The Thief

There had never been a need, actually, only the drive.

A compulsion for winning.

Except, now, after what he had been through over the last—had it been weeks or months?—he found himself not wanting any part of such pursuits. Hell, he’d already shut down his drug business to get out of that messy problem of having dealt to the Fore-lesser. He’d had plans to import and sell guns and munitions, but really, what for?

“There will be no more of that for me, Marisol.”

As tears sprang to her eyes, he assumed they were from happiness. But then he wasn’t so sure.

“That’s good news to you,” he prompted. “Is it not?”

“Of course it is.” She seemed to collect herself. “It’s the news I’ve wanted to hear.”

“Lay with—”

As his thoughts abruptly stopped, and he had nothing but a blank space in his head, he panicked. This was how it had been going, however, these little hiccups in cognition creating the proverbial sound of crickets in his skull…and then resolving themselves.

Marisol was speaking unto him, and he tried not to become agitated when he couldn’t properly interpret her words—

“Lay with me,” he blurted. “Lay with me? I’m all right. I swear unto you. I just have these…little interruptions. They always take care of themselves, though.”

She stayed where she was, staring at him as if she were trying to diagnose him like a doctor. But something must have satisfied her, because she nodded and got up on the bed gently. As she stretched out beside him, he rolled in toward her. They both took a deep breath, and he would have willed the lights off if he’d had the strength.

“I will be better in the morning,” he mumbled. “I just need rest.”

“Of course. It will all…” She exhaled slowly. “In the morning, all will be well.”

Something in her voice wasn’t right, but as sleep strengthened its hold on him, he contented himself with dreams of a future where they were together. Here. Miami. The Old Country. It didn’t matter.

But yes, he was going to follow her lead and get out of the life.

Fates, why hadn’t he decided to retire sooner?

TWENTY-TWO

“A word with you, if I may?”

The following evening, Vitoria looked up from her brother Eduardo’s desk—and thought about getting her gun out. “How did you get in here?”

“The door was ajar.”

The woman standing just inside the office and speaking in that autocratic, I-win-the-game voice, was all angles: Dark hair cut blunt at the chin and flat-ironed straight as a set of drapes. Anorexic body dressed in an avant-garde black suit with asymmetrical lines and shoulder pads out of Alexis Carrington Colby’s wardrobe. And the nose job and brow lift made her appear to be in dramatic lighting even if she wasn’t.

Miss Margot Fortescue. The one who had proven so resistant to everything, especially when Vitoria had informed the gallery’s staff first thing at nine a.m. that she would be taking things over. Fortunately, the others had been warm and open. Then again, exactly how many high-end art galleries did Caldwell have? Even snobs had to be employed.

When they were the salespeople as opposed to the buyers, that was. Such a world of difference.

Vitoria sat back and resolved to make sure she shut things firmly behind herself in the future. “What may I do for you?”

Miss Fortescue closed the door sharply. Then again, she no doubt did everything with a punctuation of some sort.

“I would like some proof of your identity.”

This was said as if it were meant to shock. Dismay. Cause a fluster.

And so when Vitoria made no response at all, Miss Fortescue’s left eyebrow, which had been drawn on as if it were part of an architectural rendering, twitched. “Well?”

“Life is full of unrequited desires.” Vitoria smiled. “We must learn to adjust to being disappointed—”

“We don’t know who you are. You could be anyone. Eduardo and Mr. Benloise didn’t tell us they had a ‘sister.’ ”

That last word was uttered with a tone that put its definition more along the lines of “thief” or “interloper” than familial relation of a female extraction.

As the woman’s eyes settled on the desk, her expression became remote—and that was when all became clear. Ah, yes, Eduardo had been engaging in a bit of fun with this paragon of precision and disapproval, hadn’t he.

Vitoria smiled. “Clearly, you were just not significant enough to merit information about our family. That happens to mere casual or business acquaintances.”

Miss Fortescue planted a hand on the blotter and leaned in. “I know what else got sold around here. I know what Eduardo was keeping track of—”

“Do you often find yourself overstepping bounds? Or do you simply lack the self-awareness to recognize them in the first place. I think perhaps the latter informs the former.”

The woman seemed nonplussed. But she recovered presently. “I could bring down this whole lie. Eduardo told me things, and when the two of them stopped coming in here, there was a lot of talk. I kept quiet, but that may not last.”

Vitoria sat forward and linked her hands on her brother’s journal of notes. As her burner phone started to ring, she let it go to voicemail. “This is an art gallery. My brothers sell art—which I believe is your reason for employment here?”

“I know about that little book.” The woman pointed to what Vitoria was covering. “I know what’s in there.”

“Tell me something, has my brother gotten in touch with you recently?” When there was only stony silence: “Yes, that is what I thought. I’m afraid you are less amusing than your cheerful attitude and dress suggest.”

“They say he’s dead.”

“Who is ‘they’?” When there was no reply, Vitoria shook her head. “You know so much less than you maintain you do—and I imagine it can be disappointing when one’s position is less exalted than one assumed.” Vitoria made a show of looking at her watch. “Is it six o’clock already? Closing time.”

“I want proof of who you are.”

“Yes, you’ve made that clear. However, what I would be worried about, were I you, was whether or not I will have a job in the morning.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all.” Getting to her feet, Vitoria came around the desk. “Why would I fire someone who has just suggested that my brothers were engaging in illegal activity? That deserves a promotion. Now, off you go, and I’ll lock up behind you.”

* * *

—

“So I’m thinking Amalya is not going to show.”

As Jane spoke, Vishous looked over at her. The two of them had spent all day in the courtyard, lounging on the marble floor of his mother’s private quarters, propped up against the lip of the fountain. It was typical of the Sanctuary that not even the stone made your ass fall asleep. Even after all these hours, they might as well have been stretched out on a pair of Wonder Bread loungers.

“I guess not.” He rubbed his hair. “She knows we’re here. I mean, that’s the way it’s always worked.”

In fact, he had half expected the Directrix to magically materialize from out of his mother’s private bedroom and announce that she was the chosen one, the handpicked successor to the Scribe Virgin.

That shoe hadn’t dropped yet, though. And as for Amalya’s no-show? It had meant he and Jane had talked for hours and hours about absolutely, positively nothing that was hard stuff. They had stuck well away from her work, his work, their distance. Instead, they had covered things like Assail’s recovery, Luchas’s progress, the Lessening Society’s disintegration, the Dhestroyer Prophecy—and Right vs. Left Twix, Super Bowl predictions, and the theory of Atlantis.

That last one had been because they had also gotten into a quote war over the original Ghostbusters.

“I’m sorry I never asked you,” Jane said softly.

He refocused. “What?”

“About losing your mother.”

There was a pause, and then her eyes locked on his own. As the silence stretched out, he knew she was inviting him to talk…deliberately giving him space and attention.