Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (5 page)

And the stone burns like a coal in my pocket.

Istituto de Santa Pellegrina
reads a chipped wooden plaque beside the door. I swear, it looks like it was carved centuries ago.

Drawing a deep breath, I peer into Creek’s eyes for courage and raise my hand to the rusty, wrought-iron door knocker to give it a lift. It falls with a weighty boom that surprises us both.

And nothing happens.

Creek and I exchange glances. We know we can’t afford to go to the front of the church. Whoever shot at us last night is hardly going to respect the public doorstep of a sacred building. I extend my fingers to give the door knocker another rap when Creek stops my hand.

Sure enough, we can hear the slow sound of shuffling feet.

Heart in my throat, I watch the faded mahogany door creak open.

She’s a vision in all white, this woman who peeks at me through the crack. But her face is deeply lined and her brown eyes appear a bit cloudy.

“Alessia—is she here?” I gasp. I hear the desperate-child quality in my voice, fully betraying the earnest-daughter-searching-for-her-mother that I truly am. But I can’t help myself.

The nun squints and looks us up and down with an impartial gaze.

And slams the door.

Before I can pound it with all my might, Creek’s arms clench around me like a straitjacket, his big hand over my mouth nearly suffocating me.

“Don’t you
dare
holler,” he growls.

In spite of my thrashing, I know this is for my own good—we can’t afford to reveal where we are. But that doesn’t stop me from biting his palm.

“Dammit!” Creek hisses barely above a whisper, waving his hand. “Can’t you listen to me for one sweet second?”

My cheeks flush warm.

In the cold air of dawn, I see little puffs of my own breath escape like I’m an unruly dragon. Yet to my surprise, the heavy door creaks open again. Without glancing up, the same nun as before stuffs a crumpled wad of newspaper into my hands. Confused, I wonder if her mind is slipping a little, and she thinks we’ve come to collect the trash. But when I open the folds of paper I spy a large hunk of bread and wedge of cheese.

“
Dio ti benedica
,” the nun mumbles, crossing herself in routine fashion as if she’s handed out food like this for charity a thousand times.

She obviously thinks we’re hungry—and she’s right.

But we didn’t come for a meal.

“Please—Alessia?” I pipe up, while Creek thrusts his boot into the threshold before she can slam the door. He doesn’t wince when the three-inch-thick wood smashes against his foot.

“A prayer!” He slaps his hands together, nodding intently before she can leave. Those arresting blue eyes of his could melt even the most cynical cleric. “You wouldn’t leave us without a prayer, would you?”

Creek’s words halt the old nun in her tracks. She stares at his sealed, upright palms, her face registering his request.

“
Un momento
,” she sighs, leaving the door ajar this time as she shuffles down a hallway lined with gilded artwork depicting the Stations of the Cross. After she disappears into a side room, Creek and I stuff down the morsels she gave us like ravenous dogs, our tastebuds nearly bursting from the rich flavor of the cheese as we wait. In a few minutes, the old woman returns with another nun—a bare slip of a woman—who appears thirty years her junior. “
Inglese
,” the old nun says to the other with a nod. But when the young nun sets eyes on me, her rosary drops to the floor. The small beads echo across the tile with a clatter.

“
Muerte
,” she gasps. “Ali?”

The young nun’s face blanches. Tears rim her eyes, and she looks as if she’s holding herself back from giving me a hug.

“Ali—
Ali?
” she repeats, visibly trembling now. Timid, she holds out her hand and runs it down a strand of my curly dark hair. When her fingers stretch to the bottom, it springs back into place.

Could Ali be a nickname for Alessia? I wonder. Were they friends?

I want to tell her the answer is no. My name isn’t Ali, it’s Robin, or Rubina for that matter. But Alessia used to be—I mean
IS
—my mother. Except the stone’s burning so hot in my front pocket right now that I can’t talk. I have to pull it out before it blisters my skin and shift it into my back pocket where the jean fabric is thicker.

“Th-They told me you were,” the young nun mutters, searching for words. She slices her fingers slowly across her neck. Her hands cup my cheeks, warm but unsteady. “
Mio cara amica—
”

“
Pardonatemi
,” a booming voice travels down the convent hall, the kind that makes you want to straighten up and take notice.

The two nuns do just that—in a snap. Behind them, a tall, elegant woman in a slightly different habit takes long strides toward us, narrowing her eyes at me. I have to assume she’s the Mother Superior here, but she’s nothing like the black-cloaked Darth Vader we had at my boarding school back in Cincinnati. Instead, she’s an apparition in all white, just like an angel. Yet as she nears us, her crystalline blue eyes betray a hint of coldness, cruelty even. When her gaze meets mine, she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, but my girls don’t speak English very well,” she says with a rolling Italian accent and a smile that could sell a thousand Cadillacs.

I take a step back, floored by this glossy version of nunhood who appears custom made for Venetian tourists. I can’t help thinking that despite her formidable gaze, she’s immensely profitable to the church somehow.

“You want to know where the hostel is?” she presses, eyeing our humble clothing and the last remnants of bread and cheese in my hand like I’m a vagabond. She sweeps her hand toward the magnificent hallway. “Or are you seeking luxury accommodations here at the convent?”

Though her words sound vaguely encouraging, I can tell from her stance that she’s all blockade. Sleek, beautiful—and not about to let us enter unless we unload a ton of euros for the privilege.

Something tells me she knows we don’t have a dime.

I steal a glance at Creek. But he isn’t looking at me—he’s scanning the interior of the convent like he’s casing the joint. All work and swift deduction. Then his eyes scrutinize the tearful young nun as if for clues.

“I’m looking for Alessia de Bargona!” I blurt. I don’t mean to be so damn loud, and I know tears are already welling in my eyes. I can’t stop it—my emotions are totally raw, and the way that young nun said “Ali” with such hope in her voice made me feel like I’m on the right track.

But the Mother Superior bristles at the mere mention of Alessia’s name. Her long nose scrunches for a moment as if that word were a profanity.

“You think you’re the first
turistas
searching for
monaca pazzesca
? The crazy nun of Venice?” She sighs wistfully, thrusting her hands into her habit pockets. “Yes, she was famous in this
sestiere
. But that was a long time ago, and I’m afraid she’s dead,
piccolina
. Suicide. Such tragedies are typical of her . . . kind. And sad, too, since you do look a little like her—”

She cups my cheek and stares into my eyes. Instantly, icy fingers shoot down my spine.

“Then the de Bargona family will know where she’s buried, right?” Creek cuts in without missing a beat. Tall himself, he steps forward and towers over the Mother Superior to meet her gaze, flashing the coldest dagger-scar smile I’ve ever witnessed in my life. It’s a smile that says
I don’t believe you for two seconds, bitch
. It’s a smile that says,
And
I’m ready to snap you in two if you don’t give me what I want
.

I watch the Mother Superior’s throat tremble as she swallows uncomfortably. Her cheeks stiffen in an effort to retain her composure, but when Creek forces the heavy door open wider and folds his arms impatiently—one might even say brutally—I can tell by her eyes that she’s rattled.

“Th-there are no church burials for blasphemers,” she insists, “crazy women with visions who hang themselves. To find her remains, you’ll have to ask the de Bargonas.”

She points toward a bend in the Grand Canal nearby, its waters glistening at dawn. “Their
palazzo
is well known in the—what do you call it?” She pats her arm. “
La Volta
—the elbow of Venice. Look for the
Rio di Ca’ Bargona
. Their
palazzo
is there. Only they have the answers you seek.”

“
Grazie!
” I reply way too loud, but it’s no use. The second that word escapes my lips, the thick door slams in my face, clicking with the sound of a heavy lock, and Creek has to steady me on my feet to keep me from falling. But balance is the last of my worries right now. All I can think about is the haunted way that young nun looked at me. Piercing and full of loss, as if
I
might be her precious Ali.

And my mind races, wondering if it’s true that my mother is really dead.

My foot slips on the curved, terra cotta roof tiles that are slick in the morning dew.

Normally, I’d have screamed my guts out by now, but Creek grabs me before I can slide to my death on a Venetian street below.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his strong arms righting me so I can take a breath.

I fold my head against his chest to clear the dizziness for a second and refuse to look down. His heart pumps hard against his flannel shirt to meet my cheek.

We’re skittering along the rooftops like loose cats.

Crazy?

You bet.

But as Creek told me after the convent, this is the safest way to reach the de Bargona’s ancestral home. “Most thugs are stupid—they don’t bother to look up,” he said. So instead of slipping through alleys as the sun begins to rise, we’re hopping from roof to roof, navigating the sea of tiles that make up the interconnected puzzle of this city. I thank God for the occasional sculpted chimney that I can cling to for dear life to regain my balance.

“How do you like being a fugitive again?” Creek smiles wickedly, displaying that infernal scar. He shows off this time by making a grand leap to a flatter roof between two palazzos and skipping over the tiles like a sprite. My heart jumps in my chest, but I’m not about to give myself away. I throw out my arms like wings.

“Fine!” I reply, vaulting to the roof to do an elegant twirl, just to see his eyes grow wide. “In fact, I find it rather liberating.” Wow, those ten years of forced ballet lessons finally seemed to pay off.

And in more ways than I suspected—

Because the way Creek looks at me right now, as I do another pirouette to show off like he did, makes all my defenses crumble. He stares at me as though I’m a rare and graceful bird, one he’d give anything to call his own. The early sunlight glints off his hair, making it shine as bright as the gold crosses that dot the city, and I see him stand a little taller. With a gallant gesture, he holds out his hand as if calling my heart to give flight and alight upon his arm.

Just then, I see a blue bird glide by.

It’s much bigger than the usual songbirds we used to see in the forest around Bender Lake. As it makes its course toward the de Bargona’s
palazzo
, a blue feather floats down on the tiles between us.

Usually this wouldn’t disturb me. Except I couldn’t help noticing that the bird has red legs—just like the one Granny Tinker whittled.

As it flaps its wings, inexplicably, it perches on Creek’s arm and gives a hoarse cry reminiscent of a falcon. Just as quickly as it landed, it moves on in the direction of the rising sun.

And I have goose bumps all over my body.

Creek meets me halfway, picking up the feather like a souvenir.

“One more roof, sweetheart,” he says, and I feel the lump rise in my throat.

How on earth am I supposed to introduce myself to the de Bargonas?

Just ring their doorbell and say, “Hi! Remember me? The bastard child you ditched? Well I’m baaaaack—”

“You’re not going to say a word,” Creek advises. He strides toward me and gently grips my shoulders, then traces the blue feather along my cheek for reassurance.

God, he can be spooky sometimes!

With the way he senses my thoughts, part of me wonders if he’s a distant relative of Granny Tinker, too. Or perhaps, because of his rough childhood, he’s simply had a lifetime of ferreting out people’s motives.

Creek wraps his arm around me protectively and points in the direction of the de Bargona’s home with the feather.

“Listen, Robin—we’re simply going to knock on the de Bargona’s door and act like tourists asking about whatever happened to that crazy nun of Venice. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a pat answer meant to deflect curiosity seekers, and we’ll take it from there.”

I nod and feel Creek’s arm cinch around me tighter, as though he can feel my heightening anxiety over whether the de Bargonas will recognize me. He turns to face me, his blue eyes reflecting the amber sheen of the morning light.

“Of course they’re gonna recognize you,” he says flatly, as though that’s as obvious as the weather. “Everyone says you look like Alessia. But while you’re busy pretending to be a dumbshit American who’ll buy any story they dish out, I’ll ‘accidentally’ scrape my hand on something and then head to the bathroom rather than bleed on their precious floor. At which time I’ll case the joint for files and clues of what really happened to your mom. All you gotta do is keep fluttering your hands and asking them silly questions about their house and furniture till I return and give the go ahead to get the hell out of there. Sound like a plan?”

I’m already chewing my lip on the possibilities. And naturally, I want to nod my head at the typical genius of Creek’s strategy.

But I’m too overwhelmed by the ethereal beauty of the morning rays that have already begun to swallow Creek’s body in gold.

And also by the knowledge that, on this red tile roof at dawn, this could well be the last morning we’ll ever be so carefree.

The two of us—we’re both perched on this steep rooftop of adulthood as we overlook the misty morning of Venice. From here on out, every choice we make matters.