Page 17 of The Thief

Her expression makes it clear that she would like nothing better than to knock the drink out of my hand. She folds her arms across her chest. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?” she snaps. “Or are you just going to stand there and look threatening?”

“Do I look threatening? You don’t seem very afraid.” I take a sip of the full-bodied red and gather my wits. So far, I’ve been extremely indulgent with Lucia, but that stops now. This is Venice; she doesn’t call the shots here. I’ll answer her questions onmytimetable, not hers. “First things first. You have my Titian. Give it back.”

“It’s not your Titian,” she retorts. “It’s a stolen painting that rightfully belongs to the Palazzo Ducale. Just because you commissioned the theft doesn’t make it yours.”

I have to hand it to her—she’s got plenty of courage. Grown men have wet themselves in front of me, but not Lucia. It’s obvious she doesn’t remember me from that night ten years ago; she has no idea what I’m going to do to her, and yet, instead of trembling in fear, Lucia is full of righteous indignation and fire.

“The Titian,” I repeat, my voice hard. “You can either give it to me, or I can take it from you. But either way, you’re not walking out of here with it.”

She lifts her chin up and glares at me, but I’m deadly serious, and she knows it. “Fine,” she concedes. “Take it.” She unzips her backpack with shaking fingers and lifts the Titian out, swaddled protectively in fabric.

You’re scaring her.

I wasn’t expecting to feel guilty about making her afraid of me. Feeling a little bit like an asshole, I unwrap the precious canvas. “You haven’t damaged it,” I murmur, staring at the familiar brushwork. The first time I laid eyes on theMadonna at Repose, I felt a sense of deep recognition in my soul. I thought the feeling would fade with time, but even though it’s been fifteen years since I stole it, it hasn’t. Every time I look at the image of the mother playing with her child, it strikes a chord inside me.

“Damage it?” Her hands might tremble, but that doesn’t stop her from shooting me a scathing look. “I’m a museum curator.I’mnot the one who’s going to damage this painting.”

I wrap the painting back up and set it aside. “I brought you here because I wanted to show you something.”

“If you’re going to pull your penis out of your pants?—”

I snort a laugh before I can stop myself. “I got a note from Arthur Kirkland a couple of weeks ago.” I hand her the letter, as well as the dossier that his team compiled on her. “You haven’t exactly been subtle, Lucia. You might think you’re flying under the radar, but your crimes are attracting attention, and Kirkland’s team is closer to finding you than you think. They even have an image of you.”

I hand her my phone. She watches the short video, and then plays it again, a frown on her face. “I don’t understand,” she says finally. “There’s not enough here for a computer to do an image match. How did you identify me?”

“The computer might not be able to recognize you, but someone who’s met you can.” I lean forward. “You don’t remember me, do you, cara mia?”

9

LUCIA

It’s been thirty minutes since Antonio Moretti stopped me at the Ponte del Fontego, and the entire time, I’ve been wondering why I’m not more afraid of him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m freaking out, but I’m not nearly as terrified as I should be. I should be blubbering and wetting my pants, and instead, I’ve been defiant and combative.

And now the reason for that comes to me in a flash. The moment he asks if I remember him, I understand why I’ve been strangely comfortable around the starkly gorgeous man.

It’shim.Antonio Moretti, ruthless mafia boss and powerful King of Venice, is the man who rescued me ten years ago. He’s the man who stayed with me the night I buried my parents. If it hadn’t been for his help, I wouldn’t be alive today.

I never knew what he looked like. It had been dark when we talked, and by the time we arrived at the hotel, my vision was too blurry from the vodka I’d been drinking to register his face.

But his voice. . . On some instinctive, subconscious level, I’ve always remembered his voice.

“Ten years ago,” I whisper. “That was you.”

“Yes.”

Fear leaches from my body. Antonio Moretti might have a reputation for ruthlessness, but I cannot believe that the man who protected me on the worst night of my life would hurt me now.

“I never said thank you.” I sink down onto the couch, the painting suddenly inconsequential, and turn toward him. “For finding me a safe place to sleep, and for staying with me that night.” He has the most beautiful ocean-blue eyes, and I could drown in them. “I was so caught up in my own troubles that I left without saying a word, and that wasn’t right. Thank you.”

He looks startled. Is he not used to being thanked? “It was nothing,” he says, sounding almost uncomfortable. He offers me a glass of wine again, and this time, I take it with a nod of thanks. The moment our fingers graze, a tingle runs through me, and it strikes me for the first time that Antonio Moretti is averygood-looking man.

“It’s not nothing. You saved my life. I shouldn’t have left so abruptly. I should have called you. . . ”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because in my fantasies, you were the perfect man, and I didn’t want reality to ruin it.

“I was a wreck,” I reply. “I was in no place to talk to anyone. And when I was finally in a healthier place, too much time had gone by. I didn’t think you’d even remember me.”

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