Page 1 of The Thief

1

LUCIA

Iam very drunk, and everything is hazy.

It’s a dark night—cloudy, moonless, and foggy. I’ve been wandering for hours, not paying attention to where I’m going, and I’ve ended up in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. Venice is a safe city, but this section of town is far from the tourist core. The boats in the harbor here aren’t pleasure yachts; they’re working fishing vessels. Big, windowless warehouses dot the docks, and this late at night, there are more rats around than people.

A week ago, I was a college student in Chicago, and the most important thing on my mind was how I was going to get my senior thesis done on time. But while I was researching Venetian painters in the library, my mom was undergoing chemotherapy. While I was blowing off steam at a neighborhood pub after a day of hard work, the doctors told her the treatment wasn’t working and she had only weeks to live.

I didn’t know that my mother was dying because my parents kept her illness a secret from me. I didn’t know she’d gone into hospice either.

I never got a chance to say goodbye.

I take a healthy swig from the vodka bottle I’m clutching onto like a lifeline.

Three days ago, I got a phone call that shattered me. My parents’ lawyer informed me that my mother had succumbed to the cancer ravaging her body. My father, unable to contemplate life without his wife, put a bullet through his brain. One day, I was wondering if I could convince my art history professor to grant me an extension for my final paper, and the next, I was flying back home to bury my parents.

A hint of movement jerks me back to the present. Something rustles to my right. Before I have a chance to react, three large, threatening bodies coalesce from the fog and surround me. One of the men pulls out a knife and holds it to my throat.

“Don’t move, signorina, and don’t make a noise,” he growls. “I have no desire to hurt you. Give me your purse.”

I’m being robbed.

Numbly, I hold out my bright green bag. I bought it from a street vendor who’d set up shop opposite the Dolce and Gabbana store. Mama and I did a bunch of tourist things before I left for college: we visited St. Mark’s Basilica, listened to musicians at the piazza, rode a gondola, and ate at a restaurant a stone’s throw from the Ponte di Rialto. The vendor insisted that the bag was actually Prada, not a fake, and my mother laughed at him. “We’re not tourists,” she said and haggled with him for the next fifteen minutes.

I should have realized she was sick. She’d lost a lot of weight this year. The last few times we talked, she wouldn’t get on camera. “Something’s wrong with it,” she said. “I haven’t had time to get it fixed.”

I didn’t want to get roped into doing tech support over the phone, so I hadn’t probed. If I had, I would have suspected that something was badly wrong.

One of the men snatches the imitation Prada bag from my hand while another shines a flashlight in my face. “Your necklace, too.”

Things are moving too fast for me to process, but those words penetrate my drunken stupor. The necklace I’m wearing, a filigreed ruby pendant dangling on a gold chain, belonged to my mother. My father gave it to her as a wedding present, and she never took it off. The thought of losing it so soon after losing them is more than I can bear.

“No.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the man with the knife snaps, pressing the cold blade closer to my throat. “It’s not worth your life. Take off the goddamn necklace and hand it to me before you get hurt.”

“Someone’s coming,” Flashlight Guy says suddenly. He looks around nervously. “We’re not authorized. . . We need to get out of here before we get caught.” He makes a lunge from my necklace. The gold chain digs into my neck, and I yelp in pain.

“Stop,” a voice says, slicing the moisture-laden air like a whip. A tall, lean man glides out of the shadows, his face obscured by the brim of his hat.

He’s said one word. Just one, but the reaction is electrifying. The man holding my purse takes one look at the newcomer’s face and makes a run for it. “Fuck,” the guy who made a grab for my chain swears. The man holding a knife to my throat takes a step back and holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to. . . I didn’t know?—”

“You didn’t know I was here.” My rescuer’s voice is ice. “But I’m always watching. You should remember that.” He takes another step forward. “Leave.”

The remaining two criminals flee.

The mysterious man turns in my direction. He studies me for what seems like an age, his gaze lingering on the side of my neck. “They hurt you.”

They did? I reach up and touch my neck, and my skin stings where the chain cut me. The pendant is safe, though, and that’s all that counts. “It’s just a cut. It’ll heal.”

He moves closer, his breath warming my face, and he touches the cut with a feather-light touch. “You’re bleeding.” There’s a dangerous note in his voice that sends a shiver down my spine. “Who did this to you? Which one of them?”

Goosebumps break out on my skin. Once again, everything is moving with bewildering speed, events rushing past me like the leaves in a windstorm. The vodka has scrambled my thoughts, and this man isn’t helping. His voice and touch aren’t supposed to permeate my numbness, but they are, and I don’t know how to react.

“The guy holding the flashlight.”

“Marco.” My hero’s voice promises death. His eyes settle on me again. “You’re cold.” He pulls off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, and warmth descends over me like a blanket. “This isn’t a good part of town to wander around in this late at night, signorina.” He glances at the bottle I’m clinging to. “Especially when you’re as inebriated as you are.”

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