7. Lucia
7
LUCIA
W ith shaking hands, I lift the small canvas off the rack.
I can’t take my eyes off it. Most paintings of the Madonna show her in a solemn mood, but not this one. Titian has painted the Virgin Mary in everyday clothes, sitting on a chair with baby Jesus on her lap, laughing and playing with her newborn son.
There’s no record of this painting in our collection, which is impossible. Tiziano Vecelli, or Titian, was one of the most famous Venetian painters of the sixteenth century. For the museum to lose track of the painting of this caliber—that’s akin to finding the Mona Lisa in a storage room in the Louvre. It just doesn’t happen.
I take the painting into the light, and I get my second shock of the day. The colors are faded in a very uniform manner, and the cracks in the canvas—a sign of its age—look wrong. Italian paintings from this period should have thin and skinny cracks, but in the Titian I’m holding, they are swirly and randomly distributed.
This is a fake.
I feel a familiar prickle in my spine, the first stirrings of anticipation. I was prepared to put my Robin Hood thieving tendencies on hold for the next five months, but my next job has practically fallen into my lap.
I hate it when people steal art, and I hate it more when they steal from museums. It’s greedy and entitled. To take something that’s on public display and lock it behind a closed door so that only you can enjoy it is the height of selfishness, and I won’t let it stand.
Which means there’s really only one thing I can do.
Find out who stole it and steal it back from them.
* * *
For a change, I leave work when it’s still daylight outside. Dottore Garzolo intercepts me at the exit. “Ah, good, good,” he says approvingly. “I was beginning to worry about you, Lucia. A young woman like yourself needs to go out and live life, not spend all her time in a dusty storage room or peering at a screen.”
I stare at him in consternation. I should have told him about my discovery, but I didn’t. Most museum robberies are inside jobs, and for all I know, Dottore Garzolo was involved in this theft. I’ve barely seen my boss all week, and running into him so soon after my discovery feels like a premonition of doom.
“Umm, yes,” I say weakly, wondering how to get out of this conversation.
“Any weekend plans?” he continues.
“I’m having dinner with a friend tonight.” I force a smile on my face. “In fact, I’m running late for that.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” he replies benevolently. “Have a good weekend, Lucia. See you Monday.”
Phew. I murmur something polite in reply and hurry back home. There’s no food in my kitchen, but when I open my refrigerator, I discover the pear I bought at the airport on Sunday. It’s overripe with brown spots dotting its skin, but it’s all I have, so I eat it, then perch on my mattress and open my laptop.
It’s time for research.
The painting wasn’t in the Palazzo Ducale’s electronic catalog, but on the back of its frame, I found a paper tag with a reference number, which means that it was part of the displayed collection once upon a time.
Ninety minutes of painstaking research later, I’ve learned that the Madonna at Repose was last displayed fifteen years ago. I can’t imagine that the museum would display a fake, which suggests that the painting was stolen sometime between then and now.
That’s too broad a range to be helpful.
I exhale in frustration and massage my aching neck. I don’t want to accumulate a lot of furniture, but I might have to buy a folding chair—sitting on my mattress like this is killing my back.
Valentina texts me just as I’m trying to figure out what to do next.
We still on for dinner tonight?
I’d totally forgotten about our plans.
Yes! Where?
She sends me an address not too far from me.
See you in fifteen.
My best friend is already at the restaurant when I arrive, looking exhausted and nursing a glass of wine. “Tough week?” I ask as I sit down.
“Busy and frustrating,” she replies. “I’m doing some research and getting nowhere with it. What about you? How was your first week at the new job?”
I lean forward. “Something really strange happened today. I was doing some cataloging, and I stumbled upon a storage room that looked like it hadn’t been opened in over a decade. And in that room, shoved away on a forgotten rack, I found a fake Titian.”
“Interesting.” She goes completely still. “How do you know it’s a fake?”
I pull out my phone and navigate to the photo I took. “Zoom in on it. All Venetian paintings from this period have thin, skinny cracks. This canvas probably dates back to the right century, but it isn’t from Venice.” Valentina doesn’t look as thrilled as I thought she’d be, but that’s okay—I’m excited enough for both of us. “Can you believe it? It feels like serendipity. Here we are, trying to figure out our next heist, and a fake Titian falls in my lap. I think the first step should be?—”
“No.” Valentina puts my phone down and leans forward, her expression serious. “Let this one go.”
I couldn’t have heard her correctly. “What? Why?”
She bites her lip. “You don’t want to attract the attention of the wrong people.” She’s gripping the stem of her wine glass tight enough that I worry it’s going to snap. “You’re my best friend, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. Do not steal in Venice.”
I stare at her in shock. Valentina has never discouraged me from doing risky things. Half the time as teenagers, she was the instigator. “Why not?”
“Because Antonio Moretti owns the city, and nobody commits crimes here without his permission.”
Antonio Moretti is rumored to be the head of the Venice Mafia. I read a fawning, cringe-worthy profile of him last year. The interviewer clearly had the hots for him, and she went on and on about his Formula One racing team, his award-winning vineyards, and his generous donations to museums and various other charities.
“Mafia? You’re joking, right?”
Valentina doesn’t look the slightest bit amused. “Lucia, you’re not taking me seriously. For once in your life, please listen to me. Let this one go.”
But I don’t listen to her warning.
I seize upon the mystery of the Titian as a way to avoid the misery of being back in Venice, with memories of my parents haunting every step I take. I don’t say anything about the painting to Dottore Garzolo on Monday, and my brain keeps circling the problem as I work.
Something keeps nagging at me, and it’s only when I’m walking home on Tuesday that I realize what Valentina unintentionally let drop.
When I showed her the painting, she said, ‘Do not steal in Venice.’ This means the stolen Titian never left our city, and Valentina knows who has it.
And if Valentina knows, then so will Signora Zanotti.
I call my parents’ fence as soon as I get back home. “I found a fake Titian at the museum last week,” I say after we exchange greetings. “It’s titled Madonna at Repose . A small canvas, eight inches by eleven. The real painting was probably stolen sometime in the last fifteen years, and I think it’s still in Venice. Do you know anything about it?”
“No,” she replies immediately. “If someone was trying to sell a Titian, I would have heard about it. It can’t be here.”
My heart sinks. “But you might not have heard about it if somebody commissioned the theft, right? What if it was a private collector?”
“I don’t know,” she snaps. “Lucia, I have something on the stove that’s about to boil over. I have to go.”
I wait for her to call me back, but she doesn’t. I try her again an hour later, and her phone goes straight to voicemail. I don’t have any success reaching her on Wednesday and Thursday either.
And so, on Friday, a week after I found the fake Titian, I drop by her house unannounced.
Signora Zanotti lives in a crumbling palazzo, steps from La Piazza. I knock on her door, and when she opens it and sees me there, fear flickers over her face for an instant. And then it’s gone, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.
“Lucia,” she says. “Come on in.”
I should have visited her as soon as I got back, but I’ve been avoiding her. Seeing her reminds me painfully of my parents. My mom and Signora Zanotti were good friends, and she had dinner with us almost every week.
She’s aged since I last saw her. She’s thinner than I remember, frailer. I swallow back my guilt and hand her the bouquet I brought. “These are for you.”
“Thank you. Grab me a vase, will you? It’s in the top cupboard. And pour yourself a glass of wine. There’s an open bottle in the refrigerator.”
I get the vase for her and fill two glasses with wine. When she’s done fussing with the flowers, I hand her one. “Is there anything you can tell me about the painting I found?” I ask bluntly.
She shakes her head wryly. “I should have known you wouldn’t let it go.”
“You know something, don’t you?” I lean forward eagerly. “Signora Zanotti, someone stole a Titian. You can’t expect me to walk away from that. This painting is a piece of Venetian history, and it should be on display at the Palazzo Ducale, not spirited away for some private collector to savor.”
She sighs heavily. “After your call on Tuesday, I asked around.” Her hand trembles as she brings her glass of wine to her lips. “The Titian is owned by a lawyer who works for the mafia. His name is Daniel Rossi, and he lives near the Chiesa di San Francesco della Vigna.” She takes a deep breath. “It isn’t smart to mess with the mafia.”
I’m not listening to her warning; I’m already plotting my next move. She sees that I’m not listening, and her face falls. “I shouldn’t have told you,” she whispers. “Don’t get caught, Lucia.”
* * *
I found out my parents were art thieves when I was thirteen. At first, I was indignant and judgmental, and then I grudgingly conceded that it was a cool way to make a living. I followed them around like a puppy, asking a thousand questions about stealing, and my father, who probably figured that a curious teenager was better than a self-righteous one, would humor me by answering them patiently.
I can hear his voice in my head now.
Rule #1: Pick your target carefully.
The next day, I complete an initial recon of Daniel Rossi’s building. What I discover isn’t encouraging. The lobby is guarded twenty-four-seven, there are cameras in every hallway, the elevators require a seven-digit code, and the windows are connected to a sophisticated alarm system.
If Valentina were in a cooperative mood, she could have worked her hacking magic on the security precautions, but she’s made her opinion pretty clear. She wants no part of this job.
So, I need a different way.
Rule #2: A simple plan is better than a complicated one.
The easiest way to get into the building is an inside job, and so, using a fake ID Valentina made me, I get a job working evening and weekend shifts at the company that cleans Rossi’s building. It’s hard for me to stay patient as I empty trash cans and vacuum the hallways, but it pays off when I strike gold on a Saturday afternoon, a week and a half after I start.
The woman who usually cleans Rossi’s apartments calls in sick, and I’m asked to cover for her.
I’ve been waiting for this opportunity, and I’m ready. I pull a mask over my face, slip on gloves so I don’t leave any prints, and enter Rossi’s apartment. It takes me less than three minutes to find the Titian—it’s hanging in plain sight in the lawyer’s office, out in the open where anyone walking in could see it.
So fucking arrogant.
My heart racing, I approach the Madonna. I tilt the frame gently and peer behind to see if there are any tripwires that will set off an alarm. There are. I take care of them the way my dad taught me, and then I’m free and clear.
I lift the Titian off the wall, triumph running through me.
Rule #3: Don’t stick around at the crime scene.
I swap out the real Titian with the fake, slide the precious canvas into my waiting backpack, and then get out of Rossi’s apartment as quickly as I can. In a nearby restaurant, I change into a nondescript pair of jeans and a black sweater, and I dump my cleaning outfit and the face mask in a trashcan two blocks away.
My heart is beating faster than usual, and I blame my nervousness on Valentina’s dire warnings and Signora Zanotti’s uncharacteristic fear.
But there’s nothing to be worried about. No alarms went off when I stole the painting, and no police sirens follow me now as I walk away.
My breathing evens as I walk down the Calle del Tedum, and by the time I’m halfway home, I’m feeling almost euphoric. I wonder how long it’ll take for Daniel Rossi to notice the switch. He’s not a big art collector—at least, I don’t think so from the limited amount of research I’ve been able to do about him—just a lawyer with far too much money and far too few scruples. For all I know, he might never find out.
I’m almost at the Ponte del Fontego when a red speedboat pulls up at the canal on my left.
A man with dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a stubble-darkened jaw gets out. His face is narrow, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut. He’s tall, lean, and corded with muscle, and his charcoal gray suit only accentuates his physique.
He’s gorgeous, predatory, and intensely, overwhelmingly sexual.
For a second, I ogle openly. Then my brain stutters to a halt because I recognize his face from the magazine profile.
Standing in front of me is the most powerful man in Venice.
The man Valentina warned me not to cross.
Antonio Moretti.
My heart starts to race.
“Lucia Petrucci,” he says, his voice silken. “You know the rules. You were warned.” Something stirs in his eyes, something dark and dangerous. “And yet, here you are, with my Titian in your bag.” He holds out his hand to me. “Get in the boat.”
It’s twilight, and there’s no one around. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
This was a set-up—it had to be. Moretti knew I was going to steal this painting. Who betrayed me? Was it Alvisa Zanotti? Or was it Valentina?
I try to keep my fear at bay and fail abjectly.
Taking his hand and doing my best to ignore the shiver that runs through me, I climb into the speedboat.