Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (6 page)

I heave a sigh, knowing that my search for my mom is likely to tear a hole straight through my heart. This last moment of not knowing the truth about her is a luxury, not unlike the lovely vista we have before us. After today, I’ll never have the same innocence again, or be able to conjure up pretty fantasies about her. Our mother-daughter story, for good or bad, will be all too clear. And Creek and I will just have to go forward with what we’ve learned.

But one thing I know for certain: At this moment, I’m standing beside the most beautiful, sun-drenched man-boy I’ve ever seen in my life. And like always, Creek does the very thing that terrifies me most—

He releases his grip and dashes across the terra cotta rooftop to make a flying leap, spread-eagled and laughing, and lands on the de Bargona’s
palazzo
.

“You coming, Robin?” He swivels around and extends his arms wide, inviting me with his most sparkling smile. The tail of his flannel shirt flaps gently in the breeze.

God help me—how can I resist a future like that?

Feeling mischievous, I dip a curtsy to the morning sun and do my very best
fouetté
ballet maneuver, just to taunt fate, and then nod.

“Ready to fly!” I cry, keeping my eyes focused on Creek. With a quick shake of my head to dispel any remaining fears, I charge across the rooftop and hurl my body into thin air.

“The first morning tour begins in ten minutes,” a woman announces in a clipped British accent. I glance at Creek, floored by the cluster of tourists who’ve already beat us to the de Bargona’s door. Creek guides my body to disappear inside the huddle so no gunmen can spot us easily from the street.

“Please stay outside the lobby until we get an accurate head count.”

Thinking fast, Creek grabs a few tickets that have fallen on the stoop from past tours and casually hands them to our apparent docent. She’s too flustered by the eagerness of the crowd to notice the crumpled tickets, as well as distracted by the miles of fabric she has to maneuver in the brocade gown she’s wearing, similar to what I imagine Venetian women donned during the Renaissance. Beside her is another tour guide in an ornate dress who repeats everything she says in Italian, and afterwards gazes at her cell phone to check the time, yawning as though wishing this was over and she could get more espresso. My lips curl in a smirk at the weird anachronism, until Creek sends me a stern look.

“Concentrate,” he whispers. “And don’t make yourself noticeable.”

I lift two fingers in salute, just to bug him. “Aye, Sarge,” I whisper, but Creek doesn’t give me a second glance. He’s carefully monitoring every face who’s braved the cold doorstep of the de Bargona’s
palazzo
to make sure we’re not under any threat. As the grand door of the mansion opens wide, the crush of tourists surges forward, and I hear the jingle of euros changing hands and beep of credit card machines taking money. All this makes me wonder: How rich can the de Bargonas really be if they have to loan out their home for tours?

But my curiosity is cut short by the shock of what I spy on the wall—

It’s
me
.

Wearing a crimson gown in an oil portrait with a glistening ruby heart on a chain around my neck.

In the painting, my eyes look enraged and my hair collects around the ruby in wild, dark tendrils. Dangling from one ear flashes a gold gypsy earring.

The stone in my back pocket leaps angrily.

And just about burns my ass.

“Excuse me,” I pipe up to the English-speaking tour guide, “do you happen to have a tissue?”

She points to a box of Kleenex on the money-changing table and I head over and grab a handful, stuffing them into my pocket before my butt develops blisters. Creek shoots me a look that could kill for drawing attention to myself. I point to my pocket, hoping he’ll get it. Still, he folds his arms unhappily and hints at me to blend back into the crowd with his eyes.

“Behold Martiya de Bargona!” the tour guide cries out, flipping on a floodlight that shines on the oil painting in a gilded frame. “The most beautiful woman to grace Italy’s Renaissance.”

All at once the lobby becomes hushed.

“That’s who you’ve come to hear about today, right? Either that or the crazy nun of Venice?”

A few chuckles erupt from the crowd as the other tour guide echoes her words in Italian.

Meanwhile, the English docent walks beneath the portrait and picks up a jewel-encrusted cross from a table. She holds it up as if casting a blessing or exorcising an evil spirit—I can’t tell which.

“Martiya de Bargona and the crazy nun are known in this
sestiere
as the Devil and Angel of Venice. Believe it or not, though centuries apart, these two women’s lives were quite intertwined. By the way, how many of you would like your fortunes told today?”

Several tourists sheepishly raise their hands, but not me—mine’s locked to my side so I won’t make a spectacle of myself and annoy Creek.

“Well, fortunes are what the de Bargona’s history is really about. And it all begins with blood . . .”

I feel a chill rattle down my spine, considering the wound I carved into Creek’s arm two days ago that’s barely begun to heal, and the rich way his blood tasted on my lips. The stone lurches again in my pocket, and I shift my weight to ignore it.

“I’m not sure how many of you would be brave enough to try this,” the tour guide continues, her gown swishing as she strides back toward the crowd, “but legend has it that Martiya de Bargona was once the best gypsy fortune teller in all of Italy. So effective at informing others how to make a profit, in fact, that Nicolo de Bargona, a mildly successful merchant in Venice at the time, gave her father an entire sack of gold with only one hitch. He demanded Martiya’s hand in marriage.”

She sets down the cross and holds up an antique hat pin to her palm.

“Anyone like to prick a little blood?”

The crowd murmurs uneasily.

“Because that was Martiya’s fortune-telling stock in trade. She would prick your hand and then smear the blood on your palm to see your life and love lines better. Unfortunately, her magical powers only secured her tragic fate as old man Nicolo de Bargona’s unwilling, sixteen-year-old bride.” The docent sighs. “You see, Martiya’s father was so besotted by the sight of all that gold that he forced his young daughter into an arranged marriage—and to leave the love of her life, the dashingly handsome gypsy boy Bohemas.”

What was once a chill down my back has now become a fire that consumes my body. Nervously, I glance around to see if my clothes might have erupted into flames. But it’s the stone—Martiya—emanating so much angry heat that it’s making me sweat in places I didn’t know I had.

“What, um, became of her?” a meek woman in a touristy sweatshirt inquires, wringing her hands as if the answer might determine the fate of true love for us all.

The tour guide shakes her head. “Ah, that poor devil Martiya. She was furious at her father for trading her to a merchant. Out of revenge, she stole her father’s priceless ruby—the very Heart of the Gypsies—that legend claims brings riches wherever it goes. It was supposed to have originated with a Sultan in India, but along with prosperity it brings a terrible curse. Whoever steals it renders its former owner impoverished—so Martiya’s gypsy father and his band were forced to roam in rags throughout Europe from then on. But the bearer of the Heart of the Gypsies can never find true love until the stone is returned. Martiya was willful and thought she could beat this fate, and she kept sneaking out at night for clandestine meetings with her old flame Bohemas. But years later, Nicolo de Bargona found them in a forest outside of Venice during Mardi Gras and killed them both. Could that have been the curse at work? No one knows for sure. But history claims Martiya laughed in Nicolo’s face and tasted her lover’s blood right before she died, catapulting her magical powers to that of
Thagarni
, or the Gypsy Queen. She became a soul thief—one who could absorb the pain of all those who are broken hearted—as long as they join her spirit inside the ruby heart.”

A collective gasp surfaces from the crowd.

“Where’s the stone now?” asks a portly tourist who looks at the painting as if he’s fallen for Martiya and her charms.

The docent glances aside, then sets the hat pin on the cross and clasps her hands. “Sadly,” she replies, “it was lost—or perhaps stolen—about eighteen years ago, when the family went to America on business. Since that time, the de Bargona pasta sauce company stock has fallen dramatically. They once used to brag that their marinara ran in a river of blood from Venice to the rest of the world. But now, like many companies in the recession, business has become quite challenging.”

And that’s when I lose my breath—

Because it’s all starting to make sense to me. Ever since Alessia slipped my dad the stone, his fortunes began to soar. And now the de Bargona’s appear so broke that they’re forced to give tours of their former grandeur.

Before I finish the thought, Creek gives me a nudge and eyes me with understanding.

“What about the famous Angel of Venice?” asks a dreamy-looking woman with long blonde hair with ribbons in it. “How does the crazy nun’s story coincide with—”

“There is
no
Angel of Venice,” a deep-throated Italian voice cuts her off.

The English tour guide startles as a distinguished gentleman descends a staircase to the lobby where we stand. He has grey, finely-groomed hair and is wearing an elegant silk suit the color of steel. His dark eyes appear severe.

“C-Conté de Bargona!” the tour guide stammers. “I-I didn’t know you were in residence today—”

The man holds up a hand to halt her chatter like the pope.

And I notice he refuses to glance up. In fact, everything about his being seems to mentally shut her out along with the portrait of Martiya above us, as though he believes them to be beneath him. He stares with a cold, level gaze across the lobby at the crowd.

“
Sì
, it may be true that my daughter looked a little like her ancestor Martiya,” he concedes in a rich Italian lilt. “But I’m afraid she died in a
tragico
—how do you call it?—accident, years ago. She was a good nun, blessed with visions of
angelos
. So there’s no
scandalo
here.”

His bottomless dark eyes scan the cluster of tourists and lock on mine, freezing my heart in place, as though he’d expected to find me here. His stare is so arresting that I half–believe I’ll see a line of frost between us, and I actually seek to palm the stone in my pocket for warmth. I huddle closer to Creek for protection.

“Now, won’t you sample some our world famous marinara?” he commands more than requests. “Step left to the
cucina
where you can try our latest varieties.”

Like a herd of obedient circus elephants, the crowd heads one by one to the kitchen. He gives them a smile, but oddly, I’ve never felt colder in my life. De Bargona’s presence feels like a dark shadow across my soul that mysteriously manages to steal heat.

Even the stone in my pocket seems to cool against my jeans.

And despite the shuffling noise of the tourists heading to the kitchen, I hear a voice whisper in my ear.

Kill him! Don’t miss your chance—kill him NOW . . .

To my surprise, Creek steps toward a wall and grabs the edge of a sword hanging beside a tapestry. My hands rise to stifle my scream. He couldn’t possibly have heard the same voice, could he—

But rather than a hasty murder, Creek slices his palm along the edge of the sword out of fake curiosity, ripping open his flesh. He fans his fingers to allow the blood to drip to the alabaster floor.

“Fuck!” He cries like it was a mistake, spreading his boots wide. A crimson puddle collects between his feet.

The Italian tour guide flutters around him, all jerking hand gestures and staccato words that sound like curses.
“Bagno! Bagno!”
She orders, pointing up the staircase and handing him tissues to stop the bleeding. Before Creek dashes up the steps, he winks at me, and I thank my lucky stars that the Conté de Bargona doesn’t appear to notice our connection. He’s too busy in the kitchen, opening up jars of sauce and proudly ladeling his product over pasta that’s been prepared for the tourists. Yet the chill of his presence still hovers over me like an unwanted cloak. As I give Creek a swift nod and head toward the kitchen, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Swiveling around, I half-expect to see the Italian docent with a few swear words for me, too—and ready to hand me a mop. But I find myself gazing at a man so desperately handsome he steals all breath from my chest.

His dark unruly hair frames his cheekbones in random curls, and his face is all hard angles—smooth and sharp as Venetian cut glass. Eyes twinkling, he gives me a broad smile filled with enough charm to send a dozen girls’ hearts into spirals. The second that thought strikes me, a strange flutter arises in my gut and works its way out to my limbs in waves. I feel the stone throb against my pocket, harassing me with whispers that are drowned out by the pulsing sound of blood rushing to my brain.