35. Lucia
35
LUCIA
A fter work on Friday, I text Valentina and make sure she’s up for company, then drop by her place.
“Why didn’t you tell me you got migraines?” I demand as soon as she opens the door.
“Hello to you too,” she replies dryly. “Come on in. You want something to drink? I just made myself a cup of tea.”
Valentina always has the best teas. “Yes, please.” I enter her apartment, take off my boots, and hang up my jacket.
“Who told you about my migraines?” she asks as she pours me a cup of something that smells like vanilla and caramel. Yum. “Was it Antonio?”
I nod, and her eyes dance with mirth. “Tell me more,” she says in a singsong voice. “I want all the details. The private room at Casanova Antonio dragged you to and the very intimate dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in the city—tell me everything.”
I settle on her couch and tuck my feet under me. “You go first.”
“I got migraines,” she replies with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I started getting them when I was pregnant, and I’ve been getting them ever since. I’ve been to a neurologist and done all the tests. Nobody can find anything wrong. It’s just one of those little annoyances of life, that’s all.” She eyes me pointedly. “And I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d freak out, just like you’re freaking out right now.”
It doesn’t sound like one of life’s little annoyances to me; it sounds like a big deal. But, as Valentina pointed out, I don’t have any perspective about people getting sick. At any mention of illness, I panic and overreact.
“I don’t like when people keep secrets from me,” I murmur. “Especially about things like this.”
“I know,” she says gently. “But I’m not your mother. If there’s anything to worry about, I will tell you. And not only because you’re Angelica’s godmother, but because you’re my best friend.”
She’s making me sniffle. “That reminds me. Antonio said Angelica was with Dante. I didn’t know he was her uncle.”
Surprise flashes across her face. “I didn’t tell you? Sorry about that. Yeah, he took her so I could have a quiet evening alone without worrying about her.” She makes a face. “Whatever else I might think of him, he’s a good uncle. He dotes on her.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, whatever else you might think of him?”
She avoids my gaze, and awareness hits me in a flash. “Oh. My God. You like him.”
“I do not,” she replies at once. “I think he’s insufferable. But it’s good for Angelica to know her family.”
Valentina’s protesting a little too much. She certainly didn’t act like he was insufferable when they came to pick me up at the airport. Now that I think about it, she kept sneaking glances at the stairs. At the time, I thought she was worrying about Angelica, who was in the wheelhouse with Dante, but now, I’m starting to second-guess that assumption.
I survey her thoughtfully. What a tangled mess this is. I don’t think she knows that Dante killed his brother because Roberto beat her. If she found out, would it change the way she feels about Dante?
Valentina is my best friend. I love her like a sister, and I should tell her about Dante. But Antonio told me what he did in confidence, and he did it without the slightest doubt that I would keep his secrets. I want to honor his trust in me.
There is a long pause. Valentina breaks it. “You and Antonio, you guys together now?”
“I don’t know.”
She tilts her head to one side and gives me a searching look. “Well, that’s a shock. I was expecting you to say absolutely not. Why the uncertainty? Is he giving you mixed messages?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s extremely clear about his intentions. And his directness is. . . refreshing.” With Antonio, I never have to doubt if he’s interested in me. When he looks at me, I have his complete, total attention, and it’s a heady, addictive feeling. “It’s me. After what happened with my parents, I just don’t know. . .” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t think I’m cut out for relationships. I’m too much of a coward.”
Valentina snorts. “You’re full of crap,” she says. “Every time you steal a painting, you put yourself in danger, but that’s a risk you’re willing to take. If you decide to do something, you have plenty of courage.”
“Why are you on Team Relationship all of a sudden?” I grumble. “You’re the one who warned me to stay away from him.”
“That was before it became obvious that he’s crazy about you.” She grins. “I can’t believe he rushed over as soon as he found out you were at Casanova. It’s your turn to spill, by the way.”
I make a face. “I don’t want to become one of those women who can only talk about the guy she’s seeing. Let’s talk about something else. Like what painting I’m going to steal next.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Does that mean you’ve lost interest in the Titian?”
The Titian is propped against my bedroom wall, but I haven’t told Valentina about my successful heist. She’d never stop teasing me if she knew, but that’s not the only reason. If she asks me why I haven’t yet returned it to the Palazzo Ducale, I won’t have an answer for her.
“You told me not to steal in Venice. I’m just following instructions.”
“Yes, something you do so well.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, keep your secrets. Let’s look at the list again.”
I pull out my shortlist. “I’m leaning toward Gavin Powell.”
“The British asshole who lives in Hungary?”
“The same.” Asshole is putting it mildly. Gavin Powell is a men’s rights activist. On his podcast, he expounds upon how women are naturally subservient to men, advocates treating your wife like garbage, and throws in other racist dog whistles. He lives in exile in Hungary because he’s wanted on rape charges in the UK.
Perhaps more relevant to my purposes, he owns a stolen Jacopo Bassano. The painting was stolen three years ago from a museum in Turin in a brazen smash-and-grab. Powell funded the heist, which means that if I steal his Bassano, he can’t very well report the theft. Not unless he wants Interpol to ask him some deeply uncomfortable questions.
“An excellent target,” Valentina says with relish. “I hoped you might pick him, so I already went ahead and did a full assessment.” She opens her desk drawer and hands me a USB key. “Here you go. Everything you wanted to know about Gavin Powell and then some. Be ready to shower once you read the sordid details. I know I wanted to.”
“You’re the best.”
* * *
Signora Girelli, my downstairs neighbor, is struggling with the front door when I get back home. Her fluffy poodle, Sasha, is nestled at her feet, her leash tangled up around the older woman’s ankles.
“Let me get that for you,” I say, hurrying up and holding the door open while she untangles herself and scoops the dog up. We enter the lobby together, and she presses the button for the tiny three-person elevator.
I clear my throat. “Signora Girelli? I don’t think the elevator is working.” It hasn’t worked since I’ve been back, and the building management just keeps giving me excuses about why they can’t get it running again. At this rate, I have no idea how the agency is going to find anyone who wants to rent my apartment once I leave.
“Oh no, dear,” she corrects me with a smile. “Someone was in here earlier today to fix it. Your furniture delivery people used it.”
Sleep-deprived as I am, it takes a few seconds for her words to sink in.
“My what?” I ask.
“Furniture.” She pats my arm. “I’m so glad you’re settling in at last, Lucia.”
I murmur something in reply, my brain whirling. What is she talking about? Does she have me confused with someone else? But no, that’s not possible. My neighbor might be in her eighties, but her mind is as sharp as it was ten years ago.
I ride up the elevator with her. When I get to my floor, I unlock my apartment door, push it open, and freeze in my tracks.
Flowers cover every available surface of my living room in riotous shades of blue, yellow, and pink, their fragrance exuding the promise of spring. There are hundreds—no, thousands —of blooms here. This is more than a garden. This is a meadow, beautiful and magical, and only one person could have made it happen.
Antonio strikes again.
I take a step inside. I’m so enamored with the flowers that it takes me a long time to notice the furniture Signora Girelli mentioned.
Ignazio, the guy following me at the antique market, must have kept careful track of everything I liked and admired and reported back to Antonio. Because it’s all here. The rug I liked is spread on the floor, its black-and-white pattern a vivid contrast to the wooden floor. The Moroccan chairs I admired are by the window, a wooden side table nestled between them.
The table is overflowing with flowers, of course, but tucked between the blooms is the pair of blue ceramic candlesticks I fell in love with.
I stare at the furniture, brush the soft petals of the flowers with my fingertips, and bury my face in their fragrance. I don’t know how to react. This is a display of wealth and power, yes. But it’s so much more. This is about paying attention to my needs. Understanding what I want.
Antonio’s always done that. Ten years ago, he gave me exactly what I needed when he walked with me in the middle of the night, offering me companionship while giving me space to grieve.
And now, this apartment doesn’t look like the place where my parents died. It looks like a home I would be delighted to live in.
What are you going to do about the Uffizi?
I head to my bedroom, picking my way carefully among the vases. My air mattress is gone, deflated and neatly folded in a corner. In its place is a bed, a duplicate of the one in Antonio’s bedroom. Same dark wood, same slatted headboard.
And shockingly, the Titian is exactly where I left it.
What is Antonio playing at?
I dial his number, and he picks up on the first ring.
“You broke into my house,” I accuse.
“Guilty as charged,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you like the flowers?”
Like is too mild a word. “They are beautiful.” My voice softens. “Magical.” I take another deep breath and feel the promise of spring. “Are there any flowers left in Venice?”
“I might have cleaned them out,” he says with a chuckle. “They’ll recover.”
I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips. “Why did you buy me furniture?”
“I needed somewhere to set the vases,” he replies as if there aren’t vases all over the floor as well. “It was an entirely self-centered gesture.”
“That explains the side table,” I concede. I’m trying to sound stern, but my giggles threaten to break through. “What about the rug, the chairs, and the bed?”
“The table and chairs came as a set. The rug, because your floor was cold. As for the bed. . .” His voice lowers suggestively. “Your air mattress isn’t going to be sturdy enough for the things I want to do to you, Lucia.”
He says my name like a caress, and liquid desire runs through me in a molten torrent. I wet my lips. “You can’t just buy me stuff.”
He laughs. “You keep telling me what I can and cannot do, little thief. Do you not like the furniture? It can be replaced.”
“I love everything,” I say honestly.
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
He really is the most aggravating person, and yet, I’m smiling like an idiot, and my fingers can’t stop stroking the petals of the daffodils closest to me.
“Do you. . .” I hesitate, then plunge forward. “Do you want to grab dinner sometime next week? There’s a trattoria in my neighborhood. It’s not fancy, but. . .”
“I’d love to,” he replies instantly. “When?”
Now. Tomorrow. But I make myself take a deep breath before I answer. Things feel like they’re moving too fast, and I need a day or two to let everything sink in. “How about Tuesday?”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I hang up, sit in one of my new chairs, and breathe in the meadow around me. The king of Venice filled my apartment with flowers, and I invited him to dinner.
Whether I admit it out loud or not, I’m involved with Antonio Moretti.
And that thought both terrifies me and thrills me in equal measure.