Page 45 of The Thief

I can’t risk Lucia getting hurt.

As much as I want otherwise, I’m going to stay the hell away from her.

23

LUCIA

My rage sees me through the next couple of days, but it evaporates by the time the weekend rolls around. I wake up on Saturday feeling completely flat.

It doesn’t help that I wake to an empty apartment. It seems like a metaphor for my life, bare and devoid of warmth. The only color comes from Antonio’s overflowing vase of flowers.

Walking away from Antonio was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t feel that way. Instead, I’m struggling with the sense that I stomped on a frail seedling before it could grow into a beautiful flower.

I admired his blue-and-white vase, and so he sent it to me, filled with my favorite flowers. He bought me lingerie that matches my eyes. I walked in on his meeting, and instead of being annoyed at the interruption, he told me he always had time for me.

Then he lifted me onto his desk, spanked my pussy, and brought me to a screaming orgasm.

And even now, remembering that orgasm sends a shiver of pure arousal through me.

Damn it.

People at work are still talking about the ship that was blown up in the harbor, but even though it should serve as a sobering reminder, I’m finding it difficult to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t get involved with the mafia boss. Fantasy Antonio is giving way to the real man, and, unfortunately for me, the real-life Antonio is terrifyingly attractive.

He threw you out of his office.

Yes, he did. But only after I turned down his dinner invitation. Maybe I should be angry with him, but I know why he did it. After all, I am an expert on self-preservation, on pulling away before somebody gets a chance to hurt you.

If I stayed, would we have fucked? Would I have spent the night in his bed, in his arms? A couple of weeks ago, he invited me to the antique market. If I stayed, would the two of us be heading to the Piazzola sul Brenta together this morning?

Enough. You made the right decision. Stop wallowing.

I jump out of bed, shower quickly, and get dressed. As usual, my refrigerator is empty, and today, I’m determined to fix that. I might not have any furniture, but there’s no reason I can’t start cooking. I can’t eat at neighborhood trattorias the entire time I’m in Venice.

First stop: the farmer’s market.

I call Valentina on the way there to find out if she wants to join me, but her phone goes directly to voicemail. I text her my plans and then dedicate myself to finding bread, vegetables, and, most importantly, wine.

It is a sunny day, clear, cold, and crisp. The market is busy, everyone taking advantage of the good weather. Young couples hold hands as they shop. Children dart between stalls, and mothers push strollers. Scenes of happy domesticity are everywhere.

My parents were happily married, and as a teenager, I always assumed I would be too. But when my parents died, I swore off love. I’ve never dated anyone seriously, and I’ve avoided relationships with passion. I’ve lived the last ten years convinced that I never want to be as vulnerable, as broken as I was in the aftermath of their deaths.

Being back in Venice is causing my beliefs to crumble. Now that I’m home, I’m starting to question my life choices. Meeting Antonio again is making me wonder what would happen if I let myself get involved with him.

A bouquet of hothouse white roses catches my eye, and I stop to smell them. The vendor gives me a persuasive smile. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They are.” I glance at the price tag and wince. “But too expensive for me.” A fresh-faced young man next to me is studying the flowers seriously, his expression thoughtful. Maybe he’s buying something for his sweetheart and trying to decide what she’d like best?

I resist the roses but get a small ivy plant in a yellow container. I head home to drop off my groceries and then decide to go to the antique market.

Alone.

I need to snap out of my funk, and there’s only one surefire way of doing that. Stealing a painting. Valentina narrowed down the list of targets, and I did take a look at them, but nothing jumped out at me. There’s a part of me that’s tempted to steal Arthur Kirkland’s entire Nazi-looted art collection, but that’s an ambitious job that would require a lot of planning.

And I’m running out of time. It’s already November. I always steal a painting between December and January, my own twisted way of remembering my parents. But this year, distracted as I am with being back in Venice—and with Antonio—I haven’t even identified a target.

I wander through the market aimlessly, my thoughts churning. I pause by a pair of hand-carved wood and leather chairs from Morocco, but the price makes me change my mind. Same with a black-and-white rug. I linger over a pair of ceramic blue candlesticks but pass on them as well. What’s the point? I’m not staying in Venice. I’ll be gone in a few months.

The same stall with the candlesticks also has a painting of a red vase with yellow flowers in the back. My eyes keep returning to it, and it takes me a moment to realize why. It reminds me of my mother’s art. In fact, this might even be one of hers; she sold them from time to time as a way to supplement her thieving income.

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