Page 67 of The Thief

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 dosowell.” 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.”Assholeis 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.

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