Page 278 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

I wonder if the number still works. If I call, would I reach Antonio, my fairy tale rescuer? And would he even remember me, the crazy girl who staggered her way through the docks with a bottle of vodka in her hand, uncaring that she could slip and drown?

It’s been ten years, Lucia. He’s probably married with a handful of children by now.

I tuck the card carefully back inside my purse and shut down my laptop.

The next morning, there’s a message waiting in my inbox from the museum. They want to interview me. Am I available for a video call on Monday, and if all goes well, how soon will I be able to start?

Yes, I’m available to talk, I respond. And I can start immediately.

Ready or not, after a decade of doing my best to avoid Venice, it looks like I’m finally returning home.

ANTONIO

Venice is my city.

I head up her mafia, run her casinos, and rule her underworld. I know every dark alley and every narrow canal. All her secrets are mine. I started life with nothing, and I’ve fought my way to the top. Everything I’ve ever wanted is in my grasp.

And still, lately, I’ve been so fucking bored with it all.

I glance at my watch. Quarter past eight. My calendar is packed with meetings all day, starting with the first one at nine. I should go to my office and try to get some work done before that, but then I take another look outside and think fuck work.

I can’t remember when I last had some unscheduled time just to myself.

There’s always something. Some emergency, some crisis that only I can handle.

But I have forty-five minutes today before the demands on my time begin, and I’m going to take advantage.

Hopefully, some fresh air will knock me out of this mood I’m in.

I get dressed and step out of my palazzo. Two guards immediately approach me. “Good morning, Padrino,” Goran says with a respectful nod of his head. “Heading to the office?”

“Not yet. I’m going for a walk.”

“Of course,” he replies, tapping his earpiece. “I’ll have a security detail ready in a minute.”

“No security. I’m going alone.”

Stefano, the other guard, winces. “But Padrino,” he says unwisely. “That’s not advisable. If Signor Cesari hears that we let you?—”

Leo Cesari is my head of security. Stefano’s right—Leo is going to chew them out for letting me set off without an escort, and once he’s done yelling at them, it’ll be my turn for a lecture.

He’s too respectful to yell at me, but he’ll point out that he can’t do his job if I don’t let him, and if I don’t trust him, then he’ll be happy to offer his resignation, blah blah blah.

Don’t care. This morning, I just want to be alone.

I cut Stefano off before he can finish his sentence. “Do you work for me,” I ask pointedly, “Or do you work for Leo?”

He grows pale and takes a step back. “You, Padrino.”

On a whim, I set off toward the docks on the southern side of the island.

It was here ten years ago that Lucia Petrucci almost got herself killed, precipitating a series of events that led to me killing the then-Padrino, Domenico Cartozzi, and taking over the Venice Mafia.

This area has historically been the most dangerous part of the city, but we’re doing some construction to revitalize this neighborhood, and it’s much safer now.

My mood lifts as I walk. The view in front of me is spectacular.

The brilliant blue canal, the distinctive gray domed spire of the La Salute, the white and terracotta palazzos at the water’s edge—my city in all her morning glory.

It’s early enough in the day that only a few tourists are up and about.

Nobody recognizes me, and I revel in my relative anonymity.

Even the girl at the neighborhood coffee shop I stop at has no idea who I am. I order an espresso and take my cup to the benches outside. The sun is out, the wind brings a welcome coolness to my face, and the coffee is surprisingly good.

“No, I can’t give you a raise.” A harried male voice cuts into my reverie.

A man in his sixties is inside the coffee shop, talking to the girl who just served me.

The door is open, and their conversation drifts out.

“I’m barely making ends meet as it is. What with inflation being the way it is, and the protection money I have to pay?—”

Protection money? What the hell? Nobody pays for protection in Venice—I put a stop to the practice years ago.

I get to my feet abruptly and go inside. “Are you lying to get out of giving her a raise, or is someone really extorting you?”

The proprietor takes a look at my face, recognizes me, and pales. “Signor Moretti,” he stammers. “What a surprise to see you here.”

I ignore the niceties. “The protection money,” I say, my voice hard. “Tell me about it.”

He swallows convulsively. “Two men from the construction crews came around last month. We tried to resist, but then. . .” His voice trails off.

“Then what?”

He takes a shaking breath. “They burned down Giuseppe’s bar.”

“And where is Giuseppe now?”

“The hospital. He had a nasty fall. Broke an arm and both legs. At his age too. . .”

They beat the crap out of Giuseppe to make an example of him. “Can you identify the men that came around asking for money?”

His eyes slide away from me. “I’m sorry, Signor Moretti,” he says nervously. “I didn’t get a good look at them.”

He’s too afraid to talk. Fury builds in my blood. Venice is my city. Nobody burns down bars without my permission. As for beating civilians and breaking their bones? Everyone involved with this little protection racket is going to regret the day they made the decision to cross me.

“The next time those guys come around, tell them this. Tell them I found out what they did, and I will make them pay.”

I walk into our weekly meeting a good twenty minutes late. My second-in-command, Dante, glances pointedly at his watch as I enter. He is the only one who dares. My other lieutenants—Joao, Tomas, and Leo—ignore my tardiness and greet me respectfully.

“Let’s get started,” I say crisply. “What do we have on the list?”

Joao delivers an update on our smuggling operations. Leo goes next, and then it’s Tomas, our numbers guy. As usual, his presentation is detailed and thorough. I normally find his briefings fascinating, but today, I have to work hard at faking interest.

“We’re flush with cash,” he finishes. “Business has never been better. I’ve identified some investment opportunities for us to look into. Padrino, I recommend?—”

“Send me an email with the details,” I say, cutting him off before he gets into too much detail. “Anything else?”

Dante lifts his hand. “We have a problem,” he says grimly. “A couple of known bratva soldiers have been spotted in Bergamo.”

I sit up. Bergamo is only a couple hours away from Venice—too close for comfort. “Who are they?” I demand.

“A couple of foot soldiers of the Gafur OPG. They are an outfit based in Vladivostok?—”

“I know the organization.” Salvatore Verratti runs Bergamo, and I can’t see him forming alliances with the Russians. As far as I know, the family’s finances are in good shape, and even if they weren’t, Federico, Salvatore’s father and the former head of the crime family, loathes foreigners.

So why are the bratva there?

“Do you want me to reach out to Verratti and ask him what’s going on?” Dante asks.

I frown. My instincts are urging me to proceed cautiously. “Not yet,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Not until I have a better sense of what’s going on.”

“You think Verratti wants to expand his territory?”

“I don’t know. Get Valentina on this. Have her find out why the Russians are sniffing around. If they meet with Verratti or anyone in his inner circle, I want to know immediately.” Valentina Linari is my most talented hacker. If she can’t find out what’s going on, no one can.

“Will do.”

My lieutenants look alert, almost excited by the prospect of a turf war. Not me. I just feel a headache coming on. “The Russians aren’t our only problem,” I say. “I took a walk down to the wharf this morning before I came here.”

“Goran told me,” Leo replies, his forehead furrowed. “I was going to talk to you about it. Padrino, for your security, it’s imperative that you?—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Save the lecture. On my walk, I discovered that someone has been demanding protection money from the businesses on the waterfront.” I look around the room. “Does anyone here know anything about this?”

They shake their heads immediately, as I’d known they would. “Protection money,” Leo asks grimly. “In your name?”

“I don’t know. I will not tolerate this. Whoever they are, they’ve signed their own death sentence.” I look at Leo and bite off each word with precision. “Find out who’s responsible and bring them to me.”

Leo nods. “Yes, Padrino.”

I take a deep breath and let my rage recede into the background. “Is there anything else, or are we done here?”

“There’s just one more thing, and honestly, it’s trivial.” Dante opens the folder in front of him. Extracting a piece of paper, he pushes it in my direction. “You got a letter from Arthur Kirkland.”

After the morning I’ve had, I’m happy to let myself be distracted by trivialities. “A letter? In the mail? Who still writes letters?” The name sounds vaguely familiar. I search my memory. “Kirkland, the English art collector?”

“The same.”

Well, that explains the mode of communication. Kirkland is eighty and doesn’t believe in computers. “He’s warning me about a thief?” I ask, scanning the letter quickly. “Dante, do you know what this is about?”

Dante has an answer, of course; he always does. My second-in-command is loyal, ruthless, and, above all, unfailingly competent. “It’s rumored that some of Arthur Kirkland’s collection has been acquired through dubious means?—”

“The rumors are right,” I interrupt. The details of Kirkland’s collection are coming back to me now. “The Third Reich looted Italy in 1943, and Kirkland’s uncle, a Nazi sympathizer, mysteriously ended up with dozens of priceless paintings when the war ended.”

Dante nods. “And there’s an art thief who’s specifically targeting them. Three of Kirkland’s paintings have been stolen in the last two years.”

“Good for them,” Joao says with a grin. Dante glances at him, and he lifts his hands in an expressive gesture. “What? You expect me to feel bad for a Nazi looter?”

Can’t say I disagree with Joao’s sentiment. I read the letter again. “Kirkland says his security people have put together a profile of the thief.”

“I read it,” Dante replies. “The thief’s specialty seems to be sixteenth-century Italian religious art.

But here’s the most interesting part. They only target paintings that were previously stolen.

And get this. . .” He pauses for dramatic effect.

“Every single one of the paintings has ended up back with their rightful owners.”

That is interesting. “A thief who fancies himself a modern-day Robin Hood?”

“Herself,” Dante corrects.

“A woman, really?” I know many art thieves, but only a handful of them are women, and none of them are altruistic enough to return a stolen painting to the original owner. “Have they IDed her?”

“Not yet.” He hands me a tablet. “But one of the cameras from Kirkland’s compound recorded this before it shorted out.”

I play the video. The thief is wearing a faded, oversized sweatshirt, her face concealed by the hood.

But it’s definitely a woman. As baggy as the garment is, it can’t conceal her curves.

She’s walking toward the camera, but her head is lowered, and her face is hidden.

Something about the way she moves tugs at my memory.

Then someone shouts, and she looks up, startled, and just for an instant, the hood slips back enough that I can see her profile.

Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes as green as the most brilliant emeralds.

Lucia Petrucci.

Well, well, well. The grief-stricken girl I rescued one winter night in Venice has grown up to become an art thief, just like her parents.

And if she’s targeting people with stolen Italian art, that puts her squarely in my cross-hairs.

Most of my paintings have been legally acquired, but there’s one very big exception.

My Madonna at Repose— the prize of my collection and the painting that started my love for art—is stolen.

Painted by Titian himself and valuable beyond measure, the Madonna was my first big job.

I stole it from the Palazzo Ducale when I was sixteen.

I should have fenced it immediately but couldn’t bring myself to part with it. It currently hangs in my bedroom.

“What do you want to do about this letter?” Dante asks. “Do you want Valentina to look into this thief?”

“No,” I reply instantly. In an ironic twist of events, my hacker and Lucia are good friends. If I get Valentina involved, she’ll only tip Lucia off. “I want her to focus on Verratti. I’ll take care of this thief personally.”

Dante studies me thoughtfully, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. “Yes, Padrino.”

Sharp hunger fills me, a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

Let the games begin.