23. Lucia
23
LUCIA
M y rage sees me through the next couple of days, but it evaporates by the time the weekend rolls around. I wake up on Saturday feeling completely flat.
It doesn’t help that I wake to an empty apartment. It seems like a metaphor for my life, bare and devoid of warmth. The only color comes from Antonio’s overflowing vase of flowers.
Walking away from Antonio was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t feel that way. Instead, I’m struggling with the sense that I stomped on a frail seedling before it could grow into a beautiful flower.
I admired his blue-and-white vase, and so he sent it to me, filled with my favorite flowers. He bought me lingerie that matches my eyes. I walked in on his meeting, and instead of being annoyed at the interruption, he told me he always had time for me.
Then he lifted me onto his desk, spanked my pussy, and brought me to a screaming orgasm.
And even now, remembering that orgasm sends a shiver of pure arousal through me.
Damn it.
People at work are still talking about the ship that was blown up in the harbor, but even though it should serve as a sobering reminder, I’m finding it difficult to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t get involved with the mafia boss. Fantasy Antonio is giving way to the real man, and, unfortunately for me, the real-life Antonio is terrifyingly attractive.
He threw you out of his office.
Yes, he did. But only after I turned down his dinner invitation. Maybe I should be angry with him, but I know why he did it. After all, I am an expert on self-preservation, on pulling away before somebody gets a chance to hurt you.
If I stayed, would we have fucked? Would I have spent the night in his bed, in his arms? A couple of weeks ago, he invited me to the antique market. If I stayed, would the two of us be heading to the Piazzola sul Brenta together this morning?
Enough. You made the right decision. Stop wallowing.
I jump out of bed, shower quickly, and get dressed. As usual, my refrigerator is empty, and today, I’m determined to fix that. I might not have any furniture, but there’s no reason I can’t start cooking. I can’t eat at neighborhood trattorias the entire time I’m in Venice.
First stop: the farmer’s market.
I call Valentina on the way there to find out if she wants to join me, but her phone goes directly to voicemail. I text her my plans and then dedicate myself to finding bread, vegetables, and, most importantly, wine.
It is a sunny day, clear, cold, and crisp. The market is busy, everyone taking advantage of the good weather. Young couples hold hands as they shop. Children dart between stalls, and mothers push strollers. Scenes of happy domesticity are everywhere.
My parents were happily married, and as a teenager, I always assumed I would be too. But when my parents died, I swore off love. I’ve never dated anyone seriously, and I’ve avoided relationships with passion. I’ve lived the last ten years convinced that I never want to be as vulnerable, as broken as I was in the aftermath of their deaths.
Being back in Venice is causing my beliefs to crumble. Now that I’m home, I’m starting to question my life choices. Meeting Antonio again is making me wonder what would happen if I let myself get involved with him.
A bouquet of hothouse white roses catches my eye, and I stop to smell them. The vendor gives me a persuasive smile. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
“They are.” I glance at the price tag and wince. “But too expensive for me.” A fresh-faced young man next to me is studying the flowers seriously, his expression thoughtful. Maybe he’s buying something for his sweetheart and trying to decide what she’d like best?
I resist the roses but get a small ivy plant in a yellow container. I head home to drop off my groceries and then decide to go to the antique market.
Alone.
I need to snap out of my funk, and there’s only one surefire way of doing that. Stealing a painting. Valentina narrowed down the list of targets, and I did take a look at them, but nothing jumped out at me. There’s a part of me that’s tempted to steal Arthur Kirkland’s entire Nazi-looted art collection, but that’s an ambitious job that would require a lot of planning.
And I’m running out of time. It’s already November. I always steal a painting between December and January, my own twisted way of remembering my parents. But this year, distracted as I am with being back in Venice—and with Antonio—I haven’t even identified a target.
I wander through the market aimlessly, my thoughts churning. I pause by a pair of hand-carved wood and leather chairs from Morocco, but the price makes me change my mind. Same with a black-and-white rug. I linger over a pair of ceramic blue candlesticks but pass on them as well. What’s the point? I’m not staying in Venice. I’ll be gone in a few months.
The same stall with the candlesticks also has a painting of a red vase with yellow flowers in the back. My eyes keep returning to it, and it takes me a moment to realize why. It reminds me of my mother’s art. In fact, this might even be one of hers; she sold them from time to time as a way to supplement her thieving income.
I go take a closer look. It’s not one of hers, but I still find myself buying it. I’m shaking my head at my folly as I walk out of the store.
That’s when I notice something. The young man I saw at the farmer’s market is here, paying for a cup of coffee at a nearby stand.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. What are the odds of running into the same person again?
Following a hunch, I duck into a small restaurant and linger over my meal. An hour later, I emerge into the square.
He’s still there. This time, he’s examining a pair of shoes with a frown.
He’s tailing me.
And only one person has a reason to have me followed.
Antonio Moretti.
A hot flash of anger surges through me. He threw me out of his office and made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me. How dare he have his people follow me around? I’m going to make him regret this.
I quickly formulate a plan and then make a beeline for my unwitting tail. “Hi,” I say brightly.
Consternation flashes over his face. “Signorina?”
“You work for Antonio, right? We had lunch plans at Quadri, but he’s running a little late.” I give him my most charming smile. “He told me to meet him at his house instead. Agnese isn’t in, but Antonio said one of his people could just let me in?”
The man responds just as I’m hoping he would. “Of course, Signorina Petrucci. I would be happy to escort you to Signor Moretti’s home.”
My guard’s name is Ignazio, and he takes me to Antonio’s house. A security guard comes up as he approaches the door, and the two of them have a hurried, low-voice discussion before Ignazio turns to me. “Signor Moretti is not home,” he says apologetically. “Stefano thinks he’s in a meeting.”
Perfect. Everything’s lining up exactly as I hoped it would. I glance at my phone as if I’m reading a text from Antonio. “Yeah, he says he’s just finishing up.” I shiver exaggeratedly and clutch my jacket closer. “Is it okay if I wait for him inside?”
Everyone wants to feel like they’re helping their boss out. Ignazio is young, and chances are, he’s keen and eager to make a difference. I’m going to take advantage of that.
As I expected, he lets me in out of the cold. Poor kid. He’s probably going to get into trouble because of me, and I feel a little bad about it, but not enough to abandon my plan.
As soon as the front door shuts behind me, I hurry to Antonio’s bedroom. I can’t count on having too much time. Ignazio might be easily fooled, but the other guard, Stefano, looked more suspicious. If Antonio doesn’t show up in the next few minutes, he might even call him to check my story. I need to grab the Titian and get the hell out of here.
As a happy coincidence, the painting I bought today is roughly the same size as the Titian. With a rueful grimace—I really did like the color—I hang it in place of the Madonna at Repose .
I hastily wrap the 16th-century masterpiece in the packaging my painting was wrapped in and then hurry out.
I’ve made no attempt to be sneaky. Antonio will know I’m responsible for the theft. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll stop home to grab my employee badge and then head straight to the museum. Once the painting is safely ensconced at the Palazzo Ducale, Antonio can kick and scream all he wants, but short of stealing it again, there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Thirty minutes later, after an excruciatingly slow ferry ride from Giudecca, I climb the stairs to my apartment. I open the front door, grinning in triumph at my successful heist.
“Hello, little thief,” Antonio says, his voice silken. “If you wanted to see me again, sweet Lucia, all you had to do was ask.”