Page 93 of The Thief

With superhuman effort, I force myself to my feet and look at her, drinking her in for the last time. “You need to go.”

She doesn’t even register my words; she’s so worried about me. “Antonio,” she whispers, her soft hand in mine. “You’re bleeding. Please sit until the medics get here.”

I knew from the start that I shouldn’t get involved with her. But over and over, I made excuses for myself. I hid from the truth and I tried to ignore the risks.

But her gown is stained with my blood, and I can’t ignore it any longer. I can’t be with Lucia. Her heart might break from my decision, but she’ll be alive, and that’s all that matters.

And your own heartbreak?

Pain is a wild animal clawing my insides. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap.

Shock slaps her face at my tone.

Cold and vicious, that’s what I have to be. “Yes, I got shot, and you know why?Because of you.You’re a distraction, Lucia. You’ve been a distraction from the moment you got here. I’m so preoccupied with you that I’m not doing what I need to do. I’m not keeping the streets of Venice safe. Your presence is endangering my life and the life of everyone else around me.”

Each word lands with the precision of a dagger. I know exactly how to hurt Lucia, after all. I know the perfect weapons to use because she trusted me enough to open herself up to me. She told me she felt responsible for her parents’ deaths, and I’m hitting that same bruised spot by telling her she’s the cause of my wound.

She handed me the key to her heart. And instead of cherishing it forever, I’m the bastard who’s taking that precious gift and smashing it to pieces.

Dante’s here—when did he get here?—and he looks aghast. But I’m not looking at my second-in-command. I only have eyes for Lucia.

She sucks in a horrified breath. “Antonio,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and there’s so much agony on her face that I know this moment will never leave her. She stretches a trembling hand toward me, and my heart shatters. With every fiber of my being, I want to put my arms around her, cradling her against my body and begging for forgiveness. “You don’t mean that. . .”

I turn away.

She doesn’t react, not for a long moment, until finally, she gets up and leaves. I hear the door close behind her.

Her absence opens a void inside my heart. A raw, raging void of pain. “Follow her,” I order Carlo. “Make sure she gets home safely.”

Dante stares at me, comprehension starting to dawn in his eyes. “Is that why?—”

But the pizzeria is growing fuzzy. Gray dots swim at the edge of my vision, clouding my sight. The void expands to take control over me. My knees buckle, and I collapse.

And then I feel nothing.

48

LUCIA

My head spins. I feel dizzy and nauseous. My vision is blurry through the tears that cascade down my cheeks. He told me to go away. Not only that, but he told me it was my fault that he was distracted. My fault that he got shot in the first place.

Words are a weapon, and he stabbed me with his.

But, cruel as his words were, he’s right. What happened tonightismy fault. I’ve been a distraction. It’s because of me that he went to Hungary to steal a painting from Gavin Powell. I’m the one who invited him to tonight’s gala, the one who wanted pizza. If it wasn’t for me, he would have done what Leo advised. He would have stayed home.

And then he would have never been shot.

Antonio’s absolutely right. I’m not good for him. His job requires complete focus and attention, and if I want him to live, I should stay away from him.

Even if, for one brief shining minute, I thought we had something magical.

I have to let him go. If the cost of Antonio staying alive is me leaving his life, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay. No matter how much my heart is breaking right now, it’s worth it.He’s worth it.

It’s late, and the streets are mostly empty. The few people I encounter gape at me, arrested by my blood-stained dress, but I’m oblivious to their stares. I hug my wrap close as I stumble home, but I can’t stop shivering. It’s cold outside, yes, but the real cold comes from within.

Back home, I unzip my beautiful, glowing dress—now ruined beyond the ability to fix—and stand under the shower. I stay there for a very long time, but no matter how hot the water runs, I can’t seem to get warm. I even wrap myself up in a quilt and make a cup of hot tea, but the shivers don’t subside.

Everything in my apartment reminds me of Antonio. Every item of furniture, every inch of carpet. Framed photos of my parents hang on the wall—I never would have made it to their storage unit without his support. A side table holds a vase overflowing with calla lilies that he bought me this week. The blooms are bright yellow, cheerful dots of sunshine in the winter gloom.

---