1

      “YOU’RE WHAT?” GIORGIO’S gold pen dropped from his fingers and rolled forgotten off his polished wooden desk as he gripped his phone.

      His sister, his baby sister, Stefania, giggled from four thousand miles away in New York City. “I’m engaged to be married.” She repeated it in Italian to make sure he understood. “Fidanzata.”

      “But, but…” he stammered, normally not at a loss for words. “To whom? And when?”

      “Well…” She drew out the news teasingly and then her excitement bubbled over in a rush. “His name is Dieter von Thalberg and we met a few months ago when he traveled here for business.”

      “Only a few months?” Giorgio interrupted. “And you want to marry him already?” Stefania was impulsive sometimes, but not foolish.

      “Of course.” She giggled again. “Oh, Giorgio, I can’t wait for you to meet him.” She lowered her voice. “He’s German nobility from a little place in Bavaria. You have to trust me, I’ve never felt this way about any other man. When he kisses me and we…well, anyway…” He practically heard her blush as she continued the catalog of wonders that was Dieter.

      Giorgio fought the urge to start an international incident over Dieter, his future brother-in-law, for showing her the wide world of womanly delights. Giorgio couldn’t think of it in more specific terms without his fine lunch of sausages and polenta sitting uneasily in his stomach.

      He sighed and wished he had finished the rest of the bottle of wine rather than restraining himself to the two glasses he normally imbibed. Rotten Dieter.

      He hoped the man’s ancestral holdings were overrun with mold and rats. But then Stefania would be unhappy, and that was the last thing in the world Giorgio wanted.

      Actually, he hoped Dieter had some money of his own for the ancestral holdings and wouldn’t constantly hit Giorgio up for loans. Giorgio had enough trouble with his own palazzo, molto grazie.

      “But, Giorgio, you must realize none of this will be official until you give us your blessing. Dieter insisted it be so.”

      Hmm. He quirked his mouth. It was true. As ruling head of the Most Serene Principality of Vinciguerra, Giorgio had the right to approve or deny betrothals of members of the royal family, i.e. his sister, Principessa Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone. It said so on his business card. Well, not really.

      The only other members of the royal family were his grandmother, who at eighty was not expected to seek permission to wed again, and himself: Giorgio Alphonso Giuseppe Franco Martelli di Leone, Prince of Vinciguerra. Long ago, Giorgio had decided that if he never wed and had the requisite heir-and-a-spare, he would pass the title to Stefania and her children. After all, he was an enlightened, twenty-first-century monarch. One with the power to send Dieter the Dunce packing. He snickered.

      “Giorgio?” his sister asked nervously. “Are you still there?”

      “Si, si.” He lapsed into silence, pondering what to do and how many heavy items Stefania would hurl at his head if he refused her undoubtedly golden-haired, Teutonic Prince Charming.

      “Come to New York,” Stefania commanded.

      “What? Now?”

      “Yes, now. I called Grandma today and she told me to get you out of her hair. She says you’re driving her nuts.” Having spent most of her childhood in New York, Stefania had a definite command of American idioms.

      “What?” Giorgio sat bolt upright in his ergonomic Corinthian leather chair. “I am doing no such thing!”

      “She begs to differ. She says you poke your nose in on her day and night so she can’t get any rest.”

      Now he was insulted. Their grandmother had had a nasty bout of flu that had settled into pneumonia. After a couple touch-and-go weeks of around-the-clock care, she had pulled through but still needed nursing visits, respiratory therapists, physical therapists and doctor visits. And it was his job to make sure they were doing their jobs. He was more at ease if he could be present for all their consultations.

      He reconsidered. Maybe that was a bit too much. After all, his grandmother had run Vinciguerra while he was off at university and had absolutely no trouble making her wishes known. He could also have his assistant text him updates on her health.

      “Yes or no, George!” his sister shouted. She only called him his American nickname when she was either very pleased with him or very annoyed. No bets on which it was this time.

      “Fine, Steve!” he shouted