Page 68 of The Thief

“Furniture.” She pats my arm. “I’m so glad you’re settling in at last, Lucia.”

I murmur something in reply, my brain whirling. What is she talking about? Does she have me confused with someone else? But no, that’s not possible. My neighbor might be in her eighties, but her mind is as sharp as it was ten years ago.

I ride up the elevator with her. When I get to my floor, I unlock my apartment door, push it open, and freeze in my tracks.

Flowers cover every available surface of my living room in riotous shades of blue, yellow, and pink, their fragrance exuding the promise of spring. There are hundreds—no,thousands—of blooms here. This is more than a garden.This is a meadow,beautiful and magical, and only one person could have made it happen.

Antonio strikes again.

I take a step inside. I’m so enamored with the flowers that it takes me a long time to notice the furniture Signora Girelli mentioned.

Ignazio, the guy following me at the antique market, must have kept careful track of everything I liked and admired and reported back to Antonio.Because it’s all here.The rug I liked is spread on the floor, its black-and-white pattern a vivid contrast to the wooden floor. The Moroccan chairs I admired are by the window, a wooden side table nestled between them.

The table is overflowing with flowers, of course, but tucked between the blooms is the pair of blue ceramic candlesticks I fell in love with.

I stare at the furniture, brush the soft petals of the flowers with my fingertips, and bury my face in their fragrance. I don’t know how to react. This is a display of wealth and power, yes. But it’s so much more. This is about paying attention to my needs. Understanding what I want.

Antonio’s always done that. Ten years ago, he gave me exactly what I needed when he walked with me in the middle of the night, offering me companionship while giving me space to grieve.

And now, this apartment doesn’t look like the place where my parents died. It looks like a home I would be delighted to live in.

What are you going to do about the Uffizi?

I head to my bedroom, picking my way carefully among the vases. My air mattress is gone, deflated and neatly folded in a corner. In its place is a bed, a duplicate of the one in Antonio’s bedroom. Same dark wood, same slatted headboard.

And shockingly, the Titian is exactly where I left it.

What is Antonio playing at?

I dial his number, and he picks up on the first ring.

“You broke into my house,” I accuse.

“Guilty as charged,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you like the flowers?”

Like is too mild a word. “They are beautiful.” My voice softens. “Magical.” I take another deep breath and feel the promise of spring. “Are there any flowers left in Venice?”

“I might have cleaned them out,” he says with a chuckle. “They’ll recover.”

I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips. “Why did you buy me furniture?”

“I needed somewhere to set the vases,” he replies as if there aren’t vases all over the floor as well. “It was an entirely self-centered gesture.”

“That explains the side table,” I concede. I’m trying to sound stern, but my giggles threaten to break through. “What about the rug, the chairs, and the bed?”

“The table and chairs came as a set. The rug, because your floor was cold. As for the bed. . .” His voice lowers suggestively. “Your air mattress isn’t going to be sturdy enough for the things I want to do to you, Lucia.”

He says my name like a caress, and liquid desire runs through me in a molten torrent. I wet my lips. “You can’t just buy me stuff.”

He laughs. “You keep telling me what I can and cannot do, little thief. Do you not like the furniture? It can be replaced.”

“I love everything,” I say honestly.

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

He really is the most aggravating person, and yet, I’m smiling like an idiot, and my fingers can’t stop stroking the petals of the daffodils closest to me.

“Do you. . .” I hesitate, then plunge forward. “Do you want to grab dinner sometime next week? There’s a trattoria in my neighborhood. It’s not fancy, but. . .”

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