Page 76 of The Thief

“Looks like some of them have started to wilt.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me?—”

“Hang on,” I say sternly. “Tell me you’re not going to buy—how many dozens of flowers did you even send me?”

“Three hundred and three.”

“Three hundred and three dozen?” My voice rises in pitch, and I stare at him in utter incredulity. Who sends someone. . . That’s over a thousand. . . Hang on. “That’s a very specific number, Antonio. Explain.”

“It’s one flower for every day since I met you.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal and holds out his hand. “The only way forward is through, cara mia. You’ll feel better once this is done.”

One flower for every day since I met you.I’m still reeling from his casually dropped revelation. It is, without a doubt, the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I want to hug my flowers close to my chest again and never let them go.

I look at him, my throat tight with unsaid things, and then I link my hand through his. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

* * *

We taketheInvictusto the mainland. For the first time, I notice that the winged lion of San Marco painted on the side of the boat has its wings tightly furled, a sword between its paws.

Huh.

One of Antonio’s ever-present bodyguards—Goran, I think—gets the boat underway. I follow Antonio to the lounge. “Did you know that according to legend, the lion’s wings are open during times of peace and prosperity and closed on the eve of war?” I give him a sidelong look. “Are you always at war?”

“I used to think so,” he replies quietly. “I thought that strife was woven into the warp and the weft of my life. Now, I’m starting to reassess.”

I swallow. This moment feels intimate, and I’m a coward, because I immediately change the topic. “Talking about strife, you stole my painting.”

He chuckles. “Yourpainting now, is it? I don’t think so, little thief.” He reaches out and bops my nose with a grin. “All weekend, I waited for you to call me in outrage.”

“I didn’t find out until yesterday. Dottore Garzolo wanted to look at it. He was prepared to examine it closely, and I freaked out. And then I realized it was the real thing.” I glance at him, a question on my face. “I expected you to steal it. I definitely didn’t expect you to return it to the Palazzo Ducale. Why did you do it?”

Laughter dances in his eyes. “Maybe the painting in the museum has been real the entire time.”

“Hilarious.”

“You don’t sound amused, cara mia. Surely you’re not mad that I returned the Titian to the Palazzo Ducale? My favorite thief has a Robin-Hood-esque, altruistic streak, and I was just paying homage to her.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You’re still not telling me why.”

“It would have been too predictable to keep it.”

No, that isn’t it. “That’s not the whole truth.”

He smiles. “It’s at least some of it. As for the rest. . .” He lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “You left yourself open. If the museum discovered the Titian was fake, you would be the first person that suspicion would fall on. Even if you were never charged with the crime, the damage would be done. The whisper network would ensure that you’d never work in a museum again.”

He’s absolutely right. But that still doesn’t explain why he did it. After all, this is the painting Antonio cherished so much that he couldn’t bear to give it up, even when he desperately needed to. I remember what he said: he was sick and Enzo and Tatiana begged him to sell the painting and use the money to find somewhere warm to stay, but he wouldn’t do it.

He gave up the paintingfor me.

And my heart is so full I want to burst into tears.

It’s been ten years since my parents died, but it’s not time that’s healed me. It’s being back in Venice and allowing new, good memories to layer over the old, painful ones. Antonio coming to my rescue when I was sobbing at my parents’ graveside, then taking me out on his boat to cheer me up. Sending me his blue and white vase because I fell in love with it. Filling my apartment with spring flowers. Challenging me to steal his painting from him, giving me a purpose and a goal that distracted me from the ache of my parents’ absence.

I take a deep breath and let myself dream about a future with Antonio. Sitting with him in his kitchen, morning sunlight streaming in through the French doors, talking about art over multiple cups of coffee. Walking through the antique stores and picking up eclectic pieces that catch our eyes. Bantering with him, laughing with him, loving him.

But that’s only one side of the coin. The flip side is that Antonio will always be in danger. He will always have armed bodyguards following him around, and there will always be a security team monitoring his house.

If I’m with him, I’ll have to be prepared for the possibility that he could vanish like my parents did. One moment, he could be alive and the next gunned down in a hail of fire.

Am I ready for that? Am I ready to open myself up to the possibility of love when love leads to crippling loss?

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