Page 25 of The Thief

“Whose blood is that?” I ask, taking a step back. “Is it yours?”

He frowns and glances down at his hands. “Ah,” he says, looking like he’s noticing the blood for the first time. “No. It’s from a former employee.”

“What did he do?”

I can tell that he doesn’t want to have this conversation with me. I don’t expect him to answer, but he does anyway. “He broke one of my rules.”

“And so, you beat him up?”

“No,” he replies. “I killed him. Sorry I haven’t had time to clean up.”

There’s absolutely no emotion in his voice. He sounds matter-of-fact as if confessing to murder is a normal and everyday thing to do. If I ever needed proof that my instincts aren’t always right, here it is.

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?” I ask, my voice rising. “That you didn’t have time to wash his blood off your hands? What rule did he break? Did he steal from you?”

The moment those words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. I must be insane to speak to Antonio this way. He is a powerful and ruthless man, not used to people sassing him, and somehow, I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like I instinctively believe I’m in no danger from him.

“No,” he replies. “I had put a stop to collecting protection money from small businesses, and Sartori decided he didn’t like it. He extorted a bunch of small shops along the wharf. Coffee shops, restaurants, grocery stores. One of the owners, a seventy-eight-year-old man, refused to pay, so Sartori burned down his bar and broke his arm and both legs. He’s never going to walk again.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. If Antonio isn’t lying—and why would he bother to lie to me?—then the person he killed deserved to die. Except I’m not used to people taking the law into their own hands.

“If I don’t act clearly and decisively,” he continues, “then everyone will start to believe my rules don’t matter. And I won’t have that.”

Ihatethat I can see his point. “I think I’ll go home now.”

He gives me an exasperated look. “You’re soaking wet,” he says. “At least come inside and dry off first.”

“And then I can leave?”

“If you want, yes. But if you want distraction. . .” His voice hangs in the air.

“What kind of distraction?” I ask suspiciously. “If that’s a proposition, I’m going to pass. Bad boys do nothing for me.”

His blue eyes dance with amusement. “A pity,” he quips. “But I wasn’t suggesting sex. I was thinking we could go on a boat ride around the islands.”

As if on cue, the sun comes out. I hesitate. Yes, he’s possibly a crazy killer, but if I go home, I know I’m going to brood for the rest of the day. Antonio might still have blood on his hands, but hanging out with him is better than spending time alone.

Admit it. You’re attracted to him.

“Fine,” I say. He stretches his hand out again, and this time, I grab it and climb aboard. His grip is strong and assured, unexpectedly hot.

I shiver in response, and he misinterprets the reason. “You’re freezing,” he says. “Come on, the bathroom is this way. You’ll warm up after a hot shower.”

He’s right. Ten minutes later, I’m warm and dry, and I feel much better. There’s a fresh, clean robe on the back of the bathroom door, and I wrap myself in it before heading out to find Antonio.

He’s in the main deck saloon, reading something on his phone, half a dozen paper bags on the table in front of him. When he sees me, he gets to his feet, his gaze moving over me like a heated touch. “Better?”

My stomach does a funny flip. “Much, thank you.” We’ve moved while I was in the shower. The boat is now bobbing in the water, and the island of Venice is a blip in the distance. “Where are we, exactly?”

“South of the island,” he replies. He gestures to the table. “Some dry clothes,” he says. “They might not fit perfectly. I took a guess about the size.”

I move forward to look. There are at least half a dozen outfits on the table, all from designer boutiques that I’m too broke to ever shop at. Jeans, warm woolen sweaters, even underwear, all brand new, all with tags.

When did he have time to arrange this? I’ve only been in the shower for ten minutes. I don’t know what to say. I reach for one of the shopping bags and my robe gapes open. His eyes rest on me for a long minute, and I swallow. Just like it was yesterday, the chemistry between us is a tangible thing. My common sense has gone flying out of the window, and every cell in my body is aware of his presence.

Are you crazy? He killed someone today. He still has blood on his hands.

That reminder isn’t nearly the cold bucket of water it should be. “Does this work?” I ask finally. “Do all the women you bring on theInvictusswoon and fall into your bed?”

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