Chapter Sixteen

La Galleria Bianchi was the stuffed manicotti of antique markets.

Dust clogged the air, thick and musty. Booth after booth had been weighed down with relics. Heaps of trinkets and curios were piled on glass display cases like the ones Margot saw in a Dillard’s perfume department, and they reached high above her head. Crates teetered in lopsided stacks. The treasures they held, Margot could only guess.

A few faces glanced up at them as they entered. Sellers, Margot realized. A man wearing a jeweler loupe frowned when she caught his eye. Something a lot like fear twisted in her gut—when Suki said underground market, had she actually meant black market?

Margot stretched onto her tiptoes, but she couldn’t see the end of the stalls. This market must have taken up the whole storefront next door to the lingerie shop, hidden from curious eyes. Banners of triangular flags looped across the ceiling, alternating colors with the logo stamped on Enzo’s hoodie. Had Margot seen that logo before?

Van inched in behind her, so close that she could feel his chest against her back, and Enzo shut the door behind them with a latching click.

“Welcome to La Galleria Bianchi,” Enzo said, coming around to face them. His gaze settled on Margot, warming her up like she’d been placed inside a microwave. “I could give you a guided tour.”

“No, thanks,” Van bristled. He moved to leave, but Enzo stopped him with a hand against Van’s chest. Margot could practically sense Van’s blood pressure rising.

“Only twenty euros,” Enzo said. A smarmy smile glazed his mouth. “Each.”

Margot hedged, “How much is it without the tour?”

“Still twenty.”

“For this?” Van asked. He swiped his finger across the top of a display case, and it came back coated gray.

Enzo shrugged, but its meaning was clear: either pay or get out.

Margot reached into her pockets. Her leftover tip money budget didn’t account for mediocre museum extortion. But if the shard was here, they didn’t have another choice. She pathetically smoothed out the wrinkled ball of bills before handingthem to Enzo, a detail that made Van’s lip twitch.

“Grazie, bella.” Enzo finally stepped aside.

They’d barely made it past the first stall—a few dirt-coated coins bearing a weather-worn version of Julius Caesar’s face—when Van grumbled, “Grazie, bella.Who does he think he is?”

“An employee doing his job, perhaps?” Margot eyed an impossibly preserved fresco tucked back behind a stack of crates. A little red tag had been tacked next to it. Squinting, she asked, “Does that say eighteen million euros?”

Van paced forward. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

“Sorry to break it to you,” Margot said under her breath, “but if what we’re here for is eighteen freaking million euros, then we’re out of luck.”

Van didn’t slow. Margot could barely take in their surroundings—the rusted blades of iron swords, the tattered edges of forgotten scrolls. “If what we’re looking for is still here, we won’t be buying it.”

“What do you mean we won’t be—oh, my god, you want to steal it.” Margot lowered her voice, trying not to draw the eyes of vendors. Her heart ran rampant in her chest, thumping around in all the wrong places. “We can’t. We’ll never get away with it.”

Van halted so suddenly, Margot breezed several steps past him, lost in her swirling thoughts. She had to backtrack to where he stood, feet planted like old-growth oaks on the checkered tile. At first glance, he was totally expressionless. But Margot had learned to read the topographical lines of his face.

The way his forehead creased and his eyes narrowed. Focused and determined.

The way his lips flattened. Thoughtful, careful.

The way the freckles along his cheekbones perched upward with the tilt of his head.

Margot swallowed thickly. The realization settled in her stomach like fool’s gold at the bottom of a river.

If they found the shard, they had to steal it.

It wasn’t negotiable. What other choice did they have? Margot’s flight was mere hours from now. Soon, she’d be shoes-off in the security line, boarding an all-night flight back to Georgia. The thought of her dad’s frustrated scowl was as striking as a guardian arrow through the heart: You’re just like your mom sometimes.

Her mom, who lived in a constant state of romanticizing her life, always searching for the next big thing. Her mom, who gave up on things when they got hard. Her mom, who left them.

Margot had always known it was true. That she and her mom shared more than a few traits. The same brunette curls that streaked with honey gold in the summer sun. The same wrinkles in their nose when they laughed too hard, all scrunched up. The same big smile, all gums and teeth, the same deep well of tears that seemed to never dry up, and the same slingshot between them like there was no middle ground. Highest high or lowest low and no in-between.

“Okay,” she heard herself say to Van. “Teach me how.”

Van stepped closer. The toes of his boots met her sneakers. A new look painted his features, one Margot didn’t recognize, his eyes as sharp as emerald. “You want to learn how to pick pockets?”

Margot straightened her spine, shoulders pressing down as she craned her neck toward him. Defiant energy coursed over her skin, electric. “You don’t think I can do it? I can totally do it.”

“I’ll admit I have a reservation or two.”

Margot torqued an eyebrow.

“You don’t have a subtle bone in your body.” Van’s head lowered until his voice was a whisper against her ear. It raised goose bumps over her skin. Suddenly Margot wasn’t sure she had any bones in her body.

“I do, too.”

“You most certainly don’t, but I didn’t say it was a bad thing. You just have to know how to use it.” There was a tilt to his lips that made Margot’s breath catch in her throat. His hand grazed down Margot’s side, fingers hovering just barely over the dip in her waist. The trail of his touch brushed the back pocket of her jeans, so delicate she was certain she’d imagined it.

Quietly, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching you how to steal. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked. Margot nodded, wordless, and he added, “So, what do you think?”

Margot checked her pocket: a single slip of paper. No, a receipt. From the thrift shop they’d gone to. “This is literally trash.”

His mouth twitched, fighting a grin. “I meant your new bracelet.”

When Margot looked down, a roll of jade beads had been slipped over her wrist. Each green jewel wore webs of white and gold. The same greens as Van’s eyes. Not that she paid that much attention to his eyes. But if she had. They were totally the same color.

“How did that—” Margot glanced toward the stall next to them. The vendor’s back was turned, fiddling with the contents of a box. A box she quickly recognized held similar bracelets. She hadn’t even noticed him swipe it off the counter and slide it onto her arm. “Van.”

His shoulders lifted innocently. “Van, what?”

“That’s not part of the mission.” Margot put the bracelet back on the counter before the seller could whip around with an accusatory glare.

“You just said girls liked that sort of thing.” A confused wrinkle appeared between his brows but vanished as soon as it came. He swiped the bracelet off the counter and forced it back onto her hand. “Never mind. You can’t put it back. That’s not how this works. And don’t be so obvious.”

“How is this bracelet supposed to help me?” Margot said it too quickly. A feeble attempt to squash the fluttering thing taking residence in her belly.

“It’s the first rule of thievery,” he said casually. “Misdirection. Make them look somewhere else, and then do what you need to do.”

Margot ran her fingers over the cool surface of the beads. “Let me guess: there is no second rule.”

“No, the second rule is don’t get caught.”

Margot’s phone dinged in her pocket, but she didn’t reach for it. Her system jolted like it was a starting gun all the same. A flight reminder, no doubt.

As they rounded the corner to another lane of stalls, apprehension washed over Margot. The shard had been here for nearly a century. It could have been traded a hundred times. Nothing guaranteed it would still be here.

They’d have to search this place from the floor to the rafters, and Margot didn’t exactly have the time for that.

“We need to split up,” she said. “We’ll never find it like this.”

Van hesitated. “If you find the shard—”

“I can do it. I’m not some damsel in distress.” Margot stood her ground. “Unless there’s a third rule of thievery you’ve neglected to tell me.”

“No,” Van said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was going to say that if you find the shard but we’re still separated, give the signal.”

“And the signal is?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

With that, Van headed toward a row of figurines and furniture, and Margot slipped down a corridor where neoclassical paintings gave way to Renaissance art that may or may not have been originals. She followed a stream of other shoppers—women with sleek ponytails and crisp blazers, and men in tailored suits. Suddenly, Margot felt supremely underdressed.

She trailed past a display of mirrors with ornate frames and long, thin handles. The seller, a beady-eyed woman with a gold incisor, said, “This one belonged to Helen of Troy. I’ve heard it was enchanted by the gods to make her the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Is that so?” Margot asked, backtracking toward the counter.

The seller held the mirror toward her, and Margot clasped its silver handle. She peered into its streak-free surface and swiped on another coat of red lipstick, touching up the edge with her pinky finger. Not too shabby, enchanted or not.

“You know,” Margot said, “I’m looking for something also rumored to be touched by the gods. Venus, specifically.”

“Is that so?” the seller mimicked. She turned her back to rummage through a stack of crates.

While she waited, Margot took one last look in Helen’s mirror, and her stomach lurched. Behind her stood Enzo. Not close close, but close enough to make her wonder why exactly he’d abandoned his security post to go full Joe Goldberg.

The seller returned to the counter with a handful of boxes. The first held enough gold to put Midas to shame. She wagged an eyebrow, but Margot shook her head. The next box was equally as disappointing: a collection of bronze rings. Then, she opened a chest of chipped pottery nestled on a bed of velvet. It wasn’t just a collection of broken plates and jars. Margot bit her cheek to keep from gasping.

The shard.

Black and webbed with gold. Right there in the box. A tiny price tag sticker next to it read €450,000, which, while not eighteen million, would require Margot to work overtime at the coffee shop for the rest of her mortal life.

To Margot’s surprise, the seller lifted out a different clay fragment. A black-and-red sliver that Margot had absolutely no emotional connection to. “This belonged to Venus herself.”

Margot nodded, at least trying to look like she believed the woman. But the truth—the real shard—was inches from her fingertips.

Make them look somewhere else. Van’s words ricocheted through Margot’s head, but there was nowhere else to look. Enzo shifted in her periphery, moving closer, and the seller’s unforgiving stare bored straight into Margot’s soul.

Maybe Margot couldn’t make them look somewhere else. But she could make them look at her. She cut her eyes back at Enzo, trying to pretend he was someone else. Someone blonder. Grumpier.

“Marie,” Enzo said, sidling up to the table, “take your break. I’ll cover for you.”

The seller smiled, gold tooth gleaming. “Grazie, Enzo.”

As she slung a woven purse over her shoulder and squeezed out from behind her stall, Enzo planted a hand on the display case, turning toward Margot. “Find something interesting?”

Margot trained her eyes on his, refusing to glance toward the Vase’s black and gold. “Marie was just showing me some pottery.”

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Enzo said. She couldn’t decide if it sounded like he was flirting with or threatening her.

Margot tried on a loose grin. “I’m just here on a school trip.”

“How long are you in Rome?” he asked. His eyes glittered with equal parts mischief and intrigue.

Turning, Margot focused on a sliver of pottery that wasn’t the shard in a feeble attempt to throw him off her scent. “A few more hours.”

He clicked his tongue. “A few hours is nothing. This city has so many secrets. How did you hear about La Galleria Bianchi?” Margot had to admit, the gallery sounded much cooler in his Italian accent than Margot’s southern drawl or Van’s transatlantic lilt. Even if it did feel a little bit like he was interrogating her.

“A friend of a friend,” Margot said—technically not a lie, although her heartbeat ticked upward as if it were. There had to be a way for her to distract him enough to grab the shard.

“Enzo Bianchi,” he said, extending a hand.

“Bianchi,” Margot echoed. His palm was warm against hers. “Like, theBianchis of La Galleria Bianchi.”

“The very same.” He retracted his hand and drummed his fingertips atop the glass case. “I know this gallery in and out. Any questions, you ask me. I’m your guy.”

Margot’s thoughts spun like her brain had been replaced with a cotton candy machine. How was she going to manage to extricate herself and the shard with Enzo watching her with those big, brown eyes?

She pointed at the piece of clay Marie had shown her. “Did this really belong on the gods’ kitchen table?”

Enzo smiled, a sly thing. “So the legend says.”

“What’s that one?” she asked delicately, begging her voice to sound innocent. Maybe being the damsel in distress could work to her advantage. If the glossy look in Enzo’s eye was anything to bet on, she’d up her ante.

“This,” he said, pulling out the Vase shard, “is something not many people know about.”

He fixed her with a stare. Margot’s stomach bottomed out.

As fast as it had vanished, his smile returned. “But the ones who do, know it’s worth protecting.”

In one quick motion, Enzo’s hand wrapped around the hilt of a nearby sword, and he wrenched it free from its sheath. The silver blade, broken off at the end with a rough edge, tested the distance between Margot and the Vase shard. She sucked her stomach in, dodging its point.

Every neuron in her brain rapidly fired. She needed three things in quick succession: a weapon; the shard; and to get the hell out of here.

Margot ducked when Enzo brandished his blade—which was still enormously threatening despite basically being half a sword. Was he seriously going to try to attack her? In public?

As if reading her mind, Enzo growled. The other vendors barely looked over.

Today’s forecast was evidently cloudy with a chance of stabbing.

Enzo’s other hand, the one he wasn’t trying to finely mince her with, held tightly to the shard. So tightly his knuckles lost their blood, and Margot imagined the rough edge etching into the skin of his palm.

She swiped the fake shard from the display, barely missing the swing of his blade. Maybe, somehow, she could swap them. If she didn’t get shish kebabbed first.

Scanning her immediate surroundings, she searched for something, anything.

There was a leather sack and its accompanying silver coins, a stack of books, presumably in Latin and possibly cursed, and a rusted iron pot. Definitely the pot.

Margot dove for its handle as Enzo lunged forward, and his blade zinged off the ancient metal. A surprised yelp—of both triumph and fear—tore up her throat.

Enzo doubled down. “Your partner is not here to save you.”

She slammed the edge of her makeshift shield into Enzo’s forearm, and his hand instinctively opened. The shard clattered to the floorboards. “Lucky for you, I took a quarter of reflexology for my PE credit.”

Margot didn’t wait for him to respond. She dove to the floor, lifting the pot over her head as Enzo struck down on her, and scooped the Vase piece into her hands. Using the cookware as cover, she stuffed the shard in her back pocket but clutched the decoy in her fist.

Enzo grasped the hem of her shirt, and Margot fumbled. The decoy slipped out of her fingers, launching into the air. He reeled back, reaching for the clay, and caught it like a major-league shortstop. While he relished his catch, she ditched the pot and slid between Enzo’s legs.

Margot raced through the market. Her head swiveled, searching for any trace of Van. A signal. She needed a signal.

“Wait!” Enzo shouted. “Thief!”

So much for not getting caught. He must have realized he had the fake.

The stalls blurred around her as she sprinted. She launched herself over the top of a display case and then dove under a clothing rack, tangling herself in a tunic. On the other side was a stall with an assortment of instruments—some Margotrecognized and others she didn’t. Like the curlicue trumpet perched on a stand.

That would do.

Pinching her mouth tightly, remembering the training of exactly two weeks of band camp, Margot blew into the horn’s mouthpiece. Nothing happened, except for the vendor zapping to attention and hollering something Margot didn’t catch.

With Margot’s next breath, the trumpet let out a brassy cry.

But Enzo cleared the corner. She had no choice but to drop the instrument. Her arms pumped, and her legs pedaled as fast as they could. Van, where are you?

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