Page 50 of The Wanted Prince

“Not necessarily.” I tugged on his arm. “It might be like the last time, with our faces all blurred.”

He gulped air, then exhaled. Clenched his fists at his sides. Dragged himself upright and stood shoulders hunched, glaring down the empty street. If looks could kill.

“Come on,” I said. “Before the neighbors get nosy.” As if to make my point, a light flicked on. Then two more followed farther down the street. Alessandro scowled at them, but he unclenched his fists. He put his arm around me and pulled me against him, placing his body between me and the lights.

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s get inside.”

CHAPTER 19

ALESSANDRO

The first thing I did was scroll my socials, then PrinceTracker. The pictures weren’t up yet, which meant…

“Alessandro?”

…which meant they’d be ransomed. Or sold off, more likely, to the highest bidder. I had to be that bidder, or the jig was up. I checked my email, refreshed it. Refreshed it again. Why wasn’t he reaching out? Naming his price?

“Anything?” Laura pecked at her phone. “Your hashtag’s just old stuff. That’s a good sign, right?”

“Maybe,” I said, distracted. “No. I don’t know.” I pulled up Carlo’s contact and texted, then called. He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice a low growl.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Yeah, well…” He paused. I heard footsteps, and then a door slammed. “Whatever it is, you just made it worse. I was sitting with Father and your name popped up.”

“He saw it?”

“I don’t see how he wouldn’t.” Carlo huffed loudly. “So, how can I help?”

I explained about the photographer, and his silence on socials. How my guess was, the photos would be on the market.

“I get it,” said Carlo. “I’ll see what I can do. But, Alessandro, you might have to turn yourself in. You’ve gone through your grudge list and turned up nothing, so if you keep hiding out, it’s going to look…”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “What will you say if I’m, uh, arrested?”

Carlo was quiet for a long moment. I could hear water, the plink of a fountain. He was either in the dayroom, or he’d ducked outside.

“I’ll tell the truth,” he said. “I don’t believe you did this. I intend to investigate till the truth comes to light.”

“Thank you,” I said, but he’d already hung up. My phone chirped, notifications filling the screen. I stood there and whack-a-moled every alert, my heart racing then plunging with each beep or ping. So far, it was all noise, mostly nonsense. I’d been spotted in Turin, in Annaba, in Cannes. I was hiding out with an actress. Two actresses. Three. I was in rehab for porn addiction. Laura snorted.

“The porn thing?” I asked.

“Huh? No. This pic.” She held up her phone to show an old press shot, my face all scrunched up as I shrank from the flash.

“Hilarious.”

“Yeah.”

But we weren’t laughing. We stood in the living room in the light from our phones, scrolling, refreshing, refreshing some more. Beeping like poker games, video poker, but this was the last jackpot we’d want to win.

“They can’t arrest you,” said Laura, not looking up from her phone.

I didn’t look up either. “I think you’ll find they can.”

“They wouldn’t. The optics, arresting a prince…”