The Ministry of Defense conference room was all marble and mahogany, built to intimidate. Khalid bin Rashid Al-Saud sat at the head of the table in a bespoke Brioni suit, smiling at the French defense contractors like they were old friends.
"Gentlemen, I appreciate your patience with our procurement process," he said in flawless French, the accent educated Parisian rather than regional. "Saudi Arabia values partnerships built on mutual respect and transparency."
Jean-Marc Dubois, the lead contractor, returned the smile. Gray-haired, expensive watch, the kind of man who sold death for a living and called it security. "Your Highness, Dassault Aviation is committed to supporting the Kingdom's defense modernization."
Modernization. Such a clean word for what they were actually discussing.
Khalid gestured to the contract displayed on the screen behind him. "Forty Rafale fighters, full weapons package, maintenance support for ten years. The price point is acceptable, but we'll need accelerated delivery."
"How accelerated?"
"Eighteen months instead of thirty-six."
Dubois hesitated. "That's ambitious. The manufacturing timeline—"
"Can be adjusted with proper incentive," Khalid finished smoothly. "We're prepared to add fifteen percent to the total contract value for expedited delivery. That's roughly four hundred million euros, if my mathematics is correct."
The room went quiet. Four hundred million bought a lot of cooperation.
"We would need to discuss this with Paris," Dubois said carefully.
"Of course. I'm having dinner with your defense minister next week. Perhaps we can finalize terms then?"
It wasn't a question. Khalid watched Dubois calculate—refuse a Saudi prince and lose a twelve-billion-euro contract, or agree and explain the rushed timeline to shareholders later.
"I'm certain we can accommodate the Kingdom's needs, Your Highness."
"Excellent." Khalid stood, ending the meeting with practiced grace. "My team will coordinate logistics. Gentlemen, thank you for your time."
They filed out, all handshakes and diplomatic murmurs. When the door closed, Khalid's assistant Rashid approached with a tablet.
"The contracts?"
"Send them to Legal for review. Flag anything unusual." Khalid loosened his tie slightly. "And Rashid? The accelerated timeline is non-negotiable. Those aircraft need to be operational before the Yemen situation deteriorates further."
Rashid nodded, understanding what wasn't being said. The Rafales would end up patrolling Yemeni airspace within two years, dropping French-made bombs on Iranian-backed rebels. People would die—men, women, and probably children.
The thought used to keep Khalid awake. Now it was just arithmetic. Geopolitics required compartmentalization, his father had taught him. You couldn't maintain regional stability while worrying about individual casualties. The math was brutal but simple: destabilization killed more people than intervention.
At least, that's what he told himself.
"My father taught me that power is a performance," Khalid thought, watching the French team disappear down the corridor. You wear the thobe and speak of tradition for the old men. You wear the suit and speak of progress for the West. And you pray—actually pray—that you never forget which mask you're wearing when it matters most.
His phone buzzed. Text from Uncle Faisal: My majlis. One hour.
Khalid sighed. When Faisal summoned you, you came. No exceptions.
The majlis was traditional—thick carpets, cushioned seating on the floor, and mint tea served in small glasses. Faisal sat at the head, sixty-one years old and carved from granite. He'd survived three coup attempts and two assassination plots. Men like him didn't retire; they died in power or lost it violently.
"Uncle Khalid removed his shoes and sat cross-legged opposite Faisal. "You wanted to see me?"
"We have a problem in California."
Khalid accepted tea from a servant. "We have problems everywhere. Which one specifically?"
"The Marchetti family controls West Coast operations—ports, distribution, and political connections. We need access to their network."
"So buy it. We have money."
"They don't sell," Faisal said flatly. "Old-school Italian mafia. Family business. But they're interested in expanding internationally. Saudi oil money, government connections, legitimacy."
"And you want me to negotiate terms?"
"No, nephew. I want you to marry Victor Marchetti's daughter."
Khalid nearly dropped his tea. "Excuse me?"
"Marriage alliance. His family gains royal connections and Middle Eastern access. We gain their California infrastructure and American political leverage. Everyone benefits."
"Uncle, I won't marry a stranger to close a business deal. This isn't the fifteenth century."
Faisal's expression didn't change. "No, nephew. It's worse. In the fifteenth century, men had the courage to do what was necessary for their families. Now they whine about love and personal choice."
"I'm not whining—"
"You're fifth in line for the throne. You'll never be king. Your value is diplomatic, not hereditary. This marriage serves the family's interests."
Khalid set down his tea carefully. "Does Victor Marchetti even know you're proposing this?"
"His daughter is unmarried at thirty-two. Unusual for their culture. We've made inquiries through intermediaries. He's interested."
"And the daughter?"
"Educated. Stanford, Oxford. Involved in the family's legitimate businesses. Beautiful, from the photographs." Faisal slid a folder across the carpet. "Her name is Lucia."
Khalid opened it. Professional headshots, charity gala photos, and a university graduation portrait. Dark hair, intelligent eyes, and the kind of beauty that looked effortless but probably wasn't. In every photo, she stood slightly apart from others, like she was observing rather than participating.
"She looks vapid in these interviews," Khalid muttered, scanning a society page article about a fundraiser. Lucia Marchetti was quoted talking about art and wine, nothing substantive.
"She's a mafia princess," Faisal said dismissively. "What did you expect? Political philosophy?"
Something nagged at Khalid. The interview quotes were too perfect, too carefully vapid. Like someone performing a role.
"I need time to consider this."
"You have forty-eight hours. The Marchettis want an answer before they pursue other alliances." Faisal stood, signaling the meeting's end. "The problem with being called a reformer, nephew, is eventually people expect you to reform something. This marriage reforms nothing. It just expands our power. Much simpler."
Khalid left the majlis with Lucia's folder, his mind racing. In the corridor, Yusuf fell into step beside him—forty-five, ex-intelligence operative, loyal to Khalid personally rather than the family. The only person Khalid trusted completely.
"You heard?" Khalid asked quietly.
"Hard not to. Walls are thin." Yusuf's expression was grim. "Your Highness, rushing into arranged marriages—"
"I know."
"Do you? The Marchettis aren't just another crime family. They're connected. Protected." Yusuf pulled out his phone and showed Khalid a classified document. "I pulled their file from Saudi intelligence. Look at the redactions."
Khalid scanned it. Nearly half the document was blacked out. "That's unusual."
"That's CIA interference. Someone in American intelligence doesn't want us to know too much about the Marchettis."
"Money can buy a lot of protection."
"Not this much. Not from Langley." Yusuf put the phone away. "Your Highness, why would American intelligence protect an Italian crime family?"
Khalid stared at the document image still burned into his vision—all those black lines, all those secrets. He thought about Lucia's carefully vacant interview responses, her slightly disconnected presence in photographs, and the strange gap between her education and her public persona.
"That's what worries me, Your Highness," Yusuf said quietly.
They walked in silence back to Khalid's office. Through the windows, Riyadh sprawled beneath them—modern towers rising from ancient desert, oil money building toward the sky. His whole life existed in that tension between old and new, tradition and progress, the man he wanted to be and the role he was required to play.
Now Faisal wanted him to marry a stranger. A beautiful, educated stranger who might be considerably more dangerous than she appeared.
Khalid opened the folder again, studying Lucia's face. In one photograph, she was looking directly at the camera, and for just a moment, her expression wasn't performing anything. She looked tired. Alone.
He recognized that look. He'd seen it in his own mirror.
"Find out everything you can about her," Khalid told Yusuf. "Not the public persona. The real woman. I want to know who I'm dealing with before I agree to anything."
"And if you don't like what I find?"
Khalid closed the folder. "Then I'll have forty-eight hours to figure out how to say no to Uncle Faisal without starting a family war."
Yusuf left. Khalid stood at the window, watching the sun set over Riyadh, and wondered what Lucia Marchetti was doing right now. Whether she was being pressured the same way. Whether she wanted this marriage or was just another piece being moved across someone else's chessboard.
Two scorpions in a bottle, he thought. That's what this felt like.
The question was which one of them would sting first.