are worse ways to make money, and I’m indeed desperate enough for something to do. I inhale a breath.
“Okay. I’m in.”