13. Lucia
13
LUCIA
O nce Valentina leaves, the day stretches in front of me, a vast and daunting expanse of time. I’ve been using this quest for the Titian as an anesthetic, and now that my search has been abruptly cut short, I don’t know what to do.
God, I miss my mom and my dad so very much. I would give anything for one more evening with them. One more conversation, one more meal, one more afternoon stroll through Venice.
Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been avoiding visiting their graves. On Sunday though, I feel a sudden yearning to go, and so I get dressed in jeans and a bulky red sweater and head out.
I run into my downstairs neighbor, Signora Girelli, on my way out. It’s been ten years since I last saw her, and she must be in her eighties now, but other than looking a little frailer, she hasn’t changed one bit.
“Lucia,” she says when she sees me, her face alight with pleasure. “Bruno told me you’d come back.” She envelops me in a hug. “It’s good to see you, my dear. How long has it been?”
“Ten years.”
“That long,” she marvels. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the funeral, my dear. I was hoping to see you afterward, but you left so abruptly.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Not that I blame you. Your father’s death must have been such a shock.”
“Not just my father’s,” I say stiffly. “I didn’t know my mother was sick. She hid her diagnosis from me.” My mom’s hairdresser asked me at the funeral why I didn’t come home when I found out about her cancer. She was the only one direct enough to ask me, but surely everyone there was thinking the same thing. Their only child and she didn’t even come home when she found out about Teresa’s illness. They might not have said it to my face, but I could feel their judgment.
My elderly neighbor sucks in a breath. “Oh, Lucia, I’m so sorry. What a terrible, terrible way to find out. It’s no wonder you’ve stayed away from home for such a long time.” She pats my hand. “But I’m really glad you’re back, my dear. So glad.”
“I’m not staying,” I say immediately before she can get the wrong idea. “I have a short-term contract at the Palazzo Ducale. I’m only here for five months.” I can’t bear to see the look of pity on her face. “I have to go, Signora Girelli.”
I escape from the conversation and practically run down the street. It’s a bleak, overcast day, and the weather matches my mood. It starts to drizzle while I’m on the Vaporetto, and by the time I reach the cemetery on the island of San Michele, it’s raining hard.
But I can’t bring myself to care. It’s been ten years, and all I can do is sink to my knees next to the small stone tablet that marks their graves and cry. I weep and weep and weep, tears rolling unchecked down my cheeks, mourning everything I lost in a flash ten years ago. There’s a void inside me, an ache that has never gone away. I hug myself and sit by their graveside, and eventually, the fit of sobbing stops, and I realize that while the rain has stopped, I’m completely soaked through and shivering uncontrollably.
A hand falls on my shoulder. “Lucia,” Antonio Moretti says. “Come with me.”
I look up. “Where?” I ask, though I genuinely don’t care. I feel wrung out and drained, and also cold. The king of Venice can do his worst: it’s not going to make me feel any worse. “Why are you here? Are you following me?”
“Do you know, most people don’t interrogate my every move,” he comments, helping me to my feet. “They just say, yes, Padrino, and do as they’re told.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Padrino. Should I salute as well? What a very boring life you must lead, with everyone jumping over themselves to do your bidding. Have you ever thought that you need a little challenge?”
“Is that why you’re trying to steal from me? As a little challenge?” He takes off his coat and drapes it around my shoulders, then puts his hand at the small of my back and steers me to the docks.
I let myself be led. “I tried to steal from you. Past tense. I got warned against doing it. Any of that ring any bells?”
“Giving up so easily?” he counters with a twitch of his lips. “Interesting. I didn’t have you pegged as a quitter. You went back for Rory Stewart’s Chagall twice . I’m a little offended that I don’t rate a second attempt.”
“Rory Stewart didn’t abduct me in broad daylight,” I point out. “He didn’t threaten me, and he’s not a mafia boss, and I’m pretty sure he won’t murder me and dump me in the canal as a penalty for stealing his painting. You, on the other hand. . .”
“I didn’t threaten you,” he replies calmly. “I gave you a warning. If I threatened you, trust me, you’d know.”
We’ve reached the docks. Ahead of me is a familiar-looking twenty-five-meter speedboat with the winged lion of San Marco painted on the side. I’m looking at the Invictus , the boat that Valentina picked me up in.
I stop in my tracks. “This is your boat,” I say accusingly. “You’re the friend Valentina borrowed it from.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says, jumping on board and reaching for me. “I told you she works for me, didn’t I? I’m shocked that you didn’t figure it out.”
“You’d be shocked how little time I spend thinking of you,” I lie, and he laughs out loud. I reach for his offered hand and see a flash of red. His knuckles are covered with blood.
If I ever needed a reminder that Antonio Moretti is a dangerous man, it’s in front of me.
“Whose blood is that?” I ask, taking a step back. “Is it yours?”
He frowns and glances down at his hands. “Ah,” he says, looking like he’s noticing the blood for the first time. “No. It’s from a former employee.”
“What did he do?”
I can tell that he doesn’t want to have this conversation with me. I don’t expect him to answer, but he does anyway. “He broke one of my rules.”
“And so, you beat him up?”
“No,” he replies. “I killed him. Sorry I haven’t had time to clean up.”
There’s absolutely no emotion in his voice. He sounds matter-of-fact as if confessing to murder is a normal and everyday thing to do. If I ever needed proof that my instincts aren’t always right, here it is.
“That’s what you’re apologizing for?” I ask, my voice rising. “That you didn’t have time to wash his blood off your hands? What rule did he break? Did he steal from you?”
The moment those words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. I must be insane to speak to Antonio this way. He is a powerful and ruthless man, not used to people sassing him, and somehow, I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like I instinctively believe I’m in no danger from him.
“No,” he replies. “I had put a stop to collecting protection money from small businesses, and Sartori decided he didn’t like it. He extorted a bunch of small shops along the wharf. Coffee shops, restaurants, grocery stores. One of the owners, a seventy-eight-year-old man, refused to pay, so Sartori burned down his bar and broke his arm and both legs. He’s never going to walk again.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. If Antonio isn’t lying—and why would he bother to lie to me?—then the person he killed deserved to die. Except I’m not used to people taking the law into their own hands.
“If I don’t act clearly and decisively,” he continues, “then everyone will start to believe my rules don’t matter. And I won’t have that.”
I hate that I can see his point. “I think I’ll go home now.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “You’re soaking wet,” he says. “At least come inside and dry off first.”
“And then I can leave?”
“If you want, yes. But if you want distraction. . .” His voice hangs in the air.
“What kind of distraction?” I ask suspiciously. “If that’s a proposition, I’m going to pass. Bad boys do nothing for me.”
His blue eyes dance with amusement. “A pity,” he quips. “But I wasn’t suggesting sex. I was thinking we could go on a boat ride around the islands.”
As if on cue, the sun comes out. I hesitate. Yes, he’s possibly a crazy killer, but if I go home, I know I’m going to brood for the rest of the day. Antonio might still have blood on his hands, but hanging out with him is better than spending time alone.
Admit it. You’re attracted to him.
“Fine,” I say. He stretches his hand out again, and this time, I grab it and climb aboard. His grip is strong and assured, unexpectedly hot.
I shiver in response, and he misinterprets the reason. “You’re freezing,” he says. “Come on, the bathroom is this way. You’ll warm up after a hot shower.”
He’s right. Ten minutes later, I’m warm and dry, and I feel much better. There’s a fresh, clean robe on the back of the bathroom door, and I wrap myself in it before heading out to find Antonio.
He’s in the main deck saloon, reading something on his phone, half a dozen paper bags on the table in front of him. When he sees me, he gets to his feet, his gaze moving over me like a heated touch. “Better?”
My stomach does a funny flip. “Much, thank you.” We’ve moved while I was in the shower. The boat is now bobbing in the water, and the island of Venice is a blip in the distance. “Where are we, exactly?”
“South of the island,” he replies. He gestures to the table. “Some dry clothes,” he says. “They might not fit perfectly. I took a guess about the size.”
I move forward to look. There are at least half a dozen outfits on the table, all from designer boutiques that I’m too broke to ever shop at. Jeans, warm woolen sweaters, even underwear, all brand new, all with tags.
When did he have time to arrange this? I’ve only been in the shower for ten minutes. I don’t know what to say. I reach for one of the shopping bags and my robe gapes open. His eyes rest on me for a long minute, and I swallow. Just like it was yesterday, the chemistry between us is a tangible thing. My common sense has gone flying out of the window, and every cell in my body is aware of his presence.
Are you crazy? He killed someone today. He still has blood on his hands.
That reminder isn’t nearly the cold bucket of water it should be. “Does this work?” I ask finally. “Do all the women you bring on the Invictus swoon and fall into your bed?”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “You’re the first woman I’ve invited on board.”
I don’t believe him. “I can’t possibly accept these.”
Mirth touches the corners of his eyes. “I don’t have a problem if you prefer to remain in my robe,” he says, giving me another wickedly sexy smile. “But once the boat gets moving, you might prefer something more. . . secure.”
Argh. “Fine,” I grit out. I snatch the bags off the table and disappear into the bedroom, the sound of his laughter following my retreat.
* * *
The clothes he bought me fit perfectly. All of them. I choose a pair of jeans that hug my butt, a long-sleeved black and white striped shirt, and a green sweater that matches my eyes a little too well.
It’s hard not to let that freak me out, but I do my best.
Despite my best attempts to blow dry them, my sneakers are still wet, and so are my socks, so I head back out to the main salon barefoot. Antonio’s still seated on the couch, his dark head bent over his phone.
“What do you think?” I ask, twirling around as if I’m walking the runway in a fashion show.
He gives me a slow, assessing look. “I think Goran forgot to buy shoes,” he replies. “An unforgivable lapse. I should have him killed.”
My head snaps up. “What? I don’t need—” I stop talking when I see the laughter in his eyes. “Haha, very funny.”
He grins. “It really was. You should have seen the look on your face. Would you like a drink? Red wine? Something stronger?”
“Red wine sounds good.”
He pours me a glass. I unwisely sit on the couch next to him and sip it. “I’ve been thinking about what you were saying. Is it really all ‘yes, Padrino’ all the time? Does no one challenge you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
Because I’m fascinated by you. I want to know what makes you tick. Color rises to my cheeks. “Just curious, I guess. You told me you never knew your parents, and now, you’re a mafia boss, and everyone jumps to your bidding. It just sounds. . . lonely. ”
He responds to my question with one of his own. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you lonely?”
Yes. All the time. It’s an ache inside me, a gaping void that I fill with planning the details of my various art heists. “I have Valentina and Angelica.”
“Angelica is a child, and you see Valentina twice a year.”
I squirm away from his steady regard. “When my parents died, I learned the same lesson you did. It’s best not to need people because they can leave you. The only person you can truly count on is yourself.” I drink my wine, unsure why I’m opening up to him. Then again, I always found it easy to confide in Antonio. It’s erecting walls against him that’s hard.
I stare at my toenails. I painted them green back in Boston, and the polish is starting to chip. The article I read about Antonio spent a great deal of time speculating about which supermodel he was dating at any given time. The name that came up most often was Tatiana Cordova, an Italian-Russian actress whose most recent movie won an Oscar.
Tatiana wouldn’t have chipped nails.
I push that jealous thought aside. “You didn’t answer my question, incidentally.”
He gives me a half-smile. “Yes,” he says. “I have people who challenge me. Dante, my second-in-command, pushes back if he thinks I’m making a mistake.”
“Dante works for you.”
“He’s also a friend,” he replies. “And there are others.”
“Is the person who stole the Madonna at Repose a friend of yours? Because I thought I knew all the art thieves in Venice and can’t figure out who did it.”
He laughs. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to bring up the Titian.” He surveys me through hooded eyes. “I didn’t hire a thief. I stole it myself.”
“No way.” I lean forward, fascinated. “Really?”
“Really.” He tops up my glass. “I was sixteen, and it was my first major job. The museum hosted a reception for a visiting donor. I dressed as a waiter and sneaked into the gathering, and when everyone was distracted, I swapped out the paintings.”
“But you didn’t fence it.”
He shakes his head. “I should have,” he admits. “But I couldn’t bear to get rid of it.” He looks like he didn’t mean to tell me that. “It’s been hanging in my bedroom ever since.”
It’s a painting of a mother with her child, and I don’t need to be a therapist to understand why Antonio was drawn to it. And when I think of a sixteen-year-old boy who couldn’t bear to give up a painting because it stirred something in his heart, a lump forms in my throat.
“Good to know,” I reply pertly, pushing that feeling away. Just because I understand doesn’t mean I agree with what he did. If he felt compelled by the Titian, he could have bought himself a poster. Or, given that he has access to a forger of some skill, he could have commissioned himself a copy. I’m not going to give him a free pass just yet.
He grew up without parents. Unlike you, he was probably stealing the painting to survive.
I push that thought away. “In your bedroom. So, the way to get access to the Titian is to sleep with you?”
And why did you say that? Why do you keep bringing up having sex with him?
He gives me a crooked smile. “That’s one way, yes,” he replies, putting his hand on my thigh in an unmistakable invitation. “Are you offering?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. “I’m not.” What the hell am I doing? Instead of pushing his hand away, I’m leaning toward him. If I had any sense, I’d be afraid of him. Not attracted to him. “You warned me against stealing in Venice,” I murmur, trying to summon up some of the terror I felt yesterday when he caught me with his painting. “What happens if I break your rules? Will you send someone to beat me up, or will you kill me yourself?”
He holds my gaze. Looks me up and down in a slow caress. I’m clothed from head to toe, but he looks at me like he’s imagining me naked. “Neither,” he says, a light sparking in his eyes. “But if you try to steal my Madonna again, I will assume you’re sending me a message.”
“And what is that?”
“That you want me to fuck you.” He gives me a pleasant smile. “Choose your next move wisely, cara mia.”