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... uncer who'd just won a bar fight. Brando himself, hands on his hips like a diva at a noble costume ball, tilted his chin upward and gave Duke a glare so sharp it could slice bread. Who had dared let this walking thrift shop insult his holy noble self?

"Son," Lieutenant Wilhelm hissed, beads of stress sweat forming, "if there's no other way out, I suggest... you kneel and kowtow."

Kneel? Kowtow!? What is this? A Chinese novel?

Duke's brain short-circuited. Was this a fanta ...

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