34. Antonio
34
ANTONIO
I can’t get Lucia out of my mind. I have meetings on Friday morning—urgent matters to attend to—but instead of focusing on work, my thoughts keep returning to Lucia.
I wanted to wake up next to her; I wanted her to meet my friends. But she didn’t do any of those things. The moment I invited her to stay the night, she ran.
That’s okay. I can be patient when I have to be.
I get out of the shower and glance around my bedroom. Lucia wore my shirt last night when we took a break from our marathon lovemaking session to get something to drink. I lift it up and breathe deeply. It smells like Lucia, like spring flowers and sunshine. Rather than tossing it in the wash, I put it on so her scent can cling to my body.
I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager, and I don’t even care.
Buttoning up my cuffs, I head downstairs. Agnese is in the foyer, arranging flowers in a vase. “You had company last night?” she asks me.
“Yes.”
The flowers give me an idea—Lucia’s bouquet, the one I sent her last week, must be wilted by now, so I call the florist to place another order. “I need. . .” I do some quick math. One stem for every day since I met her for the first time. Ten years and a month, add in extra days for leap years. . . “Three hundred and five dozen blooms. Lilacs, hyacinths, daffodils, peonies, snowdrops—I want it to look and smell like spring.”
“Certainly, Signor Moretti. Three hundred and five blooms. Where would you like to have it delivered?”
“No,” I correct her. “Three hundred and five dozen. ”
There’s a moment of pure silence. “But that’s over three thousand blooms,” she says faintly. “Umm, when do you need them?”
“This afternoon.” I want Lucia’s apartment overflowing with flowers when she gets home from work. I want it to look like a garden. Her mother died in that apartment; her father killed himself there. I don’t want to remove that memory—that’s not possible—but I want to give her an alternative one. Life is not just about pain—there’s sweetness there, too, and joy if you let yourself experience it.
“This afternoon,” she repeats in shock. “But Signor Moretti. . .”
“Is there a problem?”
“Umm, we don’t stock that many flowers,” she says nervously. “I don’t think anyone in Venice does. I’ll have to call around?—”
“Do whatever it takes,” I respond, cutting her off. “Just get it done. They need to be delivered to Castello.” I give her Lucia’s address. “I’ll be there to let you in.”
Agnese beams at me when I hang up. “You like this girl, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Like isn’t the right word. It doesn’t capture the rightness I feel around Lucia. She centers me.
“Well, I’m glad. You’ve been alone too long. What’s the point of all this”—she gestures around my house—“without someone to share it with?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” I tell her dryly. “For the moment, I’ll settle for her not freaking out every time I invite her to dinner.”
I leave Agnese to her dusting and go to our headquarters. It’d be easier to stop thinking about Lucia if Gafur did something to retaliate, but they’ve been quiet all week. They’ve done nothing aggressive since beating up Sandro Rizzi. We’re not finding containers of weapons either. It’s almost as if they’ve found a different way to smuggle their weapons that doesn’t involve Venice.
“Do you think they’ve given up?” one of the stevedores asks when he comes to report on their progress.
“No. I doubt it’s going to be that easy: these things never are.” It’s much more likely that they’re reacting to the countermeasures I asked Tomas to take. Tomas is a genius, and he’s systematically destroying them, one investment at a time.
But just because Gafur is currently busy defending themselves against our hostilities doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. “You’re doing a great job,” I tell the man in front of me. “Keep doing it for a few more weeks.”
I get back to headquarters and try to review some files, but I’m distracted all day. At two, I give up and head to Lucia’s apartment building. The front lock takes me less than a minute to pick, and the elevator doesn’t work.
“Get someone in here to fix this mess,” I tell Stefano, my shadow of the day, as we climb the four flights of stairs to Lucia’s apartment. It’s been broken for more than a month; what the hell is the building owner doing?
“Yes, Padrino.”
Lucia’s lock is just as easy to pick. I enter and look around. She still doesn’t have any furniture. There’s one solitary fold-up chair in the living room, and that’s it. No food in her kitchen either—both the pantry and refrigerator are bare.
This is someone with one foot out the door.
She needs furniture. Not the stuff in her parents’ storage unit but furniture of her own. Something that can represent a fresh start and make her want to stay.
I go into her bedroom. There’s a blow-up mattress on the floor and a laptop resting on the pillow, but that’s not what draws my attention.
It’s the painting propped casually against the wall. My Titian. Still in her apartment, still unreturned to the Palazzo Ducale.
A grin forms on my face.
I’m not going to steal it—not exactly. That would be too predictable. No, I’m going to do something else.
Whistling under my breath, I head out to put my plan into action.