Chapter 42 Royal
ROYAL
EXECUTION, THE FINE DETAILS
Watching her cry tore me to pieces. My wolf is the only thing holding me up at this point. I don’t bother going back in to say goodbye to Valor and Antonella. They have their own life to live, and I’ve got work to do.
I don’t remember driving home. I only remember walking down the stairs into my lair.
Leticia didn’t want me to marry her, but she’s not thinking clearly.
It’s a shock to the system. I heard who they’re going to marry her to.
I know what he’s like. I won’t let that happen.
Steffano killed his last two wives. Everyone knows it, but no one has been willing to prove it.
For fear of repercussions or something else, I don’t know.
I won’t let the beautiful, full-of-life Leticia be pulled into that sort of darkness. I won’t let her fall into a wakeless slumber, locked in a tomb in Italy. She’s too bright and too beautiful.
We’ll fight to protect our mate. My wolf hunkers down for what is going to be a long night.
I get to work, starting with marrying us on paper. Leticia may have said no, but I’m pretty sure there’s a rule that says you’re not allowed to make big decisions under duress.
Having your whole life uprooted and being married to a murderer counts as duress.
The first order of business is turning on her phone’s GPS tracking and enabling backdoor access to get locational tracking every six minutes. It’s a few clicks of the mouse.
Gregorio and Berto might not be shipping her off to Italy tonight, but they will soon enough, and I want to know the second she moves.
Suitcases. My wolf points out that her two suitcases packed with clothes are still sitting in the seating area.
I pick up my phone and take a picture of them before sending it to Leticia.
Royal:
Missing these?
The dancing dots pop up on the screen as she types a message.
Leticia:
The driver doesn’t want to come get them tonight. We’ll send a car to pick them up. Do you mind packing up for me?
Don’t mind if I do. I walk over to my tech closet first and dig into the back before pulling out two identical token trackers. Then I grab a few pin-sized ones for good measure.
Royal:
I’ll have them packed and ready for the driver to pick them up at the house. But I would much rather have you here with them.
Is it emotionally manipulative to say shit like that? I dislike that message the more I read it, but it’s sent and seen, based on the viewed icon next to it, so there’s no taking that one back.
Leticia:
It’s just not meant to be. There’s already a Cavanagh and D’Medici truce in place. They don’t need us to be together too.
I’m sorry, Royal.
My wolf is howling with heartbreak at that last text. But I push through it. I place the first two trackers, one in each suitcase, past the lining and tight against the frame. These will make it through airport security without a problem. She’ll never be any wiser.
With the pin trackers, I’m a little bolder. One I shove into her toiletries bag, and the other into the insole of one of her penny loafers. Do I think she’ll take the shoes to Italy? No. But she should for sure take the toiletries.
None of this is as good as being with her, but they’re just a precaution if I lose sight of her.
I walk into my bedroom and pull up the tracking information and the video feeds of Casa D’Medici.
Then I sit down and stretch, settling into my chair. It’s only three in the afternoon, but this could take a while.
Boundaries be damned. I’m keeping her from being married to that asshole. And I’ll sign my name in big bold letters.
She wants us too. She didn’t know we were unafraid. Our mate tries to protect us but forgets we’re the thing that goes bump in the night. My wolf is staying present and focusing on what I’m doing, ever watching rather than hiding away while I work.
The long, tedious part is first. I stalk her cell phone’s activity for the last year and find places she frequents that are right on the edge of D’Medici territory, places I may have accidentally wandered too far into.
I get lucky with a market she goes to in the neutral zone.
She goes there every week, sometimes multiple times.
It’s a long way from Gold Coast, but she must love something about it.
That’s where I start.
I create a whole bank account with the credit union nearby and start backdating entries.
Small purchases from both of us. Deposits from my personal account to cover them.
And then larger expenses. Any place within a few blocks of that market is fair game to get a fake purchase on our account.
Next, I start branching out, working farther north toward up here in Barrington.
Then I dip purchases from my card into D’Medici territory, dated before the truce.
Getting into the state’s system to file the marriage certificate is going to be harder. Not impossible, just harder. And . . . a little risky if I get caught.
No risk, no reward.