Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (19 page)

Tears of frustration slip down my cheeks as I return to cutting her loose, my hands wavering in exhaustion. Even if I get her free, she’s still as fragile as a bird! Where will we go from here, and how can I carry her? All of a sudden, an idea comes to me.

It’s crazy. But sometimes that’s how you have to handle crazy.

“Mama,” I say sincerely, “we’re going to go see your baby. Your daughter,
capisce?
But you have to walk out of here with me. To see your
bambina
.”

Where, or how to get out of this horrendous basement, I have no idea. But it’s a start. As I finish freeing the cords from her arms and move down to her legs, I hear a gentle hum.

“Ninna nanna, ninna oh,

Questo bimba a chi lo do?

Se lo do a lupo bianco,

Se lo tiene tanto tanto,

Egli tornare anche lei?”

It’s coming from Alessia. She’s raised her bloody arms to cradle no one at her chest. And she’s singing.

“Mi hai rubato il cuore, mia gioella.”

The shock of her voice—low and beautiful and piercing in its rich tenderness—knocks the breath out of me.

I’ve never heard my mother sing before.

Much less a lullaby, meant for me.

It’s the same voice that wanted to comfort me, to guide me as a child and see me grow up. It’s the voice I’ve wanted to hear all my life, to know she really
did
want me. I know I have to keep cutting, but in my heart, I can’t bear to let this moment pass.

I stop for a second to lay a bloody, trembling hand upon her cheek.

“Mama—it’s me, Rubina. I don’t know what you’re singing. I only speak English. But I
am
your daughter, and I think it’s . . . beautiful.”

“English?” She says puzzled. She tilts her head to the side as if listening to a far-off voice. “
Sí, mia bambina
,” she whispers with a slight nod, “
Americana
.” Her head drops gently to her chest. She begins to sing again as though cooing to a child.

“Lullaby, lullaby, ooh-ooh,

Who will I give my baby to?

If I give him to the white wolf,

For a long time he’ll keep her,

Will he return her, too?

You’ve stolen my heart, my jewel.”

“No—no mama, I’m not stolen. I’m here.” I pat her cheek again, but she doesn’t appear to see me.

She’s staring at a wall across the room to our left, almost hidden in the darkness. Her eyes are intent as if she spies someone there. For all I know, she could’ve spotted the skull of Martiya—or perhaps her own mother—and retreated deep into herself again. I shake my head at the grim thought and fall to my knees to finish cutting her legs free. Yet part of me wonders whether she ever came down here as a child. Surely she was curious about her family’s weird treasures, the way most children are fascinated by morgues. To her, it might’ve seemed like a bizarre playground. Then the thought strikes me—if she ever did come down here, she might know where another door is besides the stairs leading back to the palazzo. As I manage to free her right leg and start hacking at the zip tie on the left, I hear an odd thudding sound.

It’s Alessia. She’s pounding on the stones with her fists.

Oh God, I’m hurting her so badly, she has to distract herself from the pain?

“Mama, I’m sorry. You’re almost free! Just a few more seconds, okay?”

But even when I stopped cutting to talk, she keeps pounding harder with all her might. Her motion is senseless and repetitive, maybe what crazy people do to cope? I realize I’m cold, wounded, hungry, and scared out of my mind, all in one messed-up ball. But God as my witness, I could’ve have sworn I heard someone pounding in reply. It must be a ghastly echo.

Yet there it is again, from beyond the left wall.

I’m not at all sure that’s a good thing.

“Mom, stop it!” I warn, as I manage to cut her last zip tie open. “We don’t know who that is—”

“
Lupo bianco
,” she whispers, cutting me off. Her fists keep pounding.

“White wolf,” I nod, registering the words from her lullaby. Yep, crazy town.

“
Sì
, Mama,” I nod to pacify her. “The white wolf has your baby. The song said so. Now let’s go find her.”

I grab her hand, my heart racing. These might be the first steps she’s taken on her own in years. Slinging my arm around her for support, I guide her away from the stairs and from that creepy wall, praying that we might find some other door. I hear the pounding again like some wayward ghosts, and it scares the stuffing out of me.

“
Lupo bianco!
” Alessia cries adamantly.

She tears herself free from me with surprising force for a woman who can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Her fists gather into tight balls again, and for a second I’m afraid she’s about to take a swing.

“
Mio angelo!
”

Alessia points a shaking finger at the wall. The knocking has become so hard now its sound reverberates across the stones. With unsteady legs, she sets her feet carefully, one by one, forcing herself in shaky strides to reach the wall until she collapses against it. Then she starts wailing her arms on the stones with the fury of a caged animal, blood dripping from her wrists.

“
Lupo bianco,
” she insists, gasping for breath.

In an odd pause between the pounding noises, I hear a faint voice.

“Robin?”

“I-I can hear you!” I cry, barely able to stand from the shock. Leaning against the wall, I drum my fists madly against the stones.

I’m almost certain I heard Creek’s voice, but could that be my panic talking? Like a wanderer in the desert hallucinating about water?

“Robin! Hold on!” he replies.

Trembling with my hands in pain, I hear a powerful thud, then another, as if he’s throwing himself against the wall. All at once, it bursts open like a secret door—

And I’m flat on my ass, staring at . . . Creek!

For a moment, there are no words or thoughts. Just paralyzing astonishment.

He’s a wreck!

Wrapped up tightly around his chest in bandages that look like they were made from torn sheets. On the upper left side is a blood stain rimmed in a strange green color that could rival the size of Bender Lake. When he realizes I’m fixated on his wound, he glances at Alessia and then at me, flashing his cocky, lop-sided grin.

“Jesus Christ, Robin, we look like a bunch of zombies.”

“S-Stop right there!” I command, holding up a quivering hand and feeling like my heart is about to halt. “H-How do I know you’re not a ghost? How can you possibly be alive?”

I’m hyperventilating and not making much sense right now, I know. But it seems to me to be a really important question.

“Oh baby,” he says, his normally ice-blue eyes warming to an aqua liquid. “The bullet went straight through my chest, a hair’s breadth above my heart. I faked falling down so they’d think I was dead.” He runs his hand through his shaggy hair before his lip rises in a smirk. “It ain’t the first time I been shot, sweetheart . . . or played possum.”

I don’t know what he said next, because I was up in an instant with my arms around his neck, kissing him to pieces. Ghost or no ghost, he’s my Creek—and he’s
here!

“Ow-ow,” he winces, recoiling from his wound. He takes a step back and licks my blood off his lips, then gazes into my eyes as if he were peering into a little piece of heaven. Carefully, he lifts his finger to trace what must be the massive bruises on my cheekbone and jaw. “Oh Robin,” his hand lightly cups my cheek for a moment, but then tightens into a fist, “you have no idea how much I want to kill that asshole for what he’s done.” He leans forward to give me a tender kiss on the forehead, not wanting to hurt me. “But right now, we gotta go back to the gypsies. I gave the stone to Zuhna’s falcon when I saw de Bargona’s men coming, and I have a hunch she’ll know where it is. They grabbed me and shot me before I could reach you.” He brushes a lock of hair away from my eyes, his gaze full of apology. “And I passed out from the loss of blood.”

Hesitantly, I lift my hand to touch his wound and snap it back, feeling like a doubting Thomas.

“B-But how did you survive?” I gasp, still marveling. “You could’ve bled to death.”

Creek nods at me with soft eyes. “Those nuns—they weren’t about to let me go. They came out in a line and stood up to de Bargona’s men, waving crosses and saying they were going to give me a Christian burial or pray that his men and their families go to hell. You know those Catholic mob guys—deep down they believe what nuns say, and they figured I was dead anyway. After they left and the nuns realized I was alive, they lit candles and chanted over me and applied a cream on the wound that stunk like one of Granny Tinker’s poultices.” His eyes flash a bit of sparkle before he gives me a wink. “I think most of them used to be gypsies.”

“But why didn’t they call the police on de Bargona’s men?” I blurt, half-grateful and half-angry at those nuns for letting them get away.

“They
did
, sweetheart.” Creek sighs at my naivety. “But there ain’t nobody in Italy who goes after de Bargona, if you get my drift. Now c’mon—we gotta bolt. I found this passageway from a small door by the street on the outside of the palazzo. The nuns loaned me their old truck to try and find you.”

With that, Creek hoists Alessia into his arms and kicks the door open wider with his boot.

“
Angelo?
” She says softly, glancing up. “
Mio lobo bianco
?”

She appears frustrated, patting her nun’s habit until she finds a pocket. Reaching inside, she pulls out a small blue feather and holds it up to Creek.

Tears well so quickly in my eyes I can hardly see.

The white wolf in her lullaby—

All those years, her song was her prayer for him to be her angel and come take care of her baby.

“
Sì
, Mama,” I reassure her, my voice breaking. “He’s Creek, our
angelo
.”

Wasting no time, we dash through the doorway into a dark, secret passage, its damp ceiling oozing droplets of cold water upon our heads. As soon as Creek passes the threshold with Alessia in his arms, I grab the iron handle and pull the stone door with all my might to slam it behinds us.

And everything around us becomes black.

Sunlight stings my eyes as Creek kicks the secret door open to the street from the side of the
palazzo
, inviting the light of Venice to bathe us in warmth. Free at last from our prison! I swallow big gulps of clean air, blinking back glare, when I realize our feet are soaked in lukewarm water from a thin canal by the building that’s overflowed its banks onto the sidewalk. But up ahead, on the street, I spy an old, dilapidated truck with a faint cross painted on the side. Creek nods at the vehicle.

“Run,” he says, “the keys are in the ignition.”

I dash to the truck and hop inside, turning over the engine and backing it up in fits and starts. I’m a rotten driver, I know, but it’s better than nothing.

In a flash, Creek has reached the passenger door and opened it to settle Alessia on the front couch seat that’s so cracked and faded it looks like it hasn’t seen use in fifty years. He slams the door and bolts around the hood to the driver’s side, shoving me over to take the wheel.

“Hang on, baby,” he says with gravel in his voice, “’cause I’m gonna drive like hell.”

Fastening a seatbelt around me and Alessia, I nod my head. We both know this is no joyride—we could easily get shot.

He steps on the gas and the rosary that hangs from the rearview mirror swings wildly as he careens through tight alleys and side roads. Even though I know our fast getaway would scare the daylights out of most people, I feel a huge weight lift from my shoulders. At least we’re not in de Bargona’s dungeon anymore—and if I get killed out here, my spirit can rise free from my bones in the fresh air and sunshine! From the position of the sun over the Venetian buildings that are beginning to cast long shadows, I assume it’s early evening, noticing the bustle on the streets as people head home for dinner. Signs blur past us as Creek steers a hard right and a left, and it’s then that I spot a billboard advertising the airport. My mother jostles against my shoulder with another sharp turn, and I feel the blood still dribbling from her wrist that moistens my hand.

And an idea suddenly flashes through my mind.

“Creek,” I urge, jiggling his leg, “what if we don’t have to find the ruby heart to get my mother’s soul back?” I realize the idea sounds preposterous. I push against his thigh harder. “Creek, do you hear me? What if all I have to do is taste my mother’s blood to reach her. I was in her womb once, you know—we shared the same blood. That’s got to be powerful.” I hold up my mother’s red-stained wrist to show him. “If you head to the airport, I can try it on the way.”

Creek rounds another corner and slows down to head the truck into a dark alley before bringing it to a stop. He lets the engine idle.

“But we don’t have any money, Robin,” he points out.