Page 18 of The Thief

He holds my gaze in his. “I remember,” he says, his voice as smooth as a potent whiskey and just as dangerous. “You’re impossible to forget.”

Sitting as close to him as I am, I can feel the heat from his body. A shiver runs through me. The fact that Antonio Moretti is a dangerous mafia boss doesn’t seem to matter right now. Not when he’s sitting on the couch next to me, a glass of wine cradled in his large hands, staring at me with heat in his eyes.

The air between us charges with anticipation.

I want him to kiss me.

That thought strikes me with the force of a thunderclap. The last time we met, I was too numb and too drunk to pay attention to the chemistry between us, but I recognize it now. I feel myself moving toward Antonio almost imperceptibly. For ten years, I’ve looked at the card he left, traced my fingers over his writing, and wondered what-if? And now he’s here, and I don’t have to wonder anymore. I could just touch him, trail my fingers over the tattoos on his forearms. . .

“I wanted to sleep with you,” I murmur. “That night.”

“I know,” he responds, a smile in his voice. “You weren’t very subtle about it.”

“Why didn’t you take me up on it?”

“I like my women conscious, for one thing. You passed out as soon as you hit the bed. But even if you weren’t drunk, I wouldn’t have. You weren’t in the right place.”

“And now?” We’re both tap-dancing around it, but neither of us is oblivious to the chemistry between us.

“And now you’re back home.”

Home.That word is an unpleasant jolt of reality. Because I might be in Venice, but I’m not home. ‘Home’ was ripped away from me when my parents died.

“Not for long. I have a five-month contract, and then I’m out of here.” Why am I telling him anything? I’m sure that my departure won’t matter to Antonio. “I’m only in Venice because. . .”

“Valentina needed you,” he replies. “Yes, I know.”

Ice trickles down my spine. “How did you know that?” I demand. “Only Valentina knows why I’m here. How did you find out? Did you threaten her, too?”

“I didn’t have to,” he replies calmly. “She works for me.”

My best friend works for a mafia boss?

A sour pit opens in my stomach. I’ve always trusted Valentina; I’ve never once doubted her loyalty. Have I been a fool?

“Did she know you were setting a trap for me?” I demand shakily, my hands clenching into fists.

He hears the tension in my voice, and a frown creases his forehead. “No,” he says. “Valentina knows I own the Titian but nothing else. I took some pains to ensure she wouldn’t find anything else. Had she discovered what I was planning, she would have warned you.”

His words are intended to be reassuring, but they’re not. They only serve to highlight how powerful Antonio Moretti is. Arthur Kirkland sent him a letter warning him about an art thief, Alvisa Zanotti owes him a favor, and now, Valentina works for him.

Antonio protected me on the worst night of my life, and because of that, over the last ten years, I’ve built him up to be a heroic, mythic figure. I’ve fantasized about him, daydreamed about him falling in love with me, buying me roses in the market, and bringing me breakfast in bed.

When I was a thousand miles away from Venice, when he was a distant figure from my past, the fantasies I constructed—about him, about us—were safe.

They’re not now.

I need to get out of here before I do something I regret. Antonio might be a sexy man, but he’s also a very dangerous one, and I can’t allow myself to forget that. His words play in my mind.You can waste your time screaming if you’d like, but it won’t do any good.

“Why did you really bring me here, Antonio?” I ask again. “Was it only to show me that video? Okay, I’ve seen it, and you’ve taken the Titian from me.” I inch away from him, from the distracting heat of his body, the heat that’s making me light-headed and foolish. “Are we done?”

An ironic smile creases his face. “Almost.” He drains the rest of his wine and rises to his feet. “It’s good to see you again, Lucia,” he says. “I enjoyed our conversation, and I’m glad you’re back home. But if you’re going to live in Venice, you should know the rules.”

A mask falls over his face, and the man I thought I knew disappears. “Valentina told you to stay away from my painting, and you didn’t listen,” the king of Venice says. “So, consider this your first and only warning. The Titian belongs to me, and it’s going to stay in my possession. I will turn a blind eye to your crimes as long as they occur elsewhere. Just not in my city. Are we clear on that?”

My temper flares. Several unwise retorts rise to my lips, but I bite them back. This man is not the prince of my fantasies; he’s the head of themafia.And I can’t let myself forget that.

“Yes,” I respond bitterly. “I understand.”

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