Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (7 page)

Because something about this man’s eyes mystify me and holds me into place. Although he appears in his early 20s at best, somehow there’s a shadow in his gaze that bears the weight of a very old man. Like the other tour guides, he’s dressed in period clothing from the Renaissance, an ivory peasant shirt and pants with brocade detail and black boots. I have to presume he’s here to help with the tour.

“You want to see the rest of the
palazzo
,
sì
mia
amica?
”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, holding out his arm in an oddly cavalier way, as though he were about to ask me to dance at a ball. “Here, let me show you the map room. The group will-a join us soon.”

I hesitate, grinding my heels into the alabaster floor.

Truth be told, I’d love some of that pasta in the kitchen because I’m still starving, even after the bread and cheese we wolfed down from the nun’s handout earlier. But as I hear the Conté de Bargona bragging about his blood-red sauce, I can’t help thinking anything’s better than being near him right now. He
did
seem to recognize me—at least as someone who looks spooky-close to his ancestor. Does that mean he pegs me as his daughter’s bastard child?

Before I can entertain the possibilities, the tour guide forcefully whisks me up several stairs by the time I manage to jerk my elbow away from him. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot the other docents cleaning up the blood spill, and I wonder how Creek is doing with rifling through desks and files. At least this trip to the map room could buy us some more time. I give the young man a hint of smile.

He responds by breaking free of my arm and bolting up the steps to the landing, where I can see a room at the top covered in yellowed, archaic maps. Flashing that broad smile again, he disappears, and all of a sudden the landing is filled with a warm, inviting glow. Curious, I head to the map room and find him standing beside two French doors that are opened wide to a balcony.

“The only way to truly know
Venezia
is by its light,” he says with a certain triumph in his voice.

He’s merely a silhouette now, his amazing physique backlit by the subtle morning sunshine, almost like a phantom.

As my eyes readjust to the outline of his dark contours, I notice there are Mardi Gras masks hanging on the walls next to the double doors. Their hollow, black eyes and faces empty of the warmth of human flesh spook me a little.

“A-Aren’t we here to see the maps?” I remind him, cautious about stepping any further into this room. I turn slightly to glance into the hallway, my eyes hunting past several doors that have been left ajar.

“Creek,” I whisper sharply. “Where are you . . .”

No answer.

Dammit—

Returning my gaze to my host, I find he’s grabbed two of the masks and he’s motioning for me to step out onto the balcony.

“Maps only record the past,” he insists. “Come, let’s see the future.”

I draw in a breath, rationalizing it won’t hurt to stall for more time. “OKAY,” I voice too loudly, hoping it might help Creek detect where I am, “I CAN CHECK OUT THE VIEW WITH YOU FOR A MINUTE.”

Not a sound stirs from the hallway.

Only my echo as it slowly fades away.

With a sigh, and several excuses in mind to bolt free from this guy as soon as I hear evidence of Creek, I shrug my shoulders and stroll out to the balcony to take in the sights.

Before us is the Grand Canal, its waters a deep murky green with hints of shimmer from the early sun that’s begun to peek above the elegant domes and spires. A layer of mist still shrouds the city like a blanket, making it appear hazy and sepia toned, and every bit as ancient as its architecture belies.

“Tell me,” the young man asks, “what do you see, Rubina?”

My heart skips a beat.

I haven’t told him my name yet. Much less the Italian version the de Bargonas gave me at birth—

And I feel the ruby wobble to match my quickening pulse.

“Um, I see green water,” I pipe up, extremely antsy now to get back to Creek. The time for politeness is way over, and as I spin on my heels to go inside, his hand stops my shoulder with the abruptness of stone. He holds up a glittering gold mask.

“
Un momento
. Just put it on—then tell me what you see.”

He adjusts a shiny black mask over his face that instantly makes him look foreboding.

“This will only take a second,” his accent rolls in an almost musical tone, “I promise. I simply want you to understand. Everything in
Venezia
changes. The light, the masks, the people—nothing is ever as it seems.”

Annoyed, I slip the gold mask over my head, only because I calculate Creek will emerge from the hallway any second now. Interestingly, when I glance back over the canal, the water has transformed from emerald to an ethereal amethyst with hints of rose that sparkle over the currents as the sun ascends more boldly over the city. It’s beautiful—there’s no doubt about it. But it’s way past time for me to join Creek.

Just as I open my mouth to say a swift goodbye, the man grabs my face in his hands and swallows me in a kiss.

Not just any kiss—

He wraps himself around me as though he could pour his spirit like a searing liquid into my throbbing veins.

And the fluttering I felt earlier now runs up and down my spine like wildfire, stinging me with a heat that focuses like a laser on the stone inside my pocket.

It takes every ounce of strength I have to break free from him. And the second I do, I haul off and slap him so hard it knocks that black mask off his face.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!” I cry, reeling, my fists clenched tight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a wash of red. The bold sun now glows like an angry ball that pierces the mist of the city, coating the entire canal the color of blood.

The young man gazes at me without apology.

“I only wanted to kiss something beautiful before it dies,” he says. “Because make no mistake—Vittorio de Bargona will kill you.”

He steals another kiss before I can gather the wherewithal to shove his ass back.

“Go to the gypsies, Rubina,” he whispers, “out in the countryside. That is, if you want to
live
.”

In that moment, he becomes hazy, like the mist that still threads between the buildings of the city. Then he disappears.

And all that’s left at my feet is his shiny black mask.

“Go—go!” Creek cries as a bullet whistles over our heads. It’s been shot with a silencer, but that doesn’t get rid of its eerie, high-pitched wail. Creek’s running toward me in a flash with a tattered envelope in his hand. Before I can ask questions, he’s engulfed my body in his arms and leaped over the wrought-iron bars of the balcony.

This isn’t exactly how I imagined being carried over a threshold by the love of my life . . .

Straight into a baptism of sea water.

We are falling, falling toward the deep canal that shines crimson on the surface, until we splash and are swallowed by its murky liquid.

All churning arms and legs, our breaths rise in bubbles around us. I can see bullets piercing straight lines through water, each one making a sharp blooping sound, until Creek grabs me by the arm and drags me to where the canal is darkened by shadows. My lungs are about to burst, yet I know we can’t surface for air until we’re out of gunshot range.

And there’s hardly a question who wants me dead now.

But I’ve got no time for deciphering intrigue—my chest feels like it’s burning as I follow Creek beneath a pier that juts out over the canal. Just as we pass the dark, water-soaked pillars, a hand grabs my shirt.

And lifts me up!

I’m gasping and pedaling my feet, cursing and taking swings in air, unable to see who’s got me by the collar.

When my body is unceremoniously dumped into the bed of a gondola and covered by a royal blue blanket.

Before I can blink, Creek joins me, wet as a fish.

He’s heaving for breath and spitting out salt water. I half expect him to rise up swinging, like I did, but instead he clasps his hand over my mouth and pulls the blanket over both of us to blot out the sun.

It’s totally dark now. I know my eyes must be as large as saucers as I feel the gondola sway in a slow, leisurely glide across the canal, as though we’re merely tourists starting our day. And I hear a dreamy alto voice soar over our heads.

“Che bella cosa è na jurnata ’e sole,

n’aria serena dopo na tempesta.

Pe’ ll’aria fresca para già na festa . . .”

I have no idea who’s singing or what the words mean. And I couldn’t be more confused as Creek wrestles me into a hug like we’re two vacationers getting way too frisky with each other. I’m about to ask questions when I feel Creek’s hand stroke a dripping wet lock from my forehead.

“Shhh . . . he’s helping us,” Creek whispers. “Work with me.”

“Who?” I reply, unable to imagine why anyone would stow away a couple of damp foreigners—who’re getting
shot at
, no less.

“The gondolier who first brought us here,” Creek says, pressing his finger to my lips. We can hear angry shouts in Italian from where the de Bargona’s home must be, but fortunately they grow quieter in the distance and disappear.

I snuggle up to Creek, who brushes his lips sweetly against mine as if he were simply swiping a kiss between dances at my old boarding school. But the truth—that makes me want to hyperventilate right now—is that we’ve once again barely escaped with our lives.

“Creek,” I whisper in a shaky voice, feeling goose bumps spread across my body, made only worse by my wet clothes, “why on earth would this guy help us?”

I feel Creek’s chest hesitate, then rise and fall again slowly, with that same caution he always shows before he decides whether to mention something he thinks is too dark for me to know.

But I
want
to know.

I elbow him until he relents.

“He’s . . . helping us . . . ,” Creek pauses, “because you’re not the only one the de Bargonas have tried to kill, baby. You heard the tour guide—she likened them to a ‘river of blood’. And something tells me pasta sauce ain’t the only thing she’s talking about.”

He rubs my arms to ward away the shivers.

“Your grandfather, the Count, has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, Robin—even among members of the mob. A guy like that won’t think twice about making people . . . disappear.”

My trembling comes in waves now, despite my efforts to will it to stop so I can seem tough to Creek. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, hoping our gondolier is still steering us in shadows. “C-Creek,” I press, not wanting to have any delusions about this trip, “somehow, he must’ve gotten tipped off that I came to Italy and that I’ve got the stone. D-do you think we’re really going to die?”

He is quiet for a long time. And part of me can’t help wondering if this gondola will become our coffin, no matter who helps us or how hard we try. Surely de Bargona’s henchmen will track us down as our boat glides through the mists of this old city.

But then Creek rolls gently on top of me, sliding his hands up and down my shoulders, hips and thighs, attempting to warm me with his whole being. I feel his breath alight on my cheeks and then my neck, like a sweet and defiant reminder that we’re alive and still breathing. He sweeps back the sopping hair from my eyes that I hope hide my welling tears, but that I don’t think fool him for a minute.

“Not if I have anything to do with it, sweetheart,” he replies.

Our path is a bramble.

And that’s the point—

Our kindly gondolier calls it a “gypsy trail”, these miles and miles of dense thickets flanked by trees that meander around fields in northern Italy’s countryside.

When I look really close, I can trace the narrow path which winds its way along creeks and draws, hidden from nearby roads and villages. It seems like a secret route used only by outlaws and maybe their horses who’re on the run. Just like us.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re right back in the boondocks by Bender Lake—a notorious shelter for those who want to disappear. And as I glance at Creek, and his ease at navigating this nearly impossible wall of shrubs and trees that appear rarely touched by man, that thought comforts me a little.

Our gondolier is acting as our guide for only a bit longer before he returns to work. As he walks, he nudges me and points to markers on old fences and stumps, muttering things in Italian. I don’t understand him, but it’s clear that these carvings have a pattern—a skull and crossbones means the water isn’t good, a stick figure with a badge indicates watch out for police. Then there are drawings of grapes and orchard trees, which I assume point to a good spot to steal fruit. But the one that scares me is an outline of the Grim Reaper. Was somebody killed here? Or are the farmers merely unwelcoming? I’m too afraid to ask.

The sun is high now, and its heat warms the leftover dew on the ground, making our path humid and sticky as hell. Fanning my damp shirt, I keep wondering when this hike will end. It feels like it’s been hours already, and I finally muster up the guts to tap our guide on the shoulder.