General Bruno DeBruzkya sat behind the wide span of glossy mahogany desk and stared at the frayed photograph on the leather blotter in front of him. A woman with striking hazel eyes and skin as fine as German porcelain smiled back at him. A woman he’d thought of far too often in the months since he’d last seen her.
Lillian Scott.
She reminded him of a flower. Soft and fragrant and as colorful as the mountain columbine that grew in the highlands of the Hartz Forest. He was thinking of her every day now—far too often for a man leading a country in a time of civil war. But war could be a lonely time for a man. Especially a man of his political and social stature. And so on the rare occasions when he was alone, or in the dark of night when a man’s needs came calling, he thought of her. The afternoon spent at the café in Rajalla. The rainy morning at the bistro on Balboa Avenue near the bazaar where they’d drank strong Rebelian espresso and laughed at inconsequential things.
Bruno wasn’t prone to sentimentalities or maudlin affairs. He was a hard man who’d led an even harder life in a world that could be brutal. In his fifty-five years, he’d seen things that would terrify most men. He’d done things that would shock even the most hardened soldiers. Bruno didn’t get emotionally entangled with women. When his needs became a distraction he took care of them discreetly and without fanfare at the brothel on the east side of town. He’d known Inga for nearly ten years. But lately, the sex and meaningless small talk weren’t enough.
There came a time in a man’s life when he began to think about the future. About getting old. About leaving his legacy to one of his own blood. A wife. A family. An heir to carry on the work he’d begun. That he had a nephew on the way should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Bruno wanted more. He wanted a son.
Lillian Scott might be an American journalist—there was no love lost between Bruno DeBruzkya and the Americans—but, she would make the perfect wife. She was young and lovely with the kind of spirit that had always appealed to him. She would make the perfect mother to the sons she would bear him. While she may not love him, she would quickly learn to respect him. That was all Bruno asked. As long as she shared his bed and bore his children, he would give her everything.
He’d dreamed of her again last night. A disturbing dream that had left him aroused and wanting when he’d wakened. Bruno didn’t like wanting. Worse, he didn’t like wanting something and knowing he may never get it. Wanting had been his constant companion as a child. He’d learned to despise it; he still despised it.
The memory of his childhood made him grimace. Even though those days were long gone, he would never forget what it had been like to be a skinny boy with an empty stomach and not a hope in the world of ever making something of himself. He’d grown up in a small village in the Hartz Forest. His family hadn’t had enough money to send him to school, so he’d never gotten a formal education. But he’d liked to read—history mostly—and had filled his days with tales of Napoleon and Hitler and Stalin. Tired of being poor and reliant and hopeless, certain he was destined for greatness, he’d lied about his age and joined the Rebelian Army when he was only sixteen.
It was in the military that Bruno DeBruzkya found his calling. He might have lacked a formal education, but his intelligence and natural charisma more than made up for it. He learned at a very young age how to influence people, how to manipulate them, how to make them do what he wanted. For the few who refused to bow to his wishes, he didn’t have any compunction about removing them.
Bruno was very good at eliminating obstacles.
In the following years, he rose quickly through the ranks of the army, eventually gaining favor with King Luna. The king even invited him into the royal palace in nearby Rajalla where they dined on lamb, fresh vegetables from the queen’s garden and sweet German wine. King Luna had talked about his hopes for the Rebelian Empire, and all the things a talented young man like Bruno could do to help make that future a reality.
Outwardly, Bruno had nodded with excitement. But inwardly, he’d laughed. What an old fool! King Luna was soft and incompetent and completely unworthy of taking Rebelia into the twenty-first century. Rebelia deserved more than what an old man with a soft head could offer. Two days after having dinner with King Luna, Bruno and his soldiers rushed the palace and slaughtered the royal family in their sleep.