Page 84 of The Thief

She lifts her chin up. “Are you going to tell me not to go?”

I’m not an idiot: if I answer her question the way I want to, it’s going to backfire spectacularly.

“If I told you not to, would you listen?” I shake my head. “Lucia, I. . . I want to be with you. Ever since I saw Arthur Kirkland’s security footage, there’s been no one else for me. You are the only woman I want. The only woman I need.”

Her eyes go round. “I don’t want to jeopardize our relationship,” I continue. “But I really don’t like the idea of you flying into danger alone.”

A slow smile spreads on her face. “You don’t want to be with anyone else?”

“Did you not hear a word I said?” I demand. “Was any of that unclear? I’m crazy about you. Why would I want to be with anyone else?”

“I heard you.” She leans forward and kisses me again. “Maybe I just wanted to hear it again. About Powell’s painting. . . I could use a partner on this job. You’re probably a little rusty?—”

A flash of relief shoots through me, making me weak in the knees. “I’m the best thief in Venice.”

“So you claim,” she replies teasingly. “What do you think? Want to go to Hungary with me and steal Gavin Powell’s Bassano?”

“Yes.” My reply is immediate. “I would like that very much.”

43

LUCIA

When I was a kid and my dad taught me how to ride a bike, he didn’t use training wheels. Instead, he ran behind me, holding the back of the bike and steadying it. I would be pedaling, secure in the knowledge that I was fine, and then I’d look back and realize he wasn’t there. And it was only when I knew that he stopped holding me and I was biking on my own that I’d start to wobble and fall.

So, when I realize I’m in love with Antonio, I do my best to pretend it hasn’t happened. I don’t look back and I don’t examine it too much because if I do, I’ll do something really stupid, like run the hell away.

Instead, I just keep pedaling, and I don’t look back. Because if I do, I’ll fall.

A few weeks go by, and I settle into my new relationship with Antonio. The two of us spend most evenings together, planning our heist and squabbling over the details. I give Antonio a copy of the dossier that Valentina put together on Gavin Powell, and unfortunately for me, he reads it cover to cover, which means that any time I make a plan that involves me being alone with Powell, he flatly overrules it.

“Do you not trust me?” I ask teasingly after one such veto.

He pulls me close and kisses me, deep and hard, like he never wants to stop. His eyes are hot and possessive as his mouth claims mine. His lips and hands roam my body and send a message.Mine.

I’ve seen Antonio’s dominant side, but this is different. It feels like the walls I’ve erected around my heart have crumbled away, and the king of Venice now occupies an integral part of it.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he says darkly when he draws away from me. “Powell is a piece of shit who has most of the Budapest police in his pocket. Going to Hungary is risky, and I hate it. If it were up to me, I’d cover you with bubble wrap and keep you in Venice forever.”

My heartbeat stutters. Antonio is voicing a thought I’m starting to have with increasing frequency. I’ve avoided Venice for a very long time, but it feels like home again, andI don’t want to leave.

“I can take care of myself.”

“No,” he says flatly. “We either find a safe way to do this job, or we don’t do it at all.”

But after a week or two of this, we finally find a way to get to the Bassano without going anywhere near Powell.

Three years ago, when the British podcaster hired art thieves to steal the Bassano from the Turin Museum, he had no plans to resell it. The Bassano was a way to brag to his friends and cement his power and influence.

But times have changed. Powell has been banned by every major social media platform in the last year, and this has had the unfortunate effect of drying up both his podcast revenue and the money he gets from selling boner pills to impressionable teenagers. He’s broke, and he’s being forced to sell the Bassano to cover some of his losses.

“He’s set up a private auction,” Antonio reports, “And contacted a list of buyers who are receptive to the idea of acquiring stolen art, hoping to get a bidding frenzy going. That’s our way in.”

“How did you find out? Did he invite you?”

A look of distaste crosses Antonio’s face. “I assure you, Gavin Powell and I do not move in the same circles. Here’s the important part. Prior to the sale, he’s sending the painting to be appraised.”

I lean forward, anticipation buzzing like a live wire under my skin. “You’re saying we should steal it from the appraiser?”

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