43. Lucia
43
LUCIA
W hen I was a kid and my dad taught me how to ride a bike, he didn’t use training wheels. Instead, he ran behind me, holding the back of the bike and steadying it. I would be pedaling, secure in the knowledge that I was fine, and then I’d look back and realize he wasn’t there. And it was only when I knew that he stopped holding me and I was biking on my own that I’d start to wobble and fall.
So, when I realize I’m in love with Antonio, I do my best to pretend it hasn’t happened. I don’t look back and I don’t examine it too much because if I do, I’ll do something really stupid, like run the hell away.
Instead, I just keep pedaling, and I don’t look back. Because if I do, I’ll fall.
A few weeks go by, and I settle into my new relationship with Antonio. The two of us spend most evenings together, planning our heist and squabbling over the details. I give Antonio a copy of the dossier that Valentina put together on Gavin Powell, and unfortunately for me, he reads it cover to cover, which means that any time I make a plan that involves me being alone with Powell, he flatly overrules it.
“Do you not trust me?” I ask teasingly after one such veto.
He pulls me close and kisses me, deep and hard, like he never wants to stop. His eyes are hot and possessive as his mouth claims mine. His lips and hands roam my body and send a message. Mine.
I’ve seen Antonio’s dominant side, but this is different. It feels like the walls I’ve erected around my heart have crumbled away, and the king of Venice now occupies an integral part of it.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he says darkly when he draws away from me. “Powell is a piece of shit who has most of the Budapest police in his pocket. Going to Hungary is risky, and I hate it. If it were up to me, I’d cover you with bubble wrap and keep you in Venice forever.”
My heartbeat stutters. Antonio is voicing a thought I’m starting to have with increasing frequency. I’ve avoided Venice for a very long time, but it feels like home again, and I don’t want to leave.
“I can take care of myself.”
“No,” he says flatly. “We either find a safe way to do this job, or we don’t do it at all.”
But after a week or two of this, we finally find a way to get to the Bassano without going anywhere near Powell.
Three years ago, when the British podcaster hired art thieves to steal the Bassano from the Turin Museum, he had no plans to resell it. The Bassano was a way to brag to his friends and cement his power and influence.
But times have changed. Powell has been banned by every major social media platform in the last year, and this has had the unfortunate effect of drying up both his podcast revenue and the money he gets from selling boner pills to impressionable teenagers. He’s broke, and he’s being forced to sell the Bassano to cover some of his losses.
“He’s set up a private auction,” Antonio reports, “And contacted a list of buyers who are receptive to the idea of acquiring stolen art, hoping to get a bidding frenzy going. That’s our way in.”
“How did you find out? Did he invite you?”
A look of distaste crosses Antonio’s face. “I assure you, Gavin Powell and I do not move in the same circles. Here’s the important part. Prior to the sale, he’s sending the painting to be appraised.”
I lean forward, anticipation buzzing like a live wire under my skin. “You’re saying we should steal it from the appraiser?”
“Exactly.”
I consider his suggestion. It’s a good plan. “We’ll need blueprints for the appraiser’s building,” I say, biting my lip in thought. “I don’t know what kind of security they have, so we have to figure that out. When is the painting getting appraised?”
“Next week.”
“That’s too soon. We’ll never have enough time?—”
I stop talking as he smugly pulls a rolled-up sheet of paper from under the table. “Blueprints,” he says, spreading the sheet flat. “And their security specs are on my laptop. Oh, and there’s one more thing that’ll buy us enough time to grab the painting and get the hell out of Hungary.”
He leaves the room and returns with a painting. It’s a copy of the painting we want to steal. A really good copy. My mouth falls open. “How?” I demand. “How did you pull this off? Who forged it? Is it the same person who forged the Titian?”
“That’s a secret,” he says, laughing at me. “You’re going to have to try very hard to get it out of me.”
In between planning the heist, we do couple-ish things. On the actual anniversary of my parents’ deaths, Antonio comes with me to the cemetery, where I lay flowers on their graves. After that, we go back to the storage unit, and I find old photo albums in one of the boxes.
We spend the rest of the day looking at family photos, and halfway through the first album, I realize how lucky I am. Because Antonio is right—I was loved. It’s here in the photos documenting my first steps, my first birthday, and my first trip to the beach. It’s in the pink frilled dress my mother made for me when I was five, and it’s in the silver stars she painted on my ceiling so I could lie in bed and pretend I was looking at the night sky.
I don’t know how Antonio’s going to react. I half-expect him to be upset—his mother didn’t paint stars on the ceiling for him; she dropped him off at a church as a baby and never tried to find him again. But I should have had more faith in his reaction. Antonio looks at the pictures with obvious interest, and when we get to the photos my parents took of me during my teenage goth phase, he starts laughing helplessly, delighted by my black lipstick and surly expression.
I get my revenge a few days later when we meet Enzo and Tatiana for dinner, and they tell me stories about Antonio’s teenage exploits.
“Remember the time he showed up in skinny pants?” Enzo asks with a laugh.
“He looked like a chicken in them,” Tatiana tells me gleefully. “And then he bent to pick something up off the floor, and they split because they were so tight.”
I spend the entire evening giggling at their stories. “You’re ganging up on me,” Antonio grumbles, putting an arm around my waist. “I don’t like it.”
But he doesn’t mean it. Enzo and Tatiana are his family, and he’s delighted we’re getting along.
Antonio’s housekeeper, Agnese, is also thrilled he’s dating someone. “The padrino is a good man, and he’s been alone too long.” She makes me tell her my favorite foods, and soon, I’m eating risi e bisi, bigoli in salsa, and more.
In December, Angelica has a ballet recital. Valentina, Dante, and I attend, and when Angelica comes on the stage in her little pink tutu, my heart feels like it’s going to burst. Valentina’s daughter has called me Aunt Lucia her entire life, but I’ve always felt like an impostor. I’m acutely aware that I’ve bribed my way into her affections with presents and candy, but I’ve never been there for the day-to-day stuff. Now, attending her recital, I finally feel worthy of the title.
After ten years of suppressing my emotions and living in a world devoid of color, I am suddenly in the middle of the rainbow, and it’s a little terrifying.
But in a good way.
When my parents died, I did a lot of reckless things and took a ton of stupid risks. But nothing beats the sheer peril of embarking upon a relationship with Antonio.
I’m already scarred. My heart has been broken once into jagged pieces. I’ve done my best to put it back together, but I don’t know how well I’ve succeeded. Falling in love with Antonio is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done because if this thing between us shatters, so will my heart. And this time, I don’t think I can put it back together again.
Yes, like a moth to the flame, I flutter toward him, unable to help myself. I throw open the doors of my life and invite him in.
I keep pedaling. I don’t stop, and I don’t look back.
* * *
The day after Angelica’s recital, Antonio and I fly out to Budapest. The job is a piece of cake. Everything goes exactly according to plan. We get in, grab the painting, and get out. It’s almost anticlimactic. Forty-eight hours after we left Venice, we’re back at Marco Polo airport, waiting at the baggage carousel for the ski equipment that was our cover for the trip.
Antonio’s phone rings. “It’s Dante,” he says, glancing at the display. “I need to grab this.”
“Go ahead.” Antonio’s done his best to conceal it, but he’s still stressed about the Russian threat. Enzo reassures us that Salvatore Verratti’s arrest is imminent, and this will soon be over, but nothing seems to be happening, and it’s driving all of us a little crazy. Valentina’s living with Dante and is a stressed-out mess. I jump at loud noises. Antonio looks like he’s holding it together the best, but he gets tense when I’m out of his sight. We’re all on edge, and I just want things to go back to normal.
Bags from our flight finally start making it on the carousal.
That’s when I feel someone staring at me.
I turn around and see a man in his mid-thirties. He’s a few inches taller than me, his face weathered and lined. His thinning black hair is slicked back, and a dark beard covers his jawline. He’s wearing a heavy woolen overcoat with the collar turned up. When my gaze lands on him, he turns away into a coffee shop.
I’m positive I’ve never seen him before, yet he somehow seems familiar. One of Antonio’s men, maybe? By now, I know the people guarding me, but maybe Leo put someone new on my detail?
Frowning, I look for him again, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Antonio’s done with his phone call, and he’s already got our bags. I consider mentioning him to Antonio, but what am I going to say, that somebody was looking at me? I’m just being paranoid. “Okay, how did you arrange for our bags to show up quickly? You can’t have bribed all the baggage handlers.”
He laughs. “I can’t tell you all my secrets, cara mia.”
We head toward the exit, where the Invictus waits for us. As soon as the boat gets underway, Antonio opens a bottle of chilled prosecco and pours it into two flutes. “Our first successful heist,” he says with a cheerful smile. “Here’s to many more.”
I clink my glass against his. We stand on deck and watch the island come into view. The domes and bell towers rise like something out of a dream, their outlines shimmering in the mist.
I’m home again, and I’m with Antonio. After a decade of feeling unsettled, I finally feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. All is right in the world.
But later that evening, when I check my voicemail, I find a message from Rocco Cacciola.
“I’m so sorry for the delay, Lucia,” he says. “I’ve been away sick, and the hiring process ground to a halt in my absence. But the committee has finally reviewed your application, and everyone likes what they see. We’d like to invite you to Florence to formally interview for the job.”