Page 9 of The Thief

“Good for them,” Joao says with a grin. Dante glances at him, and he lifts his hands in an expressive gesture. “What? You expect me to feel bad for a Nazi looter?”

Can’t say I disagree with Joao’s sentiment. I read the letter again. “Kirkland says his security people have put together a profile of the thief.”

“I read it,” Dante replies. “The thief’s specialty seems to be sixteenth-century Italian religious art. But here’s the most interesting part. They only target paintings that were previously stolen. And get this. . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Every single one of the paintings has ended up back with their rightful owners.”

Thatisinteresting. “A thief who fancies himself a modern-day Robin Hood?”

“Herself,” Dante corrects.

“A woman, really?” I know many art thieves, but only a handful of them are women, and none of them are altruistic enough to return a stolen painting to the original owner. “Have they IDed her?”

“Not yet.” He hands me a tablet. “But one of the cameras from Kirkland’s compound recorded this before it shorted out.”

I play the video. The thief is wearing a faded, oversized sweatshirt, her face concealed by the hood. But it’s definitely a woman. As baggy as the garment is, it can’t conceal her curves. She’s walking toward the camera, but her head is lowered, and her face is hidden. Something about the way she moves tugs at my memory.

Then someone shouts, and she looks up, startled, and just for an instant, the hood slips back enough that I can see her profile.

Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes as green as the most brilliant emeralds.

Lucia Petrucci.

Well, well, well. The grief-stricken girl I rescued one winter night in Venice has grown up to become an art thief, just like her parents.

And if she’s targeting people with stolen Italian art, that puts her squarely in my cross-hairs. Most of my paintings have been legally acquired, but there’s one very big exception. MyMadonna at Repose—the prize of my collection and the painting that started my love for art—is stolen. Painted by Titian himself and valuable beyond measure, theMadonnawas my first big job. I stole it from the Palazzo Ducale when I was sixteen. I should have fenced it immediately but couldn’t bring myself to part with it. It currently hangs in my bedroom.

“What do you want to do about this letter?” Dante asks. “Do you want Valentina to look into this thief?”

“No,” I reply instantly. In an ironic twist of events, my hacker and Lucia are good friends. If I get Valentina involved, she’ll only tip Lucia off. “I want her to focus on Verratti. I’ll take care of this thief personally.”

Dante studies me thoughtfully, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. “Yes, Padrino.”

Sharp hunger fills me, a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

Let the games begin.

4

LUCIA

Ithought I’d have some time to get used to the idea of returning to Venice, but after I applied for the job at the Palazzo Ducale, things started to move faster than I was prepared for.

I had my virtual interview on Monday with Dr. Nicolo Garzolo. On Tuesday, I got an email from his assistant asking for my references, and on Thursday, Dottore Garzolo calls me again and offered me the contract. “Can you start on Monday?”

“That soon?” I ask, dismayed. Technically, nothing is preventing me from beginning my new job next week. My lease is conveniently ending this Sunday, and I have nowhere to live after that. One of my former colleagues has kindly offered to let me couch surf while I find my next gig, but I’d rather not take her up on her invitation. This contract has come at the perfect time.

Except when I remember the last time I flew into Venice, bile fills my mouth.

“We’ve been putting off our digitization efforts,” Dottore Garzolo replies. He’s in his seventies, balding with a thick white beard. “I’m not one for computers. When I first started, we maintained neat and organized ledgers, and that was sufficient for all our needs, but the director insists that we’re falling behind and I need to get startedimmediately.” His voice turns accusatory. “You said you were available right away when we talked on Monday.”

“I am,” I reassure him. “I just didn’t think. . .” I can’t pack up my belongings and fly across the Atlantic in three days.It’s toosoon.Even if this is something I’ve done more than once, and even if all my belongings fit in a suitcase.

I take a deep breath and push back my nausea. Apart from the emotional turmoil of returning home, there are other, more practical considerations. Where am I going to stay? Venice is a city filled with tourists, and reasonably priced accommodation is always in short supply. The salary Dottore Garzolo offered certainly doesn’t give me a lot of options.

Hang on.Livia, my contact at the company that manages the logistics of renting my parents’ apartment to a succession of tourists, emailed me a couple of weeks ago about renovations. The elevator in the building has broken down, and since my parents’ apartment is on the fourth floor, it’s going to be difficult to rent it out. So, instead, she proposed using the time to replace the bathroom tile and giving the place a new coat of paint. She’s even emptied the place of furniture in preparation for that to happen.

I’d been busy with work, so I skimmed her note and told her to do whatever she thought was necessary. But I’m pretty sure the work hasn’t started and if I ask, she’ll be happy enough to postpone the work until spring.

Dottore Garzolo is waiting for me to reply. My fingers are gripping the phone so hard that my knuckles are white. “Yes,” I reply, jumping into the deep end of the pool. “I can start on Monday.”

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