Page 66 of The Thief

“Do you think they’ve given up?” one of the stevedores asks when he comes to report on their progress.

“No. I doubt it’s going to be that easy: these things never are.” It’s much more likely that they’re reacting to the countermeasures I asked Tomas to take. Tomas is a genius, and he’s systematically destroying them, one investment at a time.

But just because Gafur is currently busy defending themselves against our hostilities doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. “You’re doing a great job,” I tell the man in front of me. “Keep doing it for a few more weeks.”

I get back to headquarters and try to review some files, but I’m distracted all day. At two, I give up and head to Lucia’s apartment building. The front lock takes me less than a minute to pick, and the elevator doesn’t work.

“Get someone in here to fix this mess,” I tell Stefano, my shadow of the day, as we climb the four flights of stairs to Lucia’s apartment. It’s been broken for more than a month; what the hell is the building owner doing?

“Yes, Padrino.”

Lucia’s lock is just as easy to pick. I enter and look around. She still doesn’t have any furniture. There’s one solitary fold-up chair in the living room, and that’s it. No food in her kitchen either—both the pantry and refrigerator are bare.

This is someone with one foot out the door.

She needs furniture. Not the stuff in her parents’ storage unit but furniture of her own. Something that can represent a fresh start and make her want to stay.

I go into her bedroom. There’s a blow-up mattress on the floor and a laptop resting on the pillow, but that’s not what draws my attention.

It’s the painting propped casually against the wall. My Titian. Still in her apartment, still unreturned to the Palazzo Ducale.

A grin forms on my face.

I’m not going to steal it—not exactly. That would be too predictable. No, I’m going to do something else.

Whistling under my breath, I head out to put my plan into action.

35

LUCIA

After work on Friday, I text Valentina and make sure she’s up for company, then drop by her place.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got migraines?” I demand as soon as she opens the door.

“Hello to you too,” she replies dryly. “Come on in. You want something to drink? I just made myself a cup of tea.”

Valentina always has the best teas. “Yes, please.” I enter her apartment, take off my boots, and hang up my jacket.

“Who told you about my migraines?” she asks as she pours me a cup of something that smells like vanilla and caramel. Yum. “Was it Antonio?”

I nod, and her eyes dance with mirth. “Tell me more,” she says in a singsong voice. “I want all the details. The private room at Casanova Antonio dragged you to and the very intimate dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in the city—tell me everything.”

I settle on her couch and tuck my feet under me. “You go first.”

“I got migraines,” she replies with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I started getting them when I was pregnant, and I’ve been getting them ever since. I’ve been to a neurologist and done all the tests. Nobody can find anything wrong. It’s just one of those little annoyances of life, that’s all.” She eyes me pointedly. “And I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d freak out, just like you’re freaking out right now.”

It doesn’t sound like one of life’s little annoyances to me; it sounds like a big deal. But, as Valentina pointed out, I don’t have any perspective about people getting sick. At any mention of illness, I panic and overreact.

“I don’t like when people keep secrets from me,” I murmur. “Especially about things like this.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But I’m not your mother. If there’s anything to worry about, I will tell you. And not only because you’re Angelica’s godmother, but because you’re my best friend.”

She’s making me sniffle. “That reminds me. Antonio said Angelica was with Dante. I didn’t know he was her uncle.”

Surprise flashes across her face. “I didn’t tell you? Sorry about that. Yeah, he took her so I could have a quiet evening alone without worrying about her.” She makes a face. “Whatever else I might think of him, he’s a good uncle. He dotes on her.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, whatever else you might think of him?”

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