Page 65 of The Thief

And you’re still not in a relationship,I tell myself firmly.Neither are you interested in being in one. Antonio is a wonderful distraction, but that’s all he is.

But I’m lying to myself. If I leave Venice, I’ll miss Valentina, but I’ll miss Antonio more. It’s not the banter and the cat-and-mouse games, and it’s not the insane chemistry. I just instinctively know that we would be good together, if only I had the courage to try.

This is why you need to leave. The Uffizi is a lifeline that came at the perfect time.

That voice of caution is right. I just left Antonio’s place a few hours ago, and I’m already thinking about when I’m going to see him again. When the phone rang, I thought it’d be him. Warning signals are flashing in my brain, and I’m ignoring them blithely and running full speed toward heartbreak.

I need to stick to my original plan. My contract at the Palazzo Ducale was for five months. That’s how long I planned to stay in Venice. That’s why I haven’t bought any furniture and why I’m still sleeping on a blowup mattress.

I don’t want to run again, and I don’t want to leave Venice. But I know that if the Uffizi offers me a job, I’m going to accept it. Because it takes courage to commit to someone, and I don’t have any.

I’m too afraid to try and risk heartbreak.

34

ANTONIO

Ican’t get Lucia out of my mind. I have meetings on Friday morning—urgent matters to attend to—but instead of focusing on work, my thoughts keep returning to Lucia.

I wanted to wake up next to her; I wanted her to meet my friends. But she didn’t do any of those things. The moment I invited her to stay the night, she ran.

That’s okay. I can be patient when I have to be.

I get out of the shower and glance around my bedroom. Lucia wore my shirt last night when we took a break from our marathon lovemaking session to get something to drink. I lift it up and breathe deeply. It smells like Lucia, like spring flowers and sunshine. Rather than tossing it in the wash, I put it on so her scent can cling to my body.

I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager, and I don’t even care.

Buttoning up my cuffs, I head downstairs. Agnese is in the foyer, arranging flowers in a vase. “You had company last night?” she asks me.

“Yes.”

The flowers give me an idea—Lucia’s bouquet, the one I sent her last week, must be wilted by now, so I call the florist to place another order. “I need. . .” I do some quick math. One stem for every day since I met her for the first time. Ten years and a month, add in extra days for leap years. . . “Three hundred and five dozen blooms. Lilacs, hyacinths, daffodils, peonies, snowdrops—I want it to look and smell like spring.”

“Certainly, Signor Moretti. Three hundred and five blooms. Where would you like to have it delivered?”

“No,” I correct her. “Three hundred and fivedozen.”

There’s a moment of pure silence. “But that’s over three thousand blooms,” she says faintly. “Umm, when do you need them?”

“This afternoon.” I want Lucia’s apartment overflowing with flowers when she gets home from work. I want it to look like a garden. Her mother died in that apartment; her father killed himself there. I don’t want to remove that memory—that’s not possible—but I want to give her an alternative one. Life is not just about pain—there’s sweetness there, too, and joy if you let yourself experience it.

“This afternoon,” she repeats in shock. “But Signor Moretti. . .”

“Is there a problem?”

“Umm, we don’t stock that many flowers,” she says nervously. “I don’t think anyone in Venice does. I’ll have to call around?—”

“Do whatever it takes,” I respond, cutting her off. “Just get it done. They need to be delivered to Castello.” I give her Lucia’s address. “I’ll be there to let you in.”

Agnese beams at me when I hang up. “You like this girl, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Like isn’t the right word. It doesn’t capture the rightness I feel around Lucia. She centers me.

“Well, I’m glad. You’ve been alone too long. What’s the point of all this”—she gestures around my house—“without someone to share it with?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” I tell her dryly. “For the moment, I’ll settle for her not freaking out every time I invite her to dinner.”

I leave Agnese to her dusting and go to our headquarters. It’d be easier to stop thinking about Lucia if Gafur did something to retaliate, but they’ve been quiet all week. They’ve done nothing aggressive since beating up Sandro Rizzi. We’re not finding containers of weapons either. It’s almost as if they’ve found a different way to smuggle their weapons that doesn’t involve Venice.

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