Page 15 of The Thief

The woman who usually cleans Rossi’s apartments calls in sick, and I’m asked to cover for her.

I’ve been waiting for this opportunity, and I’m ready. I pull a mask over my face, slip on gloves so I don’t leave any prints, and enter Rossi’s apartment. It takes me less than three minutes to find the Titian—it’s hanging in plain sight in the lawyer’s office, out in the open where anyone walking in could see it.

So fucking arrogant.

My heart racing, I approach the Madonna. I tilt the frame gently and peer behind to see if there are any tripwires that will set off an alarm. There are. I take care of them the way my dad taught me, and then I’m free and clear.

I lift the Titian off the wall, triumph running through me.

Rule #3: Don’t stick around at the crime scene.

I swap out the real Titian with the fake, slide the precious canvas into my waiting backpack, and then get out of Rossi’s apartment as quickly as I can. In a nearby restaurant, I change into a nondescript pair of jeans and a black sweater, and I dump my cleaning outfit and the face mask in a trashcan two blocks away.

My heart is beating faster than usual, and I blame my nervousness on Valentina’s dire warnings and Signora Zanotti’s uncharacteristic fear.

But there’s nothing to be worried about. No alarms went off when I stole the painting, and no police sirens follow me now as I walk away.

My breathing evens as I walk down the Calle del Tedum, and by the time I’m halfway home, I’m feeling almost euphoric. I wonder how long it’ll take for Daniel Rossi to notice the switch. He’s not a big art collector—at least, I don’t think so from the limited amount of research I’ve been able to do about him—just a lawyer with far too much money and far too few scruples. For all I know, he might never find out.

I’m almost at the Ponte del Fontego when a red speedboat pulls up at the canal on my left.

A man with dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a stubble-darkened jaw gets out. His face is narrow, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut. He’s tall, lean, and corded with muscle, and his charcoal gray suit only accentuates his physique.

He’s gorgeous, predatory, and intensely, overwhelmingly sexual.

For a second, I ogle openly. Then my brain stutters to a halt because I recognize his face from the magazine profile.

Standing in front of me is the most powerful man in Venice.

The man Valentina warned me not to cross.

Antonio Moretti.

My heart starts to race.

“Lucia Petrucci,” he says, his voice silken. “You know the rules. You were warned.” Something stirs in his eyes, something dark and dangerous. “And yet, here you are, with my Titian in your bag.” He holds out his hand to me. “Get in the boat.”

It’s twilight, and there’s no one around. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

This was a set-up—it had to be. Moretti knew I was going to steal this painting. Who betrayed me? Was it Alvisa Zanotti? Or was it Valentina?

I try to keep my fear at bay and fail abjectly.

Taking his hand and doing my best to ignore the shiver that runs through me, I climb into the speedboat.

8

ANTONIO

She stares at my outstretched hand with her jewel-green eyes for a long instant before she takes it. The moment her soft hand meets mine, I have the weirdest sense of déjà vu.

The last time we met—the only time we met—the circumstances were completely different. It was dark then; it’s light now. She was drunk that night; she’s sober now. I was a young man struggling with balancing working for Cartozzi with my innate sense of right and wrong, and now, all of Venice follows my rules or pays the prize for disobedience.

Ten years ago, Lucia found herself in danger, and I rescued her. But today? The only person she’s in danger from is me.

Nobody steals in my city without my permission.

Her green eyes are more vivid than I remember. Her face is thinner, the only real sign that it’s been a decade since I last laid eyes on her. She stares at me defiantly, her shoulders tight, her chin held high, but she can’t hide the shiver that goes through her.

---