Page 24 of The Thief

Leo’s phone rings. He listens to what the person on the other end of the line is saying, and then he turns to me. “Lucia Petrucci is visiting the cemetery where her parents are buried,” he says. “She seems in distress. Dante thought you’d like to know.”

Dante is an interfering son of a bitch, but he’s right: I do want to know. “Take care of this,” I tell Leo. He can handle the details of Lanza’s exile: I have something more important to do.

13

LUCIA

Once Valentina leaves, the day stretches in front of me, a vast and daunting expanse of time. I’ve been using this quest for the Titian as an anesthetic, and now that my search has been abruptly cut short, I don’t know what to do.

God, I miss my mom and my dad so very much. I would give anything for one more evening with them. One more conversation, one more meal, one more afternoon stroll through Venice.

Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been avoiding visiting their graves. On Sunday though, I feel a sudden yearning to go, and so I get dressed in jeans and a bulky red sweater and head out.

I run into my downstairs neighbor, Signora Girelli, on my way out. It’s been ten years since I last saw her, and she must be in her eighties now, but other than looking a little frailer, she hasn’t changed one bit.

“Lucia,” she says when she sees me, her face alight with pleasure. “Bruno told me you’d come back.” She envelops me in a hug. “It’s good to see you, my dear. How long has it been?”

“Ten years.”

“That long,” she marvels. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the funeral, my dear. I was hoping to see you afterward, but you left so abruptly.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Not that I blame you. Your father’s death must have been such a shock.”

“Not just my father’s,” I say stiffly. “I didn’t know my mother was sick. She hid her diagnosis from me.” My mom’s hairdresser asked me at the funeral why I didn’t come home when I found out about her cancer. She was the only one direct enough to ask me, but surely everyone there was thinking the same thing.Their only child and she didn’t even come home when she found out about Teresa’s illness.They might not have said it to my face, but I could feel their judgment.

My elderly neighbor sucks in a breath. “Oh, Lucia, I’m so sorry. What a terrible, terrible way to find out. It’s no wonder you’ve stayed away from home for such a long time.” She pats my hand. “But I’m really glad you’re back, my dear. So glad.”

“I’m not staying,” I say immediately before she can get the wrong idea. “I have a short-term contract at the Palazzo Ducale. I’m only here for five months.” I can’t bear to see the look of pity on her face. “I have to go, Signora Girelli.”

I escape from the conversation and practically run down the street. It’s a bleak, overcast day, and the weather matches my mood. It starts to drizzle while I’m on the Vaporetto, and by the time I reach the cemetery on the island of San Michele, it’s raining hard.

But I can’t bring myself to care. It’s been ten years, and all I can do is sink to my knees next to the small stone tablet that marks their graves and cry. I weep and weep and weep, tears rolling unchecked down my cheeks, mourning everything I lost in a flash ten years ago. There’s a void inside me, an ache that has never gone away. I hug myself and sit by their graveside, and eventually, the fit of sobbing stops, and I realize that while the rain has stopped, I’m completely soaked through and shivering uncontrollably.

A hand falls on my shoulder. “Lucia,” Antonio Moretti says. “Come with me.”

I look up. “Where?” I ask, though I genuinely don’t care. I feel wrung out and drained, and also cold. The king of Venice can do his worst: it’s not going to make me feel any worse. “Why are you here? Are you following me?”

“Do you know, most people don’t interrogate my every move,” he comments, helping me to my feet. “They just say, yes, Padrino, and do as they’re told.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Padrino. Should I salute as well? What a very boring life you must lead, with everyone jumping over themselves to do your bidding. Have you ever thought that you need a little challenge?”

“Is that why you’re trying to steal from me? As a little challenge?” He takes off his coat and drapes it around my shoulders, then puts his hand at the small of my back and steers me to the docks.

I let myself be led. “Itriedto steal from you. Past tense. I got warned against doing it. Any of that ring any bells?”

“Giving up so easily?” he counters with a twitch of his lips. “Interesting. I didn’t have you pegged as a quitter. You went back for Rory Stewart’s Chagalltwice. I’m a little offended that I don’t rate a second attempt.”

“Rory Stewart didn’t abduct me in broad daylight,” I point out. “He didn’t threaten me, and he’s not a mafia boss, and I’m pretty sure he won’t murder me and dump me in the canal as a penalty for stealing his painting. You, on the other hand. . .”

“I didn’t threaten you,” he replies calmly. “I gave you a warning. If I threatened you, trust me, you’d know.”

We’ve reached the docks. Ahead of me is a familiar-looking twenty-five-meter speedboat with the winged lion of San Marco painted on the side. I’m looking at theInvictus, the boat that Valentina picked me up in.

I stop in my tracks. “This isyourboat,” I say accusingly. “You’re the friend Valentina borrowed it from.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, jumping on board and reaching for me. “I told you she works for me, didn’t I? I’m shocked that you didn’t figure it out.”

“You’d be shocked how little time I spend thinking of you,” I lie, and he laughs out loud. I reach for his offered hand and see a flash of red. His knuckles are covered with blood.

If I ever needed a reminder that Antonio Moretti is a dangerous man, it’s in front of me.

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