8. Antonio
8
ANTONIO
S he stares at my outstretched hand with her jewel-green eyes for a long instant before she takes it. The moment her soft hand meets mine, I have the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
The last time we met—the only time we met—the circumstances were completely different. It was dark then; it’s light now. She was drunk that night; she’s sober now. I was a young man struggling with balancing working for Cartozzi with my innate sense of right and wrong, and now, all of Venice follows my rules or pays the prize for disobedience.
Ten years ago, Lucia found herself in danger, and I rescued her. But today? The only person she’s in danger from is me.
Nobody steals in my city without my permission.
Her green eyes are more vivid than I remember. Her face is thinner, the only real sign that it’s been a decade since I last laid eyes on her. She stares at me defiantly, her shoulders tight, her chin held high, but she can’t hide the shiver that goes through her.
I should be used to people fearing me. But when Lucia flinches from me, a sour feeling twists in my stomach. I hate it. “You’re cold,” I say flatly. Shrugging out of my jacket, I drape it over her shoulders. “Here.”
For an instant, I wonder if she’s going to throw it back at me. But she doesn’t. She hugs the garment protectively around her shoulders, her fingers digging into the wool, and watches in silence as I turn on the motor and rev the engine. It’s not until we’re moving that she speaks for the first time. “Where are you taking me?”
I don’t reply.
“What are you going to do with me?” she continues, her voice a note higher. We emerge from the narrower canal onto El Canalasso, and her eyes dart instinctively to the other boats around us. I can practically hear her thoughts. She’s debating whether she can shout for help, wondering if the people around us would hear her cries.
They would hear, yes. But they won’t do anything to stop me. Nobody in Venice will. Lucia has been away for a very long time, and she hasn’t yet realized that I control the city now. She hasn’t realized how foolish it is to cross me.
“You can waste your time screaming if you’d like, but it won’t do any good. It’ll just leave you with a sore throat.”
“I wasn’t planning on screaming,” she retorts. Color is beginning to return to her cheeks. “You called it your painting, but Alvisa Zanotti told me that Daniel Rossi owns it. You made her do that so you could set a trap for me, didn’t you?” She takes a deep breath and clenches her hands into angry fists. “She’s known me since I was a baby. She wouldn’t have betrayed me unless she had no other choice. What did you do to get her to cooperate? Did you threaten her?”
“I don’t need to issue threats.”
A Carabinieri patrol boat drifts into my way. I honk impatiently, and the police officer at the wheel turns around angrily. When he realizes who he was about to flip off, he goes pale, respectfully touches his cap, and gets the hell out of my way.
Lucia watches the entire interaction with narrowed eyes, but if she’s cowed, she doesn’t let on. “Did you hurt Signora Zanotti?” she bites out. “Tell me.”
Nobody has spoken to me in that tone for a very long time. It should anger me, but instead, it feels refreshing. I consider the woman in front of me thoughtfully. I don’t need to answer her question. She was told repeatedly not to steal from me, and she didn’t heed those warnings. I have absolutely no reason to soothe her fears.
“No, of course not. I’m not going to beat up an old woman. Signora Zanotti cooperated with me because she owed me a favor.”
“She owed you a favor,” she repeats slowly, her expression betrayed. “That’s why she sold me out.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath before she continues speaking. “Well, that’s just great, isn’t it?”
Lucia’s expression—sad and hurt—brings back memories of the night we met. Guilt pinches my chest. Signora Zanotti is one of only two people in Venice still left in Lucia’s life. She’s practically family. For her to sell Lucia out. . . It’s a deep cut, one that won’t heal easily.
“She didn’t want to do it.” I don’t know why I’m trying to reassure Lucia. “She didn’t have much of a choice. And she made me promise I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Lucia gives me a wary look. “Do you keep your promises, Signor Moretti? Never mind, I don’t want to know the answer. Where are you taking me?”
“Giudecca.”
“Why? Is it easier to make a body disappear there?”
“Not really,” I reply. “There’s an abundance of water in Venice. It’s pretty easy to get rid of a body anywhere.” Giudecca, the island immediately south of Venice, has a checkered past but is now home to Italy’s most interesting contemporary art scene. It’s also one of the few places in Venice where the locals outnumber tourists. “I happen to live there. I wanted to talk to you privately, so I’m taking you to my home.”
Her expression turns confused. “Why?” she asks again.
I wish I knew the answer to her question. If I were acting like my usual self, the moment Lucia arrived in Venice, I would have sent Dante or Leo to warn her not to steal in my city. But I didn’t do that. Instead, I’ve spent all my spare time in the last few weeks learning everything I could about her.
And now I’m taking her to my home.
What the hell am I doing? None of this makes any sense.
* * *
Dante is waiting at my private dock. I doubt that my second-in-command approves of my obsession with Lucia. The Russians have been sighted in Bergamo, and my attention should be on the possible threat their presence poses, not on a museum curator with a penchant for art theft.
No matter how pretty she is.
I pull the boat alongside the dock and throw the line overboard, and Dante catches it and ties it in place. The moment he notices that Lucia is wearing my coat, a smirk breaks out on his face. I give him my best quelling look as I get out. “See that we aren’t interrupted.”
Turning around, I extend my hand to Lucia. She ignores it and climbs out on her own, and Dante’s grin widens. “Yes, Padrino.”
I lead the way inside. The moment we’re in my living room, Lucia pivots toward me. “You said you wanted to talk to me privately. What about?”
I ignore her question long enough to open a bottle of Barolo. “Would you like a drink?”
Her expression makes it clear that she would like nothing better than to knock the drink out of my hand. She folds her arms across her chest. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?” she snaps. “Or are you just going to stand there and look threatening?”
“Do I look threatening? You don’t seem very afraid.” I take a sip of the full-bodied red and gather my wits. So far, I’ve been extremely indulgent with Lucia, but that stops now. This is Venice; she doesn’t call the shots here. I’ll answer her questions on my timetable, not hers. “First things first. You have my Titian. Give it back.”
“It’s not your Titian,” she retorts. “It’s a stolen painting that rightfully belongs to the Palazzo Ducale. Just because you commissioned the theft doesn’t make it yours.”
I have to hand it to her—she’s got plenty of courage. Grown men have wet themselves in front of me, but not Lucia. It’s obvious she doesn’t remember me from that night ten years ago; she has no idea what I’m going to do to her, and yet, instead of trembling in fear, Lucia is full of righteous indignation and fire.
“The Titian,” I repeat, my voice hard. “You can either give it to me, or I can take it from you. But either way, you’re not walking out of here with it.”
She lifts her chin up and glares at me, but I’m deadly serious, and she knows it. “Fine,” she concedes. “Take it.” She unzips her backpack with shaking fingers and lifts the Titian out, swaddled protectively in fabric.
You’re scaring her.
I wasn’t expecting to feel guilty about making her afraid of me. Feeling a little bit like an asshole, I unwrap the precious canvas. “You haven’t damaged it,” I murmur, staring at the familiar brushwork. The first time I laid eyes on the Madonna at Repose , I felt a sense of deep recognition in my soul. I thought the feeling would fade with time, but even though it’s been fifteen years since I stole it, it hasn’t. Every time I look at the image of the mother playing with her child, it strikes a chord inside me.
“Damage it?” Her hands might tremble, but that doesn’t stop her from shooting me a scathing look. “I’m a museum curator. I’m not the one who’s going to damage this painting.”
I wrap the painting back up and set it aside. “I brought you here because I wanted to show you something.”
“If you’re going to pull your penis out of your pants?—”
I snort a laugh before I can stop myself. “I got a note from Arthur Kirkland a couple of weeks ago.” I hand her the letter, as well as the dossier that his team compiled on her. “You haven’t exactly been subtle, Lucia. You might think you’re flying under the radar, but your crimes are attracting attention, and Kirkland’s team is closer to finding you than you think. They even have an image of you.”
I hand her my phone. She watches the short video, and then plays it again, a frown on her face. “I don’t understand,” she says finally. “There’s not enough here for a computer to do an image match. How did you identify me?”
“The computer might not be able to recognize you, but someone who’s met you can.” I lean forward. “You don’t remember me, do you, cara mia?”