48. Lucia
48
LUCIA
M y head spins. I feel dizzy and nauseous. My vision is blurry through the tears that cascade down my cheeks. He told me to go away. Not only that, but he told me it was my fault that he was distracted. My fault that he got shot in the first place.
Words are a weapon, and he stabbed me with his.
But, cruel as his words were, he’s right. What happened tonight is my fault. I’ve been a distraction. It’s because of me that he went to Hungary to steal a painting from Gavin Powell. I’m the one who invited him to tonight’s gala, the one who wanted pizza. If it wasn’t for me, he would have done what Leo advised. He would have stayed home.
And then he would have never been shot.
Antonio’s absolutely right. I’m not good for him. His job requires complete focus and attention, and if I want him to live, I should stay away from him.
Even if, for one brief shining minute, I thought we had something magical.
I have to let him go. If the cost of Antonio staying alive is me leaving his life, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay. No matter how much my heart is breaking right now, it’s worth it. He’s worth it.
It’s late, and the streets are mostly empty. The few people I encounter gape at me, arrested by my blood-stained dress, but I’m oblivious to their stares. I hug my wrap close as I stumble home, but I can’t stop shivering. It’s cold outside, yes, but the real cold comes from within.
Back home, I unzip my beautiful, glowing dress—now ruined beyond the ability to fix—and stand under the shower. I stay there for a very long time, but no matter how hot the water runs, I can’t seem to get warm. I even wrap myself up in a quilt and make a cup of hot tea, but the shivers don’t subside.
Everything in my apartment reminds me of Antonio. Every item of furniture, every inch of carpet. Framed photos of my parents hang on the wall—I never would have made it to their storage unit without his support. A side table holds a vase overflowing with calla lilies that he bought me this week. The blooms are bright yellow, cheerful dots of sunshine in the winter gloom.
“They remind me of you,” he said when he handed them to me.
There’s a half-finished bottle of Barolo on the counter. We opened it on Thursday and were going to finish it tomorrow. That’s not going to happen now.
It’s over.
I open my cupboards, searching for something to fill the hollowness inside me. My trembling hands settle on a bottle of vodka. I find a glass and pour myself a generous shot, but I can’t drink it. The smell of the liquor takes me right back to that night so long ago, the night I met Antonio Moretti for the first time.
I close my eyes and remember the heat of his body, the delicate touch of his fingers on my bruised skin. The way he growled, ‘Who did this to you?’ The warmth of the jacket he draped around my shoulders. His intoxicating scent of leather mixed with sandalwood and smoke.
It’s all over now.
My stomach heaves, and I retch. Sure, I can down the shot, and the vodka would give me temporary oblivion, but then what? I can’t drown my pain in a bottle forever. Tomorrow morning, I’ll still be empty. Broken. Shattered.
I have to get out of here.
I go downstairs. I don’t have a destination in mind; I don’t care where I end up. All I know is that I can’t stay where I am. There are too many memories in this apartment, and each one pours acid on my raw, flayed heart.
It’s well past midnight. The earlier drizzle has intensified, and rain falls in cold sheets. I put up my hood, but the water soaks through the fabric and runs in icy rivulets down my neck. I walk and walk, uncaring about the weather, my destination, or anything else.
Somehow, I end up at the pier where I met Antonio ten years ago.
The last time I was here, it smelled like a mix of vomit and urine. The docks were a patchwork of splintered planks, paint peeling and wood cracked from years of salt and sun. Rust and decay hung like a thick miasma over the area.
Not any longer.
The long shadows have been replaced by streetlights. The crumbling warehouses I remember are gone. Bars, art galleries, vinotecas, artisanal cheese stores, and clothing boutiques fill the space instead. A couple of the bars are even open, laughing revelers inside filled with holiday cheer.
I pass a building under construction. A sign next to it announces that a community center will open next spring. But that isn’t what catches my eye. It’s the logo of the company in charge of the project.
A stylized M. Moretti Construction.
This is Antonio’s doing. He took something broken and wrecked and brought it back to life.
The way he did with me.
I don’t understand anything right now. Antonio is a good person who cares deeply about his city and his people. Valentina has never said a bad word about him. Enzo, who is an honest, upstanding police officer, would walk through fire for him. Claudia and Miriam sing his praises to the stars.
He’s always treated me like I’m important to him. Even at the start, when he was warning me against stealing his painting, he always treated me like I mattered.
Tonight, though. . . he pushed me away with cruel and hurtful words.
But the cruelty doesn’t match the Antonio I know. He is the king of Venice, and I know he’s capable of ruthlessness, but underneath, there’s a core of goodness. I’ve seen it in action over and over again.
His cruel, condemning words ring in my ears. You’re a distraction, Lucia. You’ve been a distraction from the moment you got here. I’m so preoccupied with you that I’m not doing what I need to do. I’m not keeping the streets of Venice safe. Your presence is endangering my life and the life of everyone else around me.
Except Antonio has never condemned me—not ever. When I was drunk at the docks, he didn’t judge. He was a supportive presence when I needed it. When I stole his painting, he invited me to play a game with him. When I was intent on flying to Hungary and stealing the Bassano, he planned the heist with me.
He didn’t give me any random piece of jewelry; he had a bracelet commissioned that matched my mother’s ruby pendant. He didn’t send me roses; he filled my apartment with spring flowers because they were my favorite. He bought me lingerie because it matched my eyes. When I asked him why he’d never been in a relationship, he told me that it was because he was haunted by the memory of a girl with grief-stricken green eyes stumbling through the docks, clutching a bottle of vodka.
And tonight. . . Tonight, he told me he loved me.
The Antonio I know would have never called me a distraction. So what changed? Why did he send me away?
My head spins. Nothing makes sense anymore.
A cynical part of me whispers, Aren’t you glad you applied to the Uffizi? Aren’t you glad you have a safety net?
But even as I ask the question, my heart knows the answer. If this is my safety net, I don’t want it. I’d rather keep falling.