Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Nine

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Nine
Leonardo

We were thirty minutes into the flight and I had already sweat through my second shirt.

My mother kept giving me that concerned “you need magnesium” look, while my father sat reading the news like the fate of the monarchy wasn’t about to be tied to my sex life. Giovanni was filming everything for “historical posterity” or whatever he told his TikTok followers.

And Dante…

Dante was snoring beside me with his seat all the way back, like we weren’t on our way to the biggest moment of my boyfriend’s royal life.

I kicked his foot.

He blinked awake, smacked his lips, and groaned. “What?”

“I still don’t know how the hell you got included in this coronation, dude.”

He stretched and fiddled with his seat belt before pulling a formal-looking envelope from his pocket. “What do you mean? I’m family.”

“You’re not family.”

Dante held up the envelope. “Well, I’m on the list… And what do you mean I’m not family? Tell him, Uncle!” He turned to my father.

“I’m not your uncle,” my father replied without looking up from his paper.

My mom, ever the peacemaker, chimed in. “Guys, come on… Domenico, he’s your sister-in-law’s second cousin. So technically—annoying as he is and immoral as it might appear, given the boys’ history—Dante is kind of related to us. Spiritually, at least. In our hearts. I think. So be nice to him.”

“Umm… thank you? I guess?” Dante mumbled, blinking in confusion.

I shook my head, deciding to let the usual family circus play out without me. “Family or not, and no matter how much we all love you, I’ll ask again: how the hell did you get invited?”

“This is not all about you, Mr. ‘I’m-the-entitled-boyfriend,’ okay? I’ll have you know Alex and I go way back. We’re very close.”

“You know what else is close? My fist to your face.”

My mother muttered something about divine judgment under her breath.

I tried not to laugh. I really did.

From the back of the plane, Giovanni’s voice cut through the tension, flat and deadpan:

“Just so you know, this whole thing is going on the family Christmas video.”

When we landed, I was vibrating with nerves.

And it wasn’t just me. Half the plane seemed to be humming with energy—journalists, diplomats, extended family, and somehow even more Italians than I remembered inviting.

When we stepped out of the airport terminal, it hit me.

The snow.

The lights.

The crowd.

And standing there with perfect posture and absolutely no expression: Karl.

Beside him, holding a bouquet in one hand and waving the other like a man who didn’t just spend the past year holding the entire country on his shoulders, was Alex.

My heart hiccupped.

He looked stunning.

I barely had time to reach him before Giovanni darted forward and said, “Wow, that’s a lot of people. You expecting a war?”

Alex grinned and pulled him into a hug.

“I brought half of Italy,” I said, looking pointedly at Dante. “The other half just kind of… snuck in.”

Dante raised his hand with a proud little wave.

Alex laughed and pulled me into a full, arms-around-waist hug that made the crowd collectively sigh.

Then he turned to Dante.

“Nah, he got his own invite. I wouldn’t really be right here, with you, on this day, if it wasn’t for this guy—in some dysfunctional way.”

He gave him a tight, real hug.

My eyebrows lifted. “Am I missing something?”

Dante winked. “Told you! Trauma bonding, baby.”



Later that night, the palace halls were quiet.

Most of the guests had been shown to their rooms. Security was doubled. The press was caged outside the gates. And Alex and I were finally, finally alone in his bedroom.

Karl had walked us up like we were children being tucked into boarding school.

He gave us one of his infamous glares. “I need this boy rested, awake, and picture-ready by dawn.”

Alex opened his mouth.

But I got there first.

“Yeah, yeah. No sex for him tonight.”

Alex turned the color of a ripe tomato.

Karl stared at me.

I stared back.

Eventually, he walked away muttering something in Swedish I’m 99% sure meant “impossible little Italian bastard.”

I closed the door and turned to my prince—no, soon-to-be king.

He looked like he was trying not to die of embarrassment.

I walked over and kissed his forehead.

Then I said, quieter, “Isn’t it weird?”

“What?”

“That this is our last night as just… us. Just two regular men.”

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he pulled me into bed and wrapped himself around me.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been ‘just’ anything,” he whispered. “But yeah. It’s weird.”

We didn’t make love that night; we didn’t have to. We just held each other—our hearts pounding, breath soft—and waited for morning.



I didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because I was nervous—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because I kept waking up just to look at him. I’d open my eyes and there he was, asleep in my arms, chest rising and falling with the kind of calm that only existed when we were alone.

But when I woke up again, this time to faint sunlight leaking through the curtains…

He was gone.

I sat up, rubbed my face, and turned toward the window.

There he was.

Perched on the sill like a storybook prince, wrapped in nothing but a robe and the pale golden morning. The light hit his skin just right—soft, silvered, regal without even trying. And yet, the expression on his face was so far from royal.

He looked… far away. Quiet. Not sad, exactly. Just lost in thought.

I padded across the room and slipped my arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to his neck.

He leaned back into me like instinct.

“How long have you been up, babe?”

“Since the sun came up,” he said quietly. “Though I didn’t really sleep well.”

“Great,” I sighed. “Now Karl’s gonna murder me thinking I kept you up all night.”

“I wish,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I smiled, tightening my arms around him.

“You okay?”

He nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s… a lot. I’ve been sitting here thinking about the weight of it. The history. The future. All of it.”

He paused.

“When I was a kid,” he said, voice soft, “I used to sit right here. This exact spot. I’d press my forehead to the glass and stare at the gates, wondering if I’d ever be good enough to wear the crown. If I’d ever be a king like him. If I’d ever be… loved like him.”

I rested my chin on his shoulder. “Alex…”

He didn’t look at me.

“And now it’s today. And I’m about to walk into that room and become the one thing I never thought I’d be. The King of Sweden. And I still wonder if I’m enough.”

I kissed the curve of his neck. Then I said it, not a joke, not a whisper, but the truest thing I’d ever said:

“That man sitting on the throne right now? He could never measure up to you.”

His breath hitched.

“You’re the kindest, bravest, most loving man I’ve ever known, Alexander. You already are loved. By your people. By your country.”

I turned him gently to face me.

“And by me.”

He kissed me. Hard. Like I was air and he’d been holding his breath all night.

When we pulled apart, there was a soft knock on the door.

I smirked. “Time to let your shadow in.”

He blinked. “My—?”

“Karl,” I said. “The Grim Reaper of punctuality.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but I caught the smile.

I backed toward the bed to grab my things. “Go on. Get into your sexy coronation outfit. I want to be stunned.”

He shook his head as he stood, brushing invisible dust from his robe. “You're impossible.”

“You’re the king. I’m the chaos. We balance each other out.”

He paused by the mirror, turning once. Then glanced back at me.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

I winked. “Always.”