Page 275 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

He is a dangerous threat.

And my greatest temptation.

By day, I’m a museum curator.

Respectable, forgettable, safe.

But by night, I steal back stolen art

and return it to the rightful owners.

It’s a secret I’ve kept for years.

Until I make one fatal mistake…

I steal from Venice’s mafia boss.

Antonio Moretti.

Powerful. Ruthless.

The man I ran from once.

The man I never stopped dreaming about.

I think I’ve gotten away with it.

Until I walk into my apartment…

And find Antonio waiting for me.

The King of Venice has set a trap for me.

And this time , he’s not letting me go.

The Thief is a standalone mafia romance with a Robin-Hood-style art thief heroine and an obsessed mafia boss who will do whatever it takes to get her. No cliffhanger. HEA guaranteed.

You can expect:

Obsessed Mafia Hero

Cat they’re working fishing vessels.

Big, windowless warehouses dot the docks, and this late at night, there are more rats around than people.

A week ago, I was a college student in Chicago, and the most important thing on my mind was how I was going to get my senior thesis done on time.

But while I was researching Venetian painters in the library, my mom was undergoing chemotherapy.

While I was blowing off steam at a neighborhood pub after a day of hard work, the doctors told her the treatment wasn’t working and she had only weeks to live.

I didn’t know that my mother was dying because my parents kept her illness a secret from me. I didn’t know she’d gone into hospice either.

I never got a chance to say goodbye.

I take a healthy swig from the vodka bottle I’m clutching onto like a lifeline.

Three days ago, I got a phone call that shattered me.

My parents’ lawyer informed me that my mother had succumbed to the cancer ravaging her body.

My father, unable to contemplate life without his wife, put a bullet through his brain.

One day, I was wondering if I could convince my art history professor to grant me an extension for my final paper, and the next, I was flying back home to bury my parents.

A hint of movement jerks me back to the present. Something rustles to my right. Before I have a chance to react, three large, threatening bodies coalesce from the fog and surround me. One of the men pulls out a knife and holds it to my throat.

“Don’t move, signorina, and don’t make a noise,” he growls. “I have no desire to hurt you. Give me your purse.”

I’m being robbed.

Numbly, I hold out my bright green bag. I bought it from a street vendor who’d set up shop opposite the Dolce and Gabbana store.

Mama and I did a bunch of tourist things before I left for college: we visited St. Mark’s Basilica, listened to musicians at the piazza, rode a gondola, and ate at a restaurant a stone’s throw from the Ponte di Rialto.

The vendor insisted that the bag was actually Prada, not a fake, and my mother laughed at him.

“We’re not tourists,” she said and haggled with him for the next fifteen minutes.

I should have realized she was sick. She’d lost a lot of weight this year. The last few times we talked, she wouldn’t get on camera. “Something’s wrong with it,” she said. “I haven’t had time to get it fixed.”

I didn’t want to get roped into doing tech support over the phone, so I hadn’t probed. If I had, I would have suspected that something was badly wrong.

One of the men snatches the imitation Prada bag from my hand while another shines a flashlight in my face. “Your necklace, too.”

Things are moving too fast for me to process, but those words penetrate my drunken stupor.

The necklace I’m wearing, a filigreed ruby pendant dangling on a gold chain, belonged to my mother.

My father gave it to her as a wedding present, and she never took it off.

The thought of losing it so soon after losing them is more than I can bear.

“No.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the man with the knife snaps, pressing the cold blade closer to my throat. “It’s not worth your life. Take off the goddamn necklace and hand it to me before you get hurt.”

“Someone’s coming,” Flashlight Guy says suddenly. He looks around nervously. “We’re not authorized. . . We need to get out of here before we get caught.” He makes a lunge from my necklace. The gold chain digs into my neck, and I yelp in pain.

“Stop,” a voice says, slicing the moisture-laden air like a whip. A tall, lean man glides out of the shadows, his face obscured by the brim of his hat.

He’s said one word. Just one, but the reaction is electrifying.

The man holding my purse takes one look at the newcomer’s face and makes a run for it.

“Fuck,” the guy who made a grab for my chain swears.

The man holding a knife to my throat takes a step back and holds up his hands in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to. . . I didn’t know?—”

“You didn’t know I was here.” My rescuer’s voice is ice. “But I’m always watching. You should remember that.” He takes another step forward. “Leave.”

The remaining two criminals flee.

The mysterious man turns in my direction. He studies me for what seems like an age, his gaze lingering on the side of my neck. “They hurt you.”

They did? I reach up and touch my neck, and my skin stings where the chain cut me. The pendant is safe, though, and that’s all that counts. “It’s just a cut. It’ll heal.”

He moves closer, his breath warming my face, and he touches the cut with a feather-light touch. “You’re bleeding.” There’s a dangerous note in his voice that sends a shiver down my spine. “Who did this to you? Which one of them?”

Goosebumps break out on my skin. Once again, everything is moving with bewildering speed, events rushing past me like the leaves in a windstorm.

The vodka has scrambled my thoughts, and this man isn’t helping.

His voice and touch aren’t supposed to permeate my numbness, but they are, and I don’t know how to react.

“The guy holding the flashlight.”

“Marco.” My hero’s voice promises death.

His eyes settle on me again. “You’re cold.

” He pulls off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, and warmth descends over me like a blanket.

“This isn’t a good part of town to wander around in this late at night, signorina.

” He glances at the bottle I’m clinging to.

“Especially when you’re as inebriated as you are. ”

My gratitude evaporates in a rush. Who is he to judge me? What the hell does he know about what I’ve been through? He can have his stupid jacket back.

“Thank you for your help,” I say frostily, taking it off and holding it out to him. My parents have taught me to be polite, and annoyed as I am, the good manners they drilled into me won’t allow me to tell him to fuck off. “I’ll be going now.”

“You’re welcome.” He ignores the jacket. I hold it out for another long second, then shrug and let it fall to the ground before walking away.

He mutters something under his breath as he picks it up and then falls in step with me.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Escorting you home,” he says, as if it were obvious. “This is a bad neighborhood, and I would hate for you to get hurt again.”

Home is filled with memories I’m trying to obliterate with a bottle of vodka. “I don’t want to go home,” I mutter sullenly. “And I don’t care if I get hurt.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “What’s the matter? Your boyfriend broke up with you, and you’ve decided that alcohol is the only way to cope?”

Boyfriend. He thinks I’ve fallen apart because of a failed relationship? “I buried my parents today,” I say flatly. “Both of them. And yes, this bottle is the only way I can cope.”

“Ah.” There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have leaped to conclusions.”

I didn’t expect him to apologize, and I don’t know how to react. I take another deep drink of my vodka and, out of some strange impulse, offer the bottle to him.

I expect him to turn it down. I’m even prepared for him to do something dramatic, like fling it into the canal.

But shockingly, he does neither. He pries the bottle gently from my fingers.

His lips wrap around the mouth, the way mine did a second earlier, and he drinks.

Then he hands it back to me, his fingers brushing mine.

Heat blossoms in my chest. A distant part of my brain registers it, but I’m so numbed by grief that it feels like it’s happening to someone else.

We walk in the darkness, taking turns drinking from the steadily emptying bottle, neither breaking the silence. I wouldn’t have sought out company, but I’m grateful he’s there. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

“I’m not sad,” I finally blurt out.

“About. . .?”

“That they died.” It’s not exactly a lie. Sad is too simple a word to describe the emotions churning through me. “I’m angry. Furious. My mother hid her illness from me, and when she died, my father went and shot himself.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my hand, a silent gesture of support.. Somewhere along the way, he’s draped his coat around me again and, caught up as I’ve been in my own misery, I hadn’t even noticed.

“It wasn’t just my parents who lied,” I continue bitterly. “They all did. Even my best friend didn’t tell me.” I pour some more booze down my throat. “Did everyone think they were protecting me? Because I don’t feel protected. I feel abandoned, and I hate them for that.”