Page 75 of The Thief

“Two weeks, maybe. A month at most.”

Dante likes Valentina; I’m sure of it. He should look pleased about the move, but he doesn’t. He looks almost tortured, and I don’t understand why.

“The threat has escalated? Antonio didn’t say anything to me.” We didn’t talk over the weekend, but we exchanged a couple of texts. I tripped over a vase getting out of bed and texted him that it was his fault. He replied by offering to send me more flowers, a quick exchange that left me with a smile on my face.

“That’s not surprising,” Dante’s tone is matter-of-fact. “He wouldn’t have wanted to worry you. The Padrino is going to protect you like he always has. You’re safe; you have nothing to fear.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, he’s always protected me?”

He winces. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I have to know. “Please?” I ask imploringly.

He sighs. “Ten years ago, when you first met Antonio, there was a man who hurt you, yes?”

I nod.

“That was Marco. Because of what he did, Antonio ordered Marco out of the city and told him that if he ever stepped foot in Venice again, he would personally kill him. Unfortunately, Antonio wasn’t yet the Padrino; Domenico Cartozzi was. And Marco was his nephew.” A wry expression fills his face. “As you can imagine, that created a bit of a situation. But Antonio, being Antonio, wouldn’t back down. It wasn’t the right time for him to attempt to take over, and he almost failed. But luckily for us all, he didn’t. And here we are.”

That’s a lot to process. “Wow,” I murmur. “I did not know any of that.”

He gestures to the stove behind me, where the milk is on the verge of boiling over. “You probably should turn down the stove.”

I finish making the hot chocolate, and Dante takes it out to Angelica. I stay in the kitchen. This is the first chance I’ve had to really think about the Titian, and I need a moment to digest everything.

Antonio returned the Titian to the Palazzo Ducale. As happy as I am about it, it also means that I haven’t stolen a painting to mark my parents’ deaths.

I should be freaking out. The tenth anniversary of their deaths is only a few weeks away, and there should be a pit of clawing anxiety in my gut about my failure to complete my heist. This is the one thing I’ve done every year; my one way of remembering them and holding them close, and on this milestone anniversary, I’ve come up short.

But somehow, it’s not bothering me as much as it usually would. That cloying anxiety isn’t there. I feel content. I’m still going to steal that Jacopo Bassano from Gavin Powell—the man is an asshole who absolutely deserves to be targeted—but I’m going to do it because I want to. Not because I’m burning up with desperation.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that the king of Venice is responsible for this change.

39

LUCIA

My Tuesday goes much the same way as my Monday. I do my best not to think about my impending date with Antonio, but it’s not easy. Colleagues keep dropping by to chat with me, treating me like one of them, not like the lowly contract employee they’ve tucked away in a dusty corner of the museum. I’m just as surly as I was yesterday, but it doesn’t deter them.

I get home at half past five. I’ve barely kicked off my shoes when the doorbell rings.

It’s Antonio. He’s wearing an impeccably tailored suit, a white shirt, and a subtly patterned tie. His hair is brushed, he’s freshly shaved, and he looks good enough that I want to skip dinner and drag him into my bedroom instead.

My heart speeds up. “You’re early,” I accuse, a smile breaking out on my face. “I’m not ready; I just got back from work. I thought we said seven.”

“We did,” he agrees. “But before dinner, I thought we could go to your parents’ storage unit in Mestre.”

I wait for the usual tidal wave of pain to hit me at the thought of seeing their belongings again, but it doesn’t come. Like the clawing anxiety that should have gone through me when I realized I might not be able to steal a painting this year but hadn’t. My heart is still tender, and the scar will always be there, but the raw, gaping wound has healed.

“They’ll be closed by the time we get there,” I respond. “The only weeknight they’re open late is Thursday. I should have gone this weekend.”

He just looks at me, and I stop talking. “Let me guess. They’ve agreed to stay open late for you, haven’t they?”

“I didn’t even have to threaten anyone,” he quips. “What do you think?”

You’re the most thoughtful person I know.

I give him a cheeky grin. “I don’t know. I mean, how will I find room for furniture?” I wave at the flower-covered room behind me. “It’s not like there’s a lot of space left.”

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