Page 92 of The Thief

Marco raises his hand. He’s holding a gun. Oh my god, he’s holding a gun. Where did that come from? He sights Antonio and smiles maliciously and then moves the muzzle so it’s not pointing at him.

He’s aiming straight for me.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. Carlo and Simon hurl themselves at Marco, but I know they’re going to be too late. His finger is already on the trigger, and death is staring me in the face.

My life doesn’t flash in front of my eyes. Instead, I’m hit with an onslaught of emotions. Regret that I won’t have more time with Antonio, intense relief that I took the chance of love when I did, and above all, gratitude. I was loved by Antonio Moretti, and it was truly magical.

I reach for his hand, wanting to touch him one last time. . .

But it’s too late. Before I can react, Antonio is in front of me, blocking the bullet with his body.

He falls back, stumbles against a chair, and crashes to the ground.

And his blood—his bright red blood—spreads all over my golden gown.

47

ANTONIO

I’ve been shot. There’s a part of my mind that’s clinically assessing the situation. Blood pours from a wound in my left shoulder, but when I flex my hand experimentally, I can move it. I’m not nauseous or sweating, and I can breathe. The bullet hasn’t hit a major organ; this is just a graze.

But a much larger part of my mind is locked in a silent scream. Because Lucia’s gown, her beautiful, golden gown, is covered in blood.

I keep reliving that awful moment over and over. The sheer horror of seeing Marco aim at Lucia, his eyes alight with malice, his hand squeezing the trigger.

She almost got shot.Because of me.

Ten years ago, Marco tried to rob Lucia at the docks, and I banished him from the city for breaking the rules. The man has every reason to hate me. I changed his pampered, privileged life in one swift, brutal stroke, tearing him from his home and his family.

But today, instead of killing me, he did the thing that would wreck me. He aimed at Lucia.

And if Marco—dull, uncurious, plodding Marco—has figured out that shooting Lucia would destroy me, what of my other enemies?

Leo warned me about this possibility weeks ago. “If you care about Lucia Petrucci, you will let her go,” he told me. “The only reason she’s in danger is because she’s with you.”

But I didn’t listen to him. In my hubris, in my greed, I thought I could protect her. I thought—foolishly—that if I spent enough money and bought every building in her neighborhood, she would be safe.

I know better now. It’s taken her almost dying for me to understand that I was wrong. It’s taken seeing her covered in blood for me to realize how selfish I’ve been.

But this is not a mistake I’ll make again.

Lucia is crouched next to me, her face pale. Tears brim in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She hates blood, I remember. Hates hospitals. She’s probably not too fond of guns either—when her mother died, her father shot himself. And this is bringing all those awful memories to the fore.

She’s the woman I love, and I’m putting her in harm’s way and re-traumatizing her.

Good job, Antonio.

“It’s fine,” I mutter thickly. “Just a scratch.” Carlo is kneeling on the other side of me, applying pressure to the wound and screaming something into his phone. Lost in my own fog, I didn’t even see him approach me. The room swims in and out of view, and I shake my head, trying to clear it. “It’s fine,” I repeat, gritting my teeth against the pain. “Nothing to worry about.”

My stomach is churning, and I feel on the verge of passing out. Shock, probably. My body’s reaction is annoying. The bullet barely grazed me—there’s no reason for theatrics.

“Lucia,” I start. “I. . .” My voice trails off. What is there to say? This is my life. All I have to offer her is blood and tears.

“Don’t talk,” she whispers. “It’s okay. Simon’s called for an ambulance.”

“I don’t want. . .” I grope for her hand. She’s so warm. So alive.

And if she’s to stay that way, I have to let her go.

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