The Thief

THE THIEF TARA CRESCENT Text copyright © 2023 Tara Crescent All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Editing by Molly Whitman at Novel Mechanic, www.novelmechanic.com Cover Design by Natasha Snow Designs, https://natashasnow.com Interior Design and Layout by BZN Studio Designs, https://covers.bzndesignstudios.com/ Created with Vellum CONTENTS GET A FREE BOOK Prologue 1. Lucia 2. Antonio 3. Lucia 4. Antonio 5. Lucia 6. Lucia 7. Antonio 8. Lucia 9. Lucia 10. Antonio 11. Lucia 12. Antonio 13. Lucia 14. Antonio 15. Lucia 16. Antonio 17. Lucia 18. Lucia 19. Antonio 20. Lucia 21. Antonio 22. Lucia 23. Antonio 24. Lucia 25. Lucia 26. Antonio 27. Lucia 28. Antonio 29. Lucia 30. Antonio 31. Lucia 32. Antonio 33. Lucia Epilogue About Tara Crescent Also by Tara Crescent GET A FREE BOOK Get a free story when you subscribe to my mailing list! LEARN MORE… PROLOGUE LUCIA I am very drunk, and everything is hazy. It’s a dark night—cloudy, moonless, and foggy. I’ve been wandering for hours, not paying attention to where I’m going, and I’ve ended up in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. Venice is a safe city, but this section of town is far from the tourist core. The boats aren’t pleasure yachts; they’re working fishing vessels. Warehouses dot the docks, and there are more rats than people this late at night. A week ago, I was working on my senior thesis in Chicago. I didn’t know my mother was dying of cancer because my parents had kept her illness a secret from me. Which meant I didn’t know she’d gone into hospice either. I never got the chance to say goodbye. I lift the bottle of vodka I’m clutching like a lifeline to my mouth and take a healthy swig. Three days ago, I got a call that destroyed me. My mother had succumbed to the cancer ravaging her body. My father, unable to contemplate life without his wife, put a bullet in his brain. One day, I was wondering if I could convince my art history professor to grant me an extension for my final paper. The next, I was flying back home to bury my parents. A hint of movement jerks me to the present. Something rustles to my right. Before I have time to react, three bodies coalesce from the fog and surround me. One of them holds a knife to my throat. “Don’t move, and don’t shout, signorina,” he growls. “I don’t want to hurt you. Give me your purse.” I’m being robbed. Numbly, I hold out my bright green bag. I bought it on Calle Larga XXII Marzo from a vu compra 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 weight, and for the last couple of months, she wouldn’t FaceTime me. “My cell phone broke,” she said. “I have to go buy a new one.” I should 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. She’s gone now, and this is all I have left of her. It’s my most cherished possession. “No.” “Don’t be stupid, signorina,” the man with the knife snaps. “It’s not worth your life. Take off the goddamn chain and hand it to me before you get hurt.” “Someone’s coming,” Flashlight Guy says, his voice nervous. “We’re not authorized. . . We need to get out of here.” He makes a lunge for my necklace. The chain digs into my neck, and I yelp in pain. A tall, lean man glides out of the shadows, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. “Stop,” he says, his cold voice slicing the moisture-laden air like a whip. One word. Just one word, but the reaction is electrifying. The man holding my purse takes one look and bolts. “Fuck,” the guy who made a grab for my chain swears. The knife clatters to the ground, and the thief who held it holds up his hands in a gesture of 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. But I’m always watching. You should remember that.” My rescuer’s voice is ice. “Leave.” The remaining two criminals flee. The man turns in my direction. He studies me for what seems like an age, his gaze lingering on the side of my neck. “You’re hurt.” “I am?” I reach up, and my skin stings where the necklace cut me. “Yeah, I guess.” The pendant is safe, though, and that’s all that counts. “It’ll heal.” He moves closer, his breath warming my face, and he touches the cut with a feather-light touch. “Who did this to you?