Page 35 of The Thief

I should have called his bluff. He already told me he wasn’t going to get me fired, and deep down in my heart, I don’t believe he’ll hurt me.

But the shameful truth is that I wanted to have lunch with him.

Even though it’s a terrible idea.

It’s not just because Antonio is a dangerous man. It’s because he’s dangerousto me.I kept his card in my purse for ten years. I googled him and got jealous when I saw him with an unending parade of beautiful women. I had a sex dream about him that’s still making me blush. The mafia boss is in my thoughts far too often, and if I were smart, I’d avoid him until he fades away from my mind.

We dock in front of Antonio’s house, and he helps me out. Opening his front door, he gestures me inside. I step into his foyer and look around curiously.

The last time I was here, I was too afraid to take in the details. Today, though, I let my gaze wander over the space, soaking it in. Salmon-pink walls provide a vivid contrast to a black-and-white tiled floor. One wall is dotted with a collection of wooden masks. A carved antique bench crowded with turquoise, indigo and forest-green cushions invites me to sink in, and lush tropical plants are everywhere. The room is colorful, eclectic, and fascinating.

And extremely unexpected.

Antonio takes in my reaction. “I’ll give you a tour,” he offers. “Now, or after lunch?”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I skipped breakfast this morning. “After lunch, please.”

The large eat-in kitchen is just as interesting as the foyer. A massive glass window overlooks an inner courtyard. A weak winter sun fills the space with light. It’s too cold to eat out there today, but I imagine it’s beautiful in summer. I gawk unashamedly at the copper appliances, green plants, and the Talavera tiles forming the backsplash. A vase overflowing with lilac, lavender, and honeysuckle sits on an antique teak dining table, and I inhale the delicate aroma of the flowers with pleasure.

Antonio quirks an eyebrow at me.

“They smell like spring,” I explain. “It’s my favorite season. I had you pegged as a minimalist, but you’re not, are you?” I go around the table to admire a collection of blue-and-white pottery stacked on a side table. There are platters and bowls, but my favorite piece is a tall, gently curved vase. “Where did you find these?”

I expect him to tell me that his interior designer sourced them, but he surprises me by saying, “Portugal.” His lips twist into a rueful smile. “I grew up with nothing, and I’m afraid it’s turned me into a bit of a pack rat.”

“Your house doesn’t look cluttered. It’s very cohesive.” It’s also my dream house, but I’m not going to tell him that. It’ll just make him more smug than he already is.

He chuckles. “That’s not what my friends say.”

Antonio Moretti has friends? I barely have time to register that before he asks me a question. “What’s your house like?”

I make a face. “I like color, too, and plants and patterns and fabric. But right now, I’m extremely minimalist.” My lips twist. “I don’t have any furniture. Just an air mattress and a chair.”

“Why not? Your parents left you their apartment, yes? What happened to the furniture in it?”

Antonio has a file on me, but it’s good to know there are some gaps in his knowledge. “I couldn’t bear to look at their stuff after they died, so I put it in storage. It’s still there.” I suck in a breath. “I move around so often that even if I could afford to buy good furniture, I don’t see the point. It’ll just cost too much money to move every single time. It’s easier to live out of a suitcase.”

“Hmm.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking; he’s good at keeping a poker face. I’m waiting for him to probe, but to my surprise, he doesn’t. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Water, please. Sparkling, if you have it.”If you have it.What a ridiculous thing to say. Antonio Moretti has everything.

“Of course,” he responds. He opens the refrigerator and pulls a bottle out, pouring its contents into a cut glass flute and handing it to me. “If you need furniture, the antique market at the Piazzola sul Brenta has some good pieces. They set up every Sunday. Would you like to go?”

Is he asking me out on a date? My confusion must show on my face because he adds, seemingly out of nowhere, “I’m not dating Tatiana.”

“What?”

“Tatiana Cordova,” he says. “You mentioned her earlier, so I thought I’d clarify. I’m not involved with her or anyone else.” He holds me with his gaze. “The only person I’m interested in is you.”

I stare at him in shock. Nobody I’ve been with, not a single guy I’ve dated, has ever made it so explicitly clear that they want to be with me. No guessing games, no playing hot and cold. He’s so refreshingly direct, and I don’t know how to respond.

He opens his refrigerator door again and surveys its contents. “Let’s see what’s in here,” he says. “There’s a roasted chicken, and I can make a green salad. But if that doesn’t work, I can cook you something else.”

I feel dangerously off balance. “You know how to cook?”

He flashes me a grin. “You sound so skeptical, Lucia,” he teases. “I think I’m a little offended. Yes, I know how to cook, although my housekeeper, Agnese, does most of it these days. However, she’s visiting her sister in Florence for the week.” His smile widens. “Go ahead, test me. What can I make for you?”

That smile is irresistible, and my entire body reacts to it. “Unfortunately, I need to be back at work.”

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