37. Lucia
37
LUCIA
I f I had the slightest illusion that my dinner with Antonio wouldn’t be a topic of gossip, it’s dispelled the moment I get to work on Monday.
I’ve barely settled in when Giana, our gossipy department assistant, drops by unannounced.
“Some of us get together and buy lottery tickets in a pool,” she says. “Do you want to join us?”
I’ve been here for two months, and this is the first I’ve heard of the lottery pool. Let’s be honest: I wouldn’t put it past her to have hastily set it up in the last ten minutes just so she could have an excuse to stop by.
“No, I’m good,” I reply. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t leave. “You probably already feel like you’ve won the lottery,” she says with a superior little sniff. “I don’t know how you can look past the mafia thing, but I guess Antonio Moretti is very rich, and that’s enough for some people. I wouldn’t date him myself for all the sexy lingerie and fancy dinners in the world, but. . .” Her voice trails off.
He’s not offering to date you, I want to snap at her. I don’t think much of our department secretary, but even by the admittedly low bar I’ve set for her, this is too much.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Giana?” I say curtly. “Because I have a lot to do today, and I don’t have time to indulge your desire for gossip. If this isn’t about work, please leave.”
She gives me a poisonous look and slams my door shut. I grit my teeth and turn on my computer. I’ve probably made an enemy, but I can’t bring myself to care. She flat-out called me a gold digger, and I refuse to put up with it.
But Giana sets the tone for the day. She’s barely left my office when there’s another knock at my door. I look up, and it’s Dr. Mayer.
Felix Mayer, the assistant curator in charge of acquisitions, is in his mid-fifties and my least favorite coworker. He’s a condescending, sexist jerk. In meetings, it’s always him who turns to me and says, “Would you mind taking notes, Lucia?”
As if we didn’t share the exact same title.
Two weeks ago, when Giana was out sick for a day, he had the nerve to ask me to bring him a coffee. Yes. For real. For almost a minute, my brain struggled to process what I’d heard, then I almost punched him. “Get your own goddamn coffee,” I snarled before walking away.
Evidently, I hurt his feelings and ever since then, we’ve maintained an uneasy peace. I do my best to avoid him, and he alternates between pouting like a child and ignoring me. He clearly expects me to apologize for swearing at him, but hell will freeze over before I do that, and there the matter lies.
But the lure of Antonio Moretti’s money and influence is too great because Felix Mayer is holding a box of pastries in his hand.
“I stopped by the bakery on my way in,” he explains, holding out the sugary treats. “Please, help yourself.”
“Thank you.” I take one, hoping he will go away, but of course, he doesn’t.
“I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings from our conversation a couple of weeks ago.”
You mean the conversation where you asked me, your peer, to fetch your coffee? I bite my tongue before I can tell him exactly where he can put his non-apology. “Okay.”
He makes no move to leave. “What are you working on, Lucia?”
I summon up patience and answer his question, and he pretends to listen. Then he spends twenty minutes telling me all about his research and how he’s been constrained by a sad lack of funding. Finally, when I’m ready to scream at him, he departs my office.
My next visitor is the director herself, Gisele Sabatino. Today must really be my lucky day.
She enters my office and settles herself in the chair across from me. I not-so-patiently wait for her to explain why she’s here, but she doesn’t say anything, so I prompt, “What can I do for you, Signora Sabatino?”
“We haven’t really had a chance to connect, Lucia,” she says with a wide smile. “I wanted to make sure you have all the equipment you need.”
You barely knew my name until I was seen with Antonio at Quadri, but okay.
“I do, yes.”
“I hope everyone in the museum has been welcoming.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “They have, thank you.”
She looks around my tiny, windowless office. It’s a glorified closet, really, but I don’t care. “You don’t have a lot of light here. I must talk to Nicolo about finding you a better space. After all, digitization is an important priority for our museum.”
“I don’t need much,” I reply, but she’s not listening. I grit my teeth as she starts talking about the museum’s budget shortfall.
“Fundraising is the most important part of my job,” she says. “But it’s an uphill battle. Even with generous donors, it’s never enough. If we had more money, we could do so much more. Really, the work you’re doing— the digitization efforts— should be a full-time job. But unfortunately, a short-term contract is all we can afford right now.”
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.
She leans forward, undeterred by my marked lack of enthusiasm. “Everyone is very happy with your work,” she says, fixing me with an intent look. “If we were ever to get more money, I would have no hesitation in giving you a full-time role.”
My stomach sours at her implication. The museum director has the subtlety of a hammer, and her meaning is crystal clear. If Antonio increases the amount of money he gives the museum, then I will get a full-time job.
When I was growing up, a full-time job at the Palazzo Ducale would have been a dream come true, but right now, I just feel queasy.
I fume in silence after she leaves. It’s so obvious what’s going on. Venice is a small city, and I was seen having an intimate dinner with one of its most prominent residents. I am now somebody , and everyone wants to curry favor with me. Which just makes me want to start laughing hysterically. What the fuck is Signora Sabatino thinking? Does she really believe that Antonio will increase his donation to the museum if I suck his cock more often?
I want to scream at the top of my voice, I want to pick up my phone and call Antonio and snarl at him. But of course, it’s not his fault that my colleagues want to suck up.
I duck out for a quick cup of coffee, hoping the chill in the air will calm me. It doesn’t, and my day continues to get worse when, shortly after lunch, Dottore Garzolo drops by.
My boss hasn’t been in for the last week and a half. He had a bad asthma attack that turned into pneumonia, and he spent a night in the emergency room. Even now, he looks frailer than usual and sinks into a chair with a sigh of relief.
I stiffen when I see him, but thankfully, he’s not here to talk about Antonio.
“I came about the Titian, Lucia,” he says. “You said you found it?”
“Yes, of course. It’s still in the storage room, but I can bring it here.”
He looks around the room doubtfully. “There’s not really enough light here,” he says. “Why don’t you bring it to the acquisitions lab? It’s much better lit.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. My boss’s eyesight might not be great, but the acquisitions lab will have other people in it, people who are experts, people who will be able to look at the Titian and realize it’s a fake.
My knees suddenly go weak.
“Of course,” I murmur. Why the hell didn’t I put the real Titian back when I had the chance? Like an idiot, I left it in my bedroom, openly visible to anyone who enters my apartment.
If Dottore Garzolo realizes the Titian in the storage unit is a fake, what will happen next? Will he call the police? Will they review old security footage, footage that’ll show me carrying a suspiciously large backpack in and out of the museum multiple times? Will they search my apartment?
Of all the ways I thought I’d get caught, this is the stupidest.
I brush my damp palms against my skirt. Nothing to do but hope for the best. “I’ll bring it right up.”
I proceed to the storeroom on autopilot, grab the Titian, and take it to the acquisitions lab. Dottore Garzolo is already there, a loupe in his hand, and he’s not alone. Anja Vogel, one of the senior conservators, is there too.
This day really cannot get worse.
I put the painting down on the table with shaking hands. Dottore Garzolo peers down at it, and his face breaks out into a smile. “Lovely, just lovely. Dr. Vogel, you have to look at this Titian that Lucia found in one of our forgotten storage rooms. The brushwork, the coloring. . .” He bends down and looks through the loupe. “This is truly one of the jewels of our collection.”
Dr. Vogel wanders over, and when she sees the Titian, her expression turns appreciative. “It’s so rare to see the Madonna portrayed as anything other than serene,” she says. “But this, the mother, laughing and playing with her child, what a masterpiece.” She gives the man standing next to her a chiding glance. “Dottore Garzolo, I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. If there’s ever a reason to switch from a paper cataloging system to digital?—”
“I know, I know,” my boss replies hastily before her lecture can pick up steam. “And you are correct. Thank you, Lucia. I can’t tell you how delighted I am about this find.”
What the hell is going on here? Even if Dottore Garzolo were to miss it, Anja Vogel’s sharp eyes wouldn’t fail to detect the fake.
I move closer and glance down at the Titian properly for the first time. The brilliant colors. The thin and skinny craquelure.
This isn’t the fake. This is the real Madonna.
Antonio must have broken into my apartment and stole back the Titian. But instead of keeping it, he returned it to the Palazzo Ducale and swapped it out with the fake.
Why?