Page 20 of The Thief

Igo through my evening routine on autopilot. As usual, there’s nothing in my refrigerator, so I head to the small restaurant around the corner where I’ve been eating my meals. The proprietor smiles in greeting when I walk in. “The usual? Or would you like to try the special of the day?”

The usual is a plate of pasta, cooked with whatever sauce she has lying around. It’s a quick and cheap meal, but not a particularly good one. “What’s the special of the day?”

“Sepe in Umido,” she responds.

Sepe in Umido is a cuttlefish stew cooked with tomatoes, garlic, and white wine. It’s one of those classically Venetian dishes that you just can’t get anywhere else. I’ve avoided it for the last ten years the way I’ve avoided everything Venetian: the memories just brought too much pain. But now I think of that savory, briny sauce, and my stomach rumbles.

“I’ll have the special.”

Signora Stanescu stops in her tracks. “You want the special?” she repeats. “Not the pasta?”

Her surprise is understandable—for almost a month, she’s been asking me if I want the daily special and for almost a month, I’ve turned her down. I just haven’t cared enough to eat well.

“I figure it’s time for a change,” I reply.

She studies me carefully. “You look different today.”

“Different, how?”

“You look. . . energized. You come here every night, and you always look so sad and lost. Not today. Today, you look alive.” She pats my back. “With your stew, you want bread or polenta?”

* * *

I expectto lie awake for hours, the way I have every single night, but that night, sleep comes easily. I drift off without even realizing it, and the next thing I know, someone is banging on my door.

I crack an eyelid and grope for my phone. It’s seven in the morning. What the hell? That’s far too early for a Sunday. Even the church bells are silent, damn it.

Is it Antonio? What does he want now?

I slide out of bed, put a robe on, and go out to investigate.

When I open it, Valentina is there with Angelica, her face pale and tense. The moment she sees me, she sags against the doorframe in relief. “You’re okay.”

“Umm, yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” I raise an eyebrow at my goddaughter, wondering if she knows what’s going on, and Angelica just shrugs her shoulders. “Come on in.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” she says, spluttering in outrage. She marches in, Angelica at her heels. She looks around my living room, and I expect her to point out I still don’t have any furniture. Instead, she pulls an iPad out of her bag and hands it to her daughter. “Watch something, baby,” she says. “I need to talk to your Aunt Lucia alone.”

I’m mystified. I let her drag me into my bedroom. She shuts the door behind her and whirls around. “Are you okay?” she demands. “Truly okay?”

“Yes.Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is you and Antonio Moretti at his house yesterday. Ring any bells?” She shakes her head. “I told you to leave the Titian alone, and you didn’t listen to me, did you? You got caught.”

“I did,” I admit sheepishly. It’s a little embarrassing and ego-bruising how easily I’d fallen into Antonio’s trap. My pride is still stinging.

She throws her hands up in the air. “Lucia, do you ever listen to anything I say?” She takes a deep breath in a visible effort to calm herself. “Did he hurt you?”

“What? No.”

She looks me up and down as if to satisfy herself that I’m telling the truth. “Tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

“Okay.” I sink onto my air mattress and pat my side. She joins me, aiming a disapproving glare at my poor imitation of the bed. “When are you going to get yourself proper furniture? You’ve been here long enough. Or are you going to sleep on an air mattress all five months?”

“And there it is,” I say with a grin. “You must have really been worried about me if you waited this long to nag me about the lack of furniture in this apartment.”

“I’ve been going out of my mind with worry, and you’re making jokes?”

She looks like she wants to murder me. Before she’s forced to commit homicide, I distract her with my story. “When you wouldn’t tell me anything about the painting, I went to Signora Zanotti. She told me the Titian was in Daniel Rossi’s possession.”

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