Page 4 of The Thief

There’s a knock at the door. I open it, and a staff member wheels in a cart of food. “Breakfast, signorina.”

I’m starving, but I have no money to pay for my meal. I’m about to tell the waiter I didn’t order anything when he adds, “Also, this was left for you at the front desk.”

Thisis my bag. The green imitation Prada bag my mother bought for me before I left for college.

And when I look inside, I find the contents untouched. My passport, my phone, my money—they’re all there.

Antonio to the rescue once again.

Tucked in a front pocket is a thick cream-colored card.

A phone number is printed on the front and there’s a handwritten note on the back. Just two words.

Call me.

I stare at it for a very long time.

Last night, Antonio took care of me. He stayed with me, listened to me, and made sure I was safe. When everything around me was crumbling, when I desperately needed someone to cling to, he was there.

But safety is a myth. I’ve learned this week that your world can shatter in the blink of an eye. The people you love and trust can and will betray you. They will hide their illnesses from you and die. They will shoot their brains out and leave you bereft.

I can’t afford to lean on anyone.

I reach for the back of my neck, unclasp my mother’s necklace, and tuck it into my purse, along with the card Antonio left me. Taking a deep breath, I turn to the hotel employee. “Could you arrange for some transportation for me in an hour?”

“Certainly, signorina. Where to?”

“The airport.”

I need to fly away from here; there’s nothing left for me in Venice. Not anymore.

2

LUCIA

Ten years later. . .

When you’re a museum curator moonlighting as an art thief, having a hacker for a best friend is a pretty good deal.

Especially when it’s time to plan your next heist.

It’s a Friday evening in September. I pour myself a glass of cheap red wine, settle in front of my laptop, and call Valentina. I feel a familiar stirring of excitement as I wait for her to answer.

My first art heist was a mad, grief-stricken impulse, but in recent years, I’ve become more intentional about the paintings I steal. I’ve started targeting the rich and powerful people who knowingly acquire stolen artwork. These people believe that their wealth gives them immunity from consequences, and it gives me great satisfaction to prove them otherwise and return the paintings to their rightful owners.

I can’t wait to kick off my next job.

It’s been eight months since I stole something. Not because I haven’t been able to find targets but because, as much as I’ve tried to stay under the radar, I’m slowly starting to acquire a reputation as a thief of note.

“What did you expect?” Alvisa Zanotti, my parents’ old fence, asked caustically earlier this year. Though technically retired, Signora Zanotti still keeps her finger on the pulse of the art world and provides me with most of the intel I need about black-market art. “Did you really think that a long-lost Vermeer or a Vecchio reappearing in the attic of their impoverished heirs would go unnoticed? I warned you about this, Lucia. I told you that returning the stolen paintings was a stupid idea that would get you into trouble, but of course, you didn’t listen to me. You need to stop what you’re doing.”

If only I could.If only it were that simple.

“I’ll stay clear of my previous targets,” I promised her. “I won’t go to London or Paris. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in prison. Orange is a terrible color on me.”

“You’re treating this like a joke,” she replied, her voice heavy with disapproval. “You’re very young. You haven’t realized yet that there are worse things than ending up in prison, and I fear you might find out the hard way.”

In deference to her worries, I’ve laid low all year. But it’s getting close to the anniversary of my parents’ deaths, and the urge to steal is stronger than ever. Every year, I’ve stolen a painting in their honor between December and January, and this year will be the tenth anniversary of their deaths. This can’t be the year I quit.

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