The Gift: A Novella by Sandra Marton Page B

years ago, he’d started his own investment firm. It was small. It was open to investors by invitation only. It had done well. Hell, it had done brilliantly.
    He met a friend of Zach’s, a so-called financial genius named Travis Wilde, at a financial conference. Wilde had shaken his hand and said, “You’re heavy-duty competition, dude.”
    It had been a huge compliment, and an honest one—which was the reason Kaz hadn’t been all that surprised when the Sardovian minister of finance paid him a visit.
    Time had passed, but Kaz’s attitude had not changed.
    “I told the last guy to take a walk,” he’d said to the minister, “and nothing’s changed. I’m not the least bit interested in serving on a council.”
    The minister had stood as straight as an oak.
    “You are to take over the investments of Sardovia.”
    Well, well, well, Kaz had thought, but he’d kept his face expressionless.
    “Why?”
    “Because you are Sardovian.”
    “I am American.”
    “You are Sardovian. And Sardovia has wealth, but it has not been properly invested. We need hospitals, teachers and schools. We need a future for our children. Is that not part of what America said it wanted to bring the people of Afghanistan?”
    Nothing had touched Kaz, until that.
    Unannounced, he’d flown to Sardovia, rented a car and spent a week on his own, driving from villages to towns to cities. He’d met people. Real people. Farmers. Small merchants. Women who wanted better things for their children.
    And he’d become the head of The Sardovian Investment Fund.
    Now, five years later, Sardovia had a future. Investors. Businesses. Schools and hospitals. Kaz hoped that he had, in some small way, made up for the immorality of the man who had fathered him.
    A month ago, his grandfather had sent for him. Kaz had considered saying thanks, but no thanks.
    “Don’t be a fool,” he’d told himself, and he’d accepted the invitation.
    Their meeting was stiff. It was not private. It was not about family, or about a grandfather and his grandson. It took place in the royal dining hall, at a table that could easily have accommodated fifty. Instead, they were twenty-two. Ten ministers. Ten ministerial assistants. The old man.
    And Kaz.
    Tea was poured from an exquisite brass samovar that was probably as old as the kingdom itself. There was grape brandy, a Sardovian specialty that tasted like raw alcohol. Kaz had drunk worse and he tossed back a shot of the stuff.
    After ten minutes of silence, Kaz had looked across the table at his grandfather.
    “You wanted to see me.”
    The ministers’ heads had swiveled from Kaz to their king.
    “You have served me well,” the old man had answered.
    “I have served Sardovia,” Kaz had said, “and her people. Not you.”
    Heads swiveled again.
    The old man had narrowed his rheumy eyes. “You are not like your father.”
    “Thank you for the compliment.”
    A smile as thin as the blade of a scimitar had curved the king’s mouth.
    “Therefore, I have decided to forgive you for your illegitimacy.”
    Kaz had laughed. His grandfather had not.
    “You find this amusing, Kazimir?”
    Kaz had risen to his feet.
    “I find it ridiculous,” he’d said. Then he’d turned on his heel and walked out.
    Kaz had felt as if he were being measured for something. Now, weeks later, he still had no idea what that something might have been.
    Not that it mattered.
    He’d made his lack of interest in being absolved of blame for his own illegitimacy clear. He knew that he would never hear from his grandfather again, and that was fine. Sardovia would continue to flourish; the investment fund would continue to grow, and that was what mattered.
    Except, he had heard from him. Just yesterday. Not from him directly, but from his minister of state.
    His grandfather wished to see him on an urgent matter.
    Kaz was to return home for Christmas. It was an order.
    Yeah, well, Kaz didn’t deal well with orders, especially from an old man who