“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.
Chapter 6
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.
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.”
Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) Page 4