Page 277 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

It’s been eight months since I stole something. Not because I haven’t been able to find targets but because, as much as I’ve tried to stay under the radar, I’m slowly starting to acquire a reputation as a thief of note.

“What did you expect?” Alvisa Zanotti, my parents’ old fence, asked caustically earlier this year.

Though technically retired, Signora Zanotti still keeps her finger on the pulse of the art world and provides me with most of the intel I need about black-market art.

“Did you really think that a long-lost Vermeer or a Vecchio reappearing in the attic of their impoverished heirs would go unnoticed? I warned you about this, Lucia. I told you that returning the stolen paintings was a stupid idea that would get you into trouble, but of course, you didn’t listen to me. You need to stop what you’re doing.”

If only I could. If only it were that simple.

“I’ll stay clear of my previous targets,” I promised her. “I won’t go to London or Paris. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in prison. Orange is a terrible color on me.”

“You’re treating this like a joke,” she replied, her voice heavy with disapproval. “You’re very young. You haven’t realized yet that there are worse things than ending up in prison, and I fear you might find out the hard way.”

In deference to her worries, I’ve laid low all year.

But it’s getting close to the anniversary of my parents’ deaths, and the urge to steal is stronger than ever.

Every year, I’ve stolen a painting in their honor between December and January, and this year will be the tenth anniversary of their deaths. This can’t be the year I quit.

My laptop beeps, and Valentina’s face fills the screen. Italy is six hours ahead of Boston, and it’s midnight in Venice. My best friend is a night owl, but today, she looks exhausted.

“Long day?” I ask sympathetically.

Valentina and I have been best friends since kindergarten.

Growing up, we spent practically every waking hour together.

She often took refuge at our house because her parents fought constantly.

Some of my fondest memories are of the two of us spending long afternoons doing homework at our battered kitchen table, my mother supplying an endless stream of snacks.

That table is in storage now, and the apartment I grew up in has been rented to an endless stream of tourists. And even though it’s been a decade, I still cannot think of my mother without pain slicing through my heart.

Valentina and I didn’t talk for two years after my parents died because I was convinced she knew about my mom’s cancer and kept it from me, but then I found out that my mom hid her diagnosis from everyone, not just me. My parents’ deaths were just as hard on her as on me.

She sighs. “You could say that.” She fills her wine glass right to the brim. “I found out that Angelica was being bullied by some children in her class, so I had to pull her out of school.”

Angelica, Valentina’s nine-year-old daughter, is my goddaughter. She’s a bright, kind, considerate child. Nobody deserves to be bullied, but especially not her. “Why were they targeting her?”

“Because she doesn’t have a father,” she replies with a weary shrug. “Anyone that stands out gets picked on.”

Valentina never mentions Angelica’s father.

I asked about him once, and she shut me down.

Since then, we’ve reached a tacit understanding to stay away from certain conversational minefields.

She doesn’t talk about my parents, I don’t ask why Angelica’s father plays no role in his daughter’s life, and neither of us discusses my persistent refusal to return to Venice.

“That sucks,” I say, wishing I could do something more helpful than offer platitudes. I open a browser window and start searching for a present to send to my goddaughter. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it does.” She drains the rest of her glass. “I haven’t had time to look at your list. Sorry.”

Two weeks ago, I presented Valentina with a list of seven potential targets for my next job, compiled from scouting through news reports and auction listings and asking Signora Zanotti for help.

Valentina promised to research them for me.

We were supposed to select the best target today and start plotting the details of my next heist.

But right now, my friend looks like she’s at the end of her tether, and I can’t blame her.

It’s been one thing after another the entire year.

In January, Angelica broke her ankle. Valentina was sick all summer, and to cap off a truly shitty year, her father died in August. The two of them weren’t close, but even so, I know it’s taken a toll on my friend.

As for Angelica, she’s been having nightmares ever since her grandfather died.

And now this.

Valentina and Angelica are the priority right now, not my next theft. Not even if the tenth anniversary of my parents’ deaths is drawing near.

“Forget the list.” I lean forward. “Tell me what I can do to help. You said you pulled her out of school; what are you planning to do next?”

“I’m enrolling her in a different one,” she replies. “A diverse, international one”

International schools can’t come cheap. “How are you going to pay for that? Do you need money?”

A trace of Valentina’s usual spirit comes through. “Why, do you have any?” Her lips quirk into a teasing smile. “That’s new.”

“Not really,” I admit. “I just didn’t know what else to offer.” I top up my glass as well. “I got laid off last week.”

“Oh no,” she says, dismayed. “Again?”

I nod. My employment troubles are nothing new.

I’m trained as a curator, but museum funding is highly volatile, and permanent positions are few and far between.

I’ve spent my adult life hopping from one short-term contract to another, living in eight cities in the last ten years.

If it weren’t for the money I make renting out my parents’ apartment to tourists, I wouldn’t be able to afford to survive.

“Are you looking for another job? How’s it going?”

“Terrible. It’s getting close to the end of the year, so hiring is slow.

I’ve sent out a couple of feelers, but you know how it is.

” Valentina is a freelance website designer.

Sometimes, she has more clients than she can handle, but most times, it’s slow going.

I have no idea how she’s going to afford to send Angelica to a private school.

Valentina sighs morosely. “Look at us,” she says. “What a happy pair we make.” She stares into her glass. “I miss you. Sometimes, I wish you were clo—” She abruptly cuts herself off. “Anyway. I should have more time next week, so I’ll look at the seven prospects.”

I wish you were closer.

Guilt pinches my insides. Valentina’s never once complained about the physical distance between us. She’s never expressed discontent that I only get to meet up with her once a year, and she’s never pointed out that I’m doing a lousy job of being Angelica’s godparent.

It’s not easy being a single mother. I should be there for my best friend and I’m not, because in order to provide Valentina the support she truly needs, I would need to move back home.

Back to Venice, a city I haven’t returned to in ten years, not since the day after my parents’ funerals. Not since I drank a bottle of vodka, almost got mugged, and spent the night in bed with a strange man whose business card I’ve never thrown away.

I’ve gone to therapy to try to process their deaths, and it’s helped. A little.

But I’ve never been able to make myself go home. I don’t think I can sit at our battered kitchen table without picturing my mother painting in the corner. I don’t think I can walk to the docks without remembering the lazy Sunday mornings fishing with my father.

I’m not ready for that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

Then I catch sight of Valentina’s despondent expression and register her uncharacteristic melancholy. Both her parents are dead. They weren’t much, but they were all she had, and they’re gone now. Christmas is only a few months away, and she’ll be spending it without them for the first time.

I remember my first Christmas alone. It was only a few weeks after my parents died. I sat alone in the student dorms, almost crippled by loneliness and aching with loss.

I would never wish that on my worst enemy. How can I inflict it on my best friend?

On impulse, I open yet another browser tab and search for museum jobs in Europe.

And then I see it.

A job opening in Venice. A five-month contract at the Palazzo Ducale to digitize their catalog.

My heart races in my chest as I read the requirements.

Must speak fluent Italian. Check.

Must possess in-depth knowledge of Italian art. Check.

The pay is. . . not great. But I won’t starve, and most importantly, I’ll be there for Valentina.

My fingers tremble, and I set my wine glass down before I drop it. My palms feel cold and clammy. It’s only five months, I tell myself. It’s not a lifetime commitment. You’re not going to stay forever. Just long enough to help Valentina get over this rough patch.

“Earth to Lucia?” Valentina says. “Come in, please.”

I hastily switch out of that tab and shift back to my friend. “Sorry, I got distracted by the internet. When does Angelica start her new school, and do you think she’ll like a surprise delivery of Pokémon cards from her favorite aunt?”

Much later that night, I go online and apply for the Palazzo Ducale role. I hit submit, then stare blankly at the screen.

I should be a shoo-in for this job, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

I take a deep breath, open my purse, and fish out the faded, dog-eared business card I’ve held onto for a decade. I’ve debated throwing it out every single time I move, and yet, somehow, it survives every purge.

I run my thumb over the handwritten note.

Call me, it says.