Page 83 of The Thief

I walk into her kitchen. I half expect her refrigerator to be empty the way it was on Friday, but I am pleasantly surprised when I open it. It’s filled with food. Something eases inside me at the sight of fresh vegetables, jars of pesto, and a half-eaten loaf of bread on the counter. Less than a week ago, Lucia had no furniture. She seemed happy to live out of a suitcase, and she felt ready to leave Venice at a moment’s notice.

But the food. . .

The food gives me hope.

* * *

I wakeup before Lucia the next morning. I tiptoe out of bed, take a quick shower, and head to her kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Silvio and Ignazio have relieved Omar and Stefano. I take them cups of coffee, and they thank me gratefully.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere for a few hours,” I tell them. “If you want to go grab breakfast, that’s okay with me.”

“Thank you, Padrino,” Silvio responds. “But we’re good.”

Translation: Leo will kill them if he finds out I was left unprotected.

Going back inside, I can hear Lucia moving around. A few minutes later, she emerges from her shower wearing a robe, her hair damp.

“Hey there.” She smiles at me. “Have you been up long?”

She looks soft and dewy and oh-so kissable. “Just long enough to make some coffee. I took some out to my guards. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You did? That’s very nice of you.”

“Try not to sound so surprised, Lucia. You could hurt my feelings.”

She giggles, then stands on her tiptoes to kiss me on the lips. “You’re full of surprises. Is there any coffee left?”

“Of course. Are you hungry? I can make you an omelet.”

“You already made coffee, and now you’re offering to cook me breakfast? Somebody pinch me. Is this guilt I hear?”

I grab her and pull her against me, and kiss her hard. “Guilt?” I ask against her lips. “What should I be feeling guilty about?”

She squirms free with a breathless laugh. “I have to be at the museum. If we start this, I’ll never get out of here.”

She’s not wrong about that. I reluctantly let her go and start on her breakfast, pulling green peppers, mushrooms, and eggs from her refrigerator.

“You returned the Titian to the museum,” she explains. “I have to find a new painting to steal, ideally in the next two weeks.”

Right. The anniversary of her parents’ death is coming up, and she always steals this timeframe.

The thought of Lucia leaving Venice, even temporarily, makes my stomach sink. We haven’t talked about what happens once her contract is over. I want to, but my instincts caution me to hold my tongue. “Do you have a target in mind?”

“Gavin Powell. He’s a British men’s rights activist who lives in Hungary.” She watches as I pour the beaten eggs into a pan and scatter the vegetables on top. “You really do know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” I give her a wink. “I thought I did some of my best work last night, and I’m glad that you agree.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m talking about your expertise in the kitchen, not in the bedroom.”

“Not in the bedroom? Those are fighting words, tesoro. If you didn’t have to be at work soon, I might feel compelled to respond.”

I flip the omelet, turn off the heat, slide it onto a plate, and place it in front of her with a flourish. “I assume he’s in Hungary to avoid extradition back to the UK?”

“How did you guess?” she asks wryly, taking a bite. An expression of bliss covers her face. “This is delicious.”

“You sound surprised. I’ll try not to take it personally.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t like the idea of you going to Hungary and stealing from this guy. It’s too risky. Kirkland sent every major art collector in Europe and North America a letter warning them about you. They’ll be on high alert. If you go, you’re putting yourself in danger, and I don’t want that to happen.”

Hypocrite,my conscience accuses.You don’t want her to take risks? Then answer this: is she more in danger from some asshole YouTuber or you?

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