Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief

by Rosie Somers

  If they’re no longer doing Petrov’s bidding, and are in fact not going to hurt us, then that means Petrov is outnumbered. But if he has a firearm on him somewhere, then that means we’re outgunned. I look first to Will, then to my mother, and then past her to Uncle Samuel to see if the same thoughts have occurred to them, too. Will is scrutinizing Petrov intently, like he’s trying to gauge what his next move will be and when he’ll make it. My mother’s gaze is on me, though. I motion with my eyes to direct her attention to Vasili and Niko, then nod toward Petrov, and she catches on immediately. And passes the message to my uncle.

  “Fine,” Petrov announces and holds out his hand expectantly, “give me your gun, and I will do it myself.”

  The former henchmen exchange a look. Then Niko unholsters his sidearm to deliver it to Petrov.

  So they’re not going to kill us themselves, but they’re not going to help us by standing in his way, either. Part of me is disappointed, but I’m not at all surprised.

  The second Niko places the gun in Petrov’s outstretched hand, Will and my uncle both leap into action. Will once again practices his go-to move and steps in front of me protectively, but this time, he’s facing me with his back toward Petrov. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace.

  At the same time Will is attempting to become my own personal human shield, Uncle Samuel races straight for Petrov, probably hoping to catch him off guard before he has a chance to shoot any of us. My mother is hot on his heels to help, but it doesn’t make any difference. Petrov outraces them, getting the gun raised and his finger on the trigger before they manage to close the distance between him and them.

  Boom. The shot echoes, even in the open air, or maybe just in my own ears. My stomach drops into my feet, and my feet grow roots into the tarmac. I fight the urge to cover my ears and bury my face in Will’s shirt. Instead, I push away from him so I can get a better view of what’s happening.

  Uncle Samuel is lying on the ground, and my mother is on her knees cradling his head in her lap. Blood seeps through his shirt at the shoulder, and he’s pressing a hand firmly over the growing stain. My mother sets her hand over his and presses harder. Petrov looks just as pleased with himself as when he got his hands on the box of evidence, and he’s still holding the gun tightly aimed at them.

  Time stops, the seconds stretching into hours, and I’m infinitely torn between wanting to rush to my mother, to be there to protect her—or possibly to die with her—and wanting to squeeze my eyes shut and pray this is all just a horrible dream.

  But it’s not a dream. Petrov is still looming aggressively over my mother and uncle, and someone has to do something. But anyone who tries to attack him head-on is going to end up bloody on the ground like Uncle Samuel. Brute force isn’t going to win the day here. I need to be better. Smarter.

  “I wouldn’t kill them if I were you,” I call to Petrov, hoping my voice doesn’t belie my bluff.

  Petrov looks over his shoulder at me but keeps his weapon trained on my mother. “No?” He sounds so confident, so smug. If I were the one with the gun, I’d pistol-whip the smug right out of him right now.

  “Your pilot…you trust him?” I’m grasping at straws, testing Petrov’s faith in his man for any hint of weakness.

  He hesitates a little too long. I have my answer.

  “You’re absolutely certain no one else got to him and turned him? Maybe a certain man whose brother you killed a decade ago…” I nod toward my uncle. “One doesn’t tend to just forget when someone murders a member of one’s family. It’s amazing how little loyalty you inspire in your people, Petrov.” I spit his name as a sign of disrespect.

  “What are you saying?” His focus is now entirely on me, and his aiming arm has slackened; the gun is pointed somewhere to my mother’s right now.

  “I’m saying you were stupid to think I would just hand over the box without a plan to get it back. And all this time you’ve been down here with us, he’s been up there alone. With the box.”

  Petrov’s gaze darts to the plane, then back to me. His lips purse; his gun arm drops to his side. The idea I’m trying to plant has taken root in Petrov’s brain. Petrov’s face freezes into a mask of panic and turmoil. “Carlos!” he shouts, and a little bit of spittle flies out of his mouth with the words. He glances over at the plane, then at me again. He swivels back and forth like that several times before tucking Niko’s gun into his belt and making a beeline for the airstairs. “You’ll pay for this,” he shouts as he starts up them. Then, “Carlos, show yourself!”

  No sooner is Petrov out of sight inside the jet than sirens sound somewhere in the distance. The wailing grows imminently louder, and soon a line of dark cars with flashing blue lights appears on the road coming our way. A cloud of dust rises behind the first one and grows with each subsequent car behind it, making it hard to know exactly how many there are, but I count at least three for sure.

  “Someone called the carabinieri?” Vasili asks Niko. As if on cue, they take off together, heading down the runway away from the plane and away from the approaching carabinieri. They climb into the SUV and peel out.

  I rush to where my mother is already helping Uncle Samuel sit up, and Will is hot on my heels. My uncle’s face is pale, his expression pained, and his shirt has soaked up quite a bit of blood. But he’s able to get to his feet with our help and move a safe distance away from the jet. Once we get him situated back on the ground, Will reaches behind his head with one hand and pulls his shirt up and off, then wads it up and presses it against my uncle’s shoulder.

  Headlights illuminate us as three cars pull to a stop in front of Petrov’s jet, effectively blocking his escape. A fourth car speeds past us in the direction Vasili and Niko fled to.

  “Dov’è Petrov Rosinsky?” Where is Petrov Rosinsky? A deep voice calls from the darkness beyond the headlights.

  I point toward the jet at the same time Will says, “On the plane.”

  Shadows cross in front of the headlights, and then a man dressed in carabinieri black with full tactical gear kneels next to my uncle. I back away to give him space. Will does the same, but my mom stays by his side, comforting him with soft soothing words I can’t quite make out. I guess she’s having no trouble forgiving him for the role he played in Petrov’s game.

  A bullhorn pops to life somewhere near the cars, and a man calls through it in Italian, commanding Petrov to come out of the plane. He doesn’t obey or even respond. After several long, tense minutes, two carabinieri climb the airstairs cautiously and do their best to flank the open door in the tight space at the top. One goes in slowly. Then the other follows. I half expect to hear a heavy round of gunfire as Petrov tries to stand his ground and battle it out with the two men. But there’s no sound except for the constant whir of the jet engines. Until even that stops, winding down gradually into silence.

  Petrov’s pilot appears in the doorway, led with his hands behind his back by a carabiniere. They descend the stairs, and Petrov, led by the other carabiniere, follows next. They got him. I release a heavy sigh of relief and let some of the pent-up tension leave my muscles.

  “Looks like we got here just in time,” a small female voice says from right next to me. I spin quickly to see who’s managed to sneak up on me. It’s Giada, hands on hips, watching Petrov’s arrest.

  “You tracked the phone?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Hinting to Giada about what was really going on had paid off.

  “We did.” She points toward the cars where Vincenzo is engaged in a discussion with two more carabinieri.

  The moment Petrov’s feet touch the tarmac, he begins struggling, fighting against the handcuffs and the officer holding him. He’s all fury, and it’s directed straight at me. “You turned me in!” he screams. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” He continues screaming at me in his native language, and I’m grateful I don’t know what he’s actually saying.

  Several other men rush to help subdue Pet
rov, and one elbows him hard in the face, effectively cutting off his rant.

  “Don’t worry. They will take care of him. You are safe now.” Giada places a comforting hand on my arm, and watching the men drag Petrov away, I believe her. For the first time since we left France a month ago, I actually start to feel like I could really be safe now.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It takes two men to shove Petrov into the back of one of the cars. The fact that he’s handcuffed doesn’t stop him from jerking his body and kicking out at the officers trying to subdue him. Spittle flies from his mouth as he screams obscenities in both English and his native language. Finally, once they’ve thrown him onto the back seat and are about to shut the door, Petrov falls deathly still. “You will all pay. I will see—” The officer closest to him slams the car door on his words, but his threat still lingers in the air. The pilot is placed in with Petrov, and though he looks terrified to be riding with the man who’s so clearly gone off the deep end, he doesn’t fight the authorities on it.

  The officers congregate between the two cars, apparently discussing their game plan. Eventually, the group breaks up; two officers climb into the car holding Petrov and two more head back up into the jet, probably for more evidence. Two remain behind as the carabinieri taking Petrov and the pilot drive off the way they came.

  When the car is mostly out of sight, the younger of the two men who stayed behind to interview us approaches my mother and Uncle Samuel with a pen and notepad at the ready. The other carabiniere goes to one of the two remaining cars, opens the passenger door, and pulls out a phone, presumably to report in and maybe call for more backup. When he’s finished, he heads my way.

  “Dimmi quello che sai.” Tell me what you know, the carabiniere says to me. I guess it’s my turn to give a statement. I recap everything for him, in the little Italian that I remember, starting with how my father collected evidence against Petrov years ago and ending with the moment they pulled up to the scene all sirens and brute force. But I leave out the part about my criminal escapades, preferring not to let on about the family business of thieving.

  I also leave out the part about hiding some of the evidence back at Paolo’s villa. Logically, I know I should hand it over to them, that every shred of evidence against Petrov will help their case and help keep him locked up, unable to harm anyone else. But some deeper, shadowy part of me can’t let them go. I want to pore over every page, peruse every entry. I guess that part of me is viewing the remaining journals as my only real connection to my late father. And so I keep my mouth shut about them.

  And Giada doesn’t correct me, either. She eyes me suspiciously for a few moments as I talk to the officer, but eventually, her expression softens. When the officer finishes with me and moves over for her statement, she corroborates everything I said, and I breathe a soft sigh of relief. It takes much less time for her to give her statement than it did for me to give mine. Probably because her part of the story is just a tiny blip on the timeline of everything that’s happened.

  When the officer moves on to Will, Giada comes to my side and loops her arm through mine at the elbow. The wind is starting to pick up, heralding the impending storm, and her body heat provides a welcome shield against the chill drafts. “We have a secret together now.” She winks conspiratorially.

  “Yes, a big one. Thank you for not mentioning the logs I left behind. I guess I’ll need to come back to your place and get them, now that it’s safe.”

  Giada gives my arm a friendly squeeze, then heads off to join Vincenzo.

  I shuffle my foot back and forth across the pavement for a moment, debating what I should do now. Should I go talk to my mom and Uncle Samuel? Should I go stand with Will as a silent show of support? After all, he did almost take a bullet for me. And probably would have, if Uncle Samuel hadn’t taken it first.

  But I’m not ready to face my uncle. My emotions, the feelings of betrayal, are still too raw, and I’m not ready to deal with them. I cross my arms over my chest and rub the bare skin there to ward off the cold as best I can as I sidle up closer to Will.

  As soon as the officer finishes interviewing him and heads back to the car, Will takes his place in front of me. I don’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t, either, because he doesn’t speak. He just looks me over as if trying to assure himself that I’m okay. Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the runway for the briefest of moments before leaving us in relative darkness again.

  Will finally opens his mouth to speak, but thunder drowns out whatever he’s about to say. He shrugs, and I return the gesture. It’s a silent acceptance of everything that’s passed between us, an acknowledgment of the secrets we’ve both kept. Where do we go from here?

  He takes a step forward and reaches out like he wants to touch my face, but he must decide against it, because he drops his hand back down to his side.

  Rain starts in fits and spurts of light drizzles, and quickly deepens into heavier droplets. But I’m barely aware of the cold water dripping off my hair, streaking down my face, soaking into my clothes. Instead, I notice how the rain glistens in Will’s hair, turning the brown strands black before dripping off onto his shoulders. It runs in rivulets down his chest, over his muscles, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. As I watch, gooseflesh spreads across his skin. Because of the cold? Or because of my attention? The rain catches the dried blood at the corner of his mouth and washes it away, running a rich red until it drips off his chin. In no time, the shower has washed away all evidence of violence except the bruises and scrapes.

  I unconsciously zero in on another drop when it lands on his collarbone and traces a haphazard path down the center of his chest. I follow it over well-defined abs, around his navel, until it finally vanishes behind his belt buckle. When it’s out of sight, I raise my gaze to Will’s face. Even with the split lip, the mottled purple-blue bruising on his left cheek, and the beginnings of a killer shiner around his left eye, he’s still gorgeous.

  And he knows it. His expression is one of knowing, all cocky half grin and sparkling mischief in his eyes. He’s caught me admiring.

  “See something you like?” He uses the line his friend used on me the day we met, and his voice is low and confident, like he knows he’s hooked me and is now just reeling me in.

  I take a step forward, narrowing the distance between us, and place a hand on his shoulder. “Until you open your mouth. You’re hot until you speak,” I tease.

  He feigns offense at my words but leans closer, effectively erasing the space between us. Every time I take a breath, the cotton of my shirt brushes against his bare chest, and his breath fans out in a warm arc over my cheek when he exhales. “Hot, huh? I guess I’ll have to find some way to keep my mouth busy, then.”

  “Oh?” I’m pretty sure I know where this is leading. Every fiber of my being is hyper-focused on Will’s lips, on how close they are to mine. Fireworks explode in my brain and send warmth tingling through my entire body. He’s going to kiss me—the phrase repeats itself in my mind until the moment his lips land.

  They’re soft on mine but insistent, pressing against my mouth like he owns this kiss, owns me. His hand comes to rest on my cheek with his fingertips splayed across my temple and into my hair. Tingles erupt where his palm sits against my cheekbone and spread along my scalp everywhere he touches. The feeling expands, every part of me, every nerve ending coming alive with sensation and awareness of him.

  He steps forward without breaking our kiss, and I step backward in sync with him. We move like our kiss has been choreographed and well rehearsed. When my back meets the van door, I lean my weight against it, and Will presses himself heavily against me. His tongue dances across my lips, and I part them to allow him entrance. He doesn’t waste a minute slipping inside my open mouth to deepen the kiss.

  The rain has chilled me, but his kiss is warming me in the sweetest of ways. I place my hands on his bare hips, just above his low-slung jeans, and gooseflesh breaks out across his ski
n beneath my touch. In that moment, he and I are the only two people in the world. Nothing exists except him and me and this moment. I tighten my hold on Will like he’s a lifeline and without him, I would sink into the oblivion of this kiss.

  His lips move away from mine to trail across my chin, and tingles spread down my neck in response. My lips feel the loss of his warmth. But his kisses along my chin are arguably just as sweet, and I don’t know which I want more.

  After a moment, he blazes a trail of kisses back up my face but bypasses my mouth. Instead, he brands the area next to my lips, then my cheek, my temple, and finally my forehead, burning the memory of the most delicate of kisses into my brain. He places one last chaste kiss to the top of my head, then leans down to press his forehead to mine. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it in a long, shaky exhale.

  “I’m still mad at you, you know,” I half tease.

  “I wanted so badly to tell you who I was. So many times. What I felt for you—what I feel for you, is real. But I was scared you wouldn’t believe me.”

  I know he means it, and as frustrating as it is to find out my boyfriend was a plant, I understand my mother’s motives. And his. They were both trying to keep me safe. “I know.”

  He breathes a soft sigh of relief, like those two words are the loveliest things he’s ever heard. “Flower, I am yours.”

  His words resonate somewhere deep inside me, and my brain hitches on the realization that he knows who I am, what I am. He knows my deepest, darkest secret and still wants to be with me.

  And in that moment, I am his.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  February 27th,

  Another Monday. I guess I’m back to the grind. When we fled France, I’d planned on visiting Europe again someday, but I didn’t quite picture my next Euro vacay being spent as the hostage of a sociopath determined to obtain evidence that could put him away for life. But in the end, it all worked out. I didn’t actually get to see a whole lot of Italy other than the countryside and Paolo’s villa, but we took down Petrov.