Page 32 of The Thief

I sigh in exasperation. “He didn’t tell you. I wish I could say I was surprised. Signor Rossi owns a painting of some value, and he’s arranged to loan it to the Palazzo Ducale. They’re picking it up on Wednesday.”

“He didn’t say anything about this to us,” the woman replies, half-suspicious, half-annoyed.

“He didn’t say anything to me either,” I invent wildly. “He forgot all about it. If the museum hadn’t called me, I don’t know what would have happened. Honestly, that man is so absent-minded that I don’t know how he manages to dress himself every day.” I have no idea what Rossi is like, but hopefully, neither does this moving company employee. “Men.”

“Tell me about it,” she agrees with a snort. “My husband doesn’t know how to pick up after himself. I went away to visit my mother for three days, and when I came back, the house was in shambles. What would they do without us? Okay, I’ll add a note on the file about the painting. You said someone from the museum will be picking it up?”

“Yes.” I bite back my smile. It’s too early to celebrate; I’m not in the clear yet. “Her name is Lucia Petrucci. I can’t meet her there, Signor Rossi needs me to go to Milan on Wednesday. What time will the movers be at the apartment? I’ll ask her to pick the painting up at the same time.”

“I’m not sure,” she replies. “Why don’t you just ask her to pick it up from our facility? It would be easier.”

Yes!I was hoping she’d suggest that. On the off-chance that Rossi’s building is being watched, it’s a lot safer if I don’t show up anywhere in that vicinity. “You’re right,” I agree gratefully. “That is a lot easier. I’ll ask Signorina Petrucci to pick up the painting sometime on Thursday.”

“Tell her to go to the Mestre location,” she helpfully adds. “I don’t work in the mornings, but my colleague, Sonya, will be there to assist. If she gets there in the afternoon, though, I’ll be there. My name is Maria.”

“Thank you, Maria,” I say with a grin. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”

I’ma little concerned that Rossi might move the fake Titian before the move, so on Wednesday evening, I settle in a coffee shop across the street from the building and watch the movers in action. I luck out and see one of them carry out a small, flat plywood box that very likely holds the painting I want.

First thing Thursday morning, I’m at the movers’ facility in Mestre. “My name is Lucia Petrucci,” I tell Sonya with perfect honesty, flashing my museum ID at her. “I’m here to pick up a painting from Daniel Rossi’s unit?”

“Yes,” Sonya replies. “We’ve been expecting you.”

My heartbeat speeds up. “You have?”

“Yes,” she replies, picking up a ring of keys and lumbering to her feet. “Maria put a note on the file. Follow me.”

Sonya leads me to Rossi’s unit. The plywood box is the first thing I see when she opens the door. “That’s it,” I say, relief shuddering through me. “That’s the painting.”

She doesn’t even make me sign for it. I pick up the box and walk out of the facility, my spine tingling, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. I’m fully expecting Antonio to sneak up on me again. Fully expecting him to look me up and down with his wickedly mesmerizing blue eyes before ordering me to hand him the painting.

Nobody intercepts me on my way back. I stuff the painting into my backpack and walk into the museum, thirty minutes later than usual, and put the fake Titian back in the dusty storage room I found it in.

Am I slightly disappointed that Antonio was nowhere to be seen? No. Of course not. That would beinsane.Am I feeling a little deflated? Yes, but that’s just the adrenaline crash after a successful heist. It’s perfectly normal to feel a little flat, and it hasnothingto do with a gorgeously seductive mafia boss.

Nothing at all.

17

ANTONIO

Ispend the next couple of days trying to ferret out how strong of a foothold the Russians have already gained in Northern Italy. And so, it isn’t until Friday that I find out that Lucia has stolen the fake Titian from the storage facility.

Stefano reports the news to me nervously, bracing himself against my displeasure. “I’m very sorry, Padrino,” he says. “I just assumed she was visiting the unit where her belongings are in storage. I didn’t realize?—”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, cutting him off. I watch the security footage of Lucia entering the moving facility and offering up her museum ID to the employee there and laugh out loud. I have to hand it to her. This was a stunningly simple heist that only worked because it was so brazen and unexpected. None of us would have expected her to just walk up to the storage unit and demand the fake Titian.

“What do you want me to do?” Stefano asks.

“Nothing. I’ll take care of this one myself.”

I’m one of the Palazzo Ducale’s biggest donors. Every year, I write them a massive check, and every year, the museum director, Gisele Sabatino, writes to me with effusive gratitude. Once Stefano leaves, I pull up the director’s latest letter. She thanks me for my generous gift, gives me an update on the important conservation work the museum is doing, and most importantly, invites me to visit anytime. “The chief curator would be delighted to give you a private tour of our collection,” she writes.

I’m not interested in a tour by the chief curator. But a private tour with the newly hired assistant curator in charge of conservation and collections management? That, I wouldlove.

Still laughing, I head toward La Piazza.

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