Page 276 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

Once again, he stays silent, but this time, it prickles at me. “What are you thinking? Are you going to give me the same advice the priest did? Are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t feel betrayed and that I should forgive them?”

“I would never presume to tell you how to feel.”

I’m not looking where I’m going, and I stumble over a coil of rope.

I’m about to fall, but his arms are around me before I do.

His touch feels solid and reassuring, a portal into a fantasy world where I’m not suddenly alone.

A world in which there’s someone who cares for me.

Someone who will catch me before I fall.

Then he yanks me to his chest. My breasts smash into the hardness of his torso, and another wave of heat surges through me. This time, I’m very aware of him, of his scent and his nearness, of the steel in his muscles and the strength in his arms. I want. . .

He pulls away.

If it weren’t for the numbness in my heart, his rejection might hurt.

Tonight though, it’s just another hit in a series of hits, and I’m too bruised to care.

“You’re avoiding my question.” I still can’t see his face and maybe that’s what loosens my tongue.

Or maybe it’s the vodka. “You don’t have any advice for me?

” I keep stabbing at the open, bleeding wound.

“If you were me, if your parents abandoned you the way mine did, what would you do? What would you be feeling right now?”

“I didn’t know my parents,” he says without inflection. “I was left outside a church as a baby.”

Oh. Oh. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he says stiffly. The easy, relaxed set of his shoulders is gone, replaced by tension. This is clearly not a welcome topic, and it’s obvious he’d much rather talk about my problems than his own.

Fair enough. “Give me advice, then. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to move forward from this.”

“Did your parents love you?”

A lump forms in my throat, and I nod wordlessly.

“Then start there,” he says quietly, lacing his fingers in mine.

“Don’t let yourself forget their love. I can’t pretend to understand your parents’ decision, but what I know is that we don’t make our best decisions under pressure.

When we are hurt, when we are in pain, we don’t think.

Instead, we hide, and we lash out.” His grip on my hand tightens.

“Maybe they thought they were protecting you, or maybe they didn’t want your last memories of them to be filled with pain. ”

I make a scoffing sound. “You’re a lot kinder than I’m willing to be.”

He continues as if I haven’t interrupted. “As for how to move forward, you just do. You put one foot in front of the other. Until one day, you realize that you’re able to think about them without pain. In time, the anger and the grief will fade, cara mia, and you’ll be left with the good memories.”

We’ve been steadily walking toward civilization. The Ca’Pesaro looms before me, casting ornate shadows into the canal. I lift the bottle to my mouth, find it empty, and fling it into the water.

My rescuer tracks the movement. “Where are you staying tonight?”

I cannot go to my parents’ apartment. I just cannot. I cannot be in the place where they died. I can’t run into our neighbors, and I can’t cope with their sympathy and concern.

“I don’t know.” I reach for my phone and realize it’s in the bag the thieves took. “My purse is gone.” It feels like the last straw. I take a deep breath and fight the urge to burst into tears. “I have no money.”

He puts his hand on the small of my back, a comforting gesture that tells me I’m not alone. “Come with me, signorina. Let’s get you settled for the night. I’ll track down your purse in the morning.”

He takes me to a hotel. We walk into the brightly lit lobby, and after the darkness outside, it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust. I turn to him to finally see what he looks like, but the vodka has gone to my head, and I’m having trouble focusing.

The room swims in front of me, and I see double and triple of everything.

I get the sense of a firm jaw and full lips, but that’s it.

“I need a room for the night,” he says to the clerk behind the counter.

The clerk takes a look at his face and jumps to attention. “Si, Signor.” There’s respect in his voice but also a trace of fear? Or am I imagining it? I can’t tell.

Checking in takes less than a minute, then my rescuer steers me to an elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

It starts to move, and I slump against him, my bones turning to liquid.

“You smell nice.” It seems important to share that with him.

“Like the ocean.” I sniff him again, breathing deep and letting his scent settle into me.

“And something else. Pine, maybe? I like it.”

He doesn’t respond, but his grip on me tightens slightly. I like that too.

We reach the room, and he opens the door for me, gesturing for me to go in first. He follows me inside, heading to the bathroom.

I collapse on the bed, my head spinning.

I hear water running before he returns with a glass, motioning me to sit up.

“Drink this,” he orders. “It’ll help with the hangover. ”

“I don’t get hangovers.”

“You will tomorrow,” he says with a short laugh. He makes me drink the entire glass before getting me another and placing it on the bedside table.

Then he cups my cheek with his callused hand and looks deep into my eyes. “Go to sleep,” he says gently. “Things will look less bleak in the morning.”

He turns away, and it’s only when he’s almost at the door that I realize that he’s leaving. I don’t want him to go. “Stop!” I cry out.

He freezes in place.

My heart is racing in my chest. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” I grip the bedspread with my fingers and take a deep, shaky breath. “Please?”

He hesitates for a long moment and slowly turns around. “Okay.” He turns off the light, and the room plunges into comforting darkness. A minute later, the mattress sags with his weight as he gets into bed with me.

I snuggle closer and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper. My eyes close, but before sleep tugs me under, I want one more thing. “I don’t know your name.”

“Antonio.”

“Antonio,” I repeat, trying out the name on my tongue. “I’m Lucia.”

He brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “A lovely name for a lovely woman.” The words should feel like an empty compliment, but the weight in his voice makes it feel real. “I’m right here. Sleep well, Lucia.”

When I wake up the next morning, I’m alone. There’s no sign that anyone was ever with me, and I’m still wearing the clothes I fell asleep in. If I wasn’t in a strange hotel room, I’d be convinced I imagined the events of last night.

I get out of bed, wincing in pain. Antonio was right: my head feels like it’s going to explode. This is what I get for drinking an entire bottle of vodka in one evening.

I make my way to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.

The skin around my neck is abraded and raw from where the thief tried to yank at my chain.

I finger the precious pendant absently, a complicated cocktail of emotions churning through me.

Antonio’s words from last night ring in my head.

In time, the anger and grief will fade, and you will be left with the good memories.

There’s a knock at the door. I open it, and a staff member wheels in a cart of food. “Breakfast, signorina.”

I’m starving, but I have no money to pay for my meal. I’m about to tell the waiter I didn’t order anything when he adds, “Also, this was left for you at the front desk.”

This is my bag. The green imitation Prada bag my mother bought for me before I left for college.

And when I look inside, I find the contents untouched. My passport, my phone, my money—they’re all there.

Antonio to the rescue once again.

Tucked in a front pocket is a thick cream-colored card.

A phone number is printed on the front and there’s a handwritten note on the back. Just two words.

Call me.

I stare at it for a very long time.

Last night, Antonio took care of me. He stayed with me, listened to me, and made sure I was safe. When everything around me was crumbling, when I desperately needed someone to cling to, he was there.

But safety is a myth. I’ve learned this week that your world can shatter in the blink of an eye. The people you love and trust can and will betray you. They will hide their illnesses from you and die. They will shoot their brains out and leave you bereft.

I can’t afford to lean on anyone.

I reach for the back of my neck, unclasp my mother’s necklace, and tuck it into my purse, along with the card Antonio left me. Taking a deep breath, I turn to the hotel employee. “Could you arrange for some transportation for me in an hour?”

“Certainly, signorina. Where to?”

“The airport.”

I need to fly away from here; there’s nothing left for me in Venice. Not anymore.

Ten years later. . .

When you’re a museum curator moonlighting as an art thief, having a hacker for a best friend is a pretty good deal.

Especially when it’s time to plan your next heist.

It’s a Friday evening in September. I pour myself a glass of cheap red wine, settle in front of my laptop, and call Valentina. I feel a familiar stirring of excitement as I wait for her to answer.

My first art heist was a mad, grief-stricken impulse, but in recent years, I’ve become more intentional about the paintings I steal.

I’ve started targeting the rich and powerful people who knowingly acquire stolen artwork.

These people believe that their wealth gives them immunity from consequences, and it gives me great satisfaction to prove them otherwise and return the paintings to their rightful owners.

I can’t wait to kick off my next job.