Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2)

by Diane J. Reed

“Okay,” I nod before giving him a kiss. “Then let’s get to Alessia as fast as we can, before de Bargona has a chance to figure out what happened to his men. We’ll try to find her as soon as the convent opens, and then I swear to God, we’re getting the fuck out of Italy. We’ll take her with us, if she’ll come.”

  “That’s my girl,” Creek says, brushing his lips on my forehead.

  And just when he smiles without a hint of his usual glacial reserve, I spy the blue falcon.

  It must be only around six in the morning as I follow the path of the blue feathers that appear, one by one, to lead us up a majestic alpine pass in the Dolomiti mountains. I know it seems crazy to seek after them like bread crumbs in some weird fairy tale. But when I consider my heritage, it’s hardly the wackiest thing the women of my family have done. With each step I take, my boots avoiding the last patches of snow on the ground, I keep peering at the rocky horizon, hoping to see some sign of a rustic convent.

  “Stop,” Creek says, grasping my shoulder. He lifts the ruby heart from the chain around his neck. “I think it’s feeling warmer.”

  I sigh, relieved that Creek can sense the stone’s guidance, too. The blue falcon returns with an insistent call, making a broad swath around us in flight. Then it soars away and cuts through a fog bank ahead on the right.

  Creek follows the trail of the falcon with his gaze, before it seemed to disappear in the mist.

  “It must be over there,” he points toward the fog, thick as a curtain.

  “But we can’t see anything,” I challenge. “It’s so hazy we might not be able to find the path. We could walk over a cliff.”

  Creek settles his arm around my shoulder.

  “That’s the point,” he assures me with a half smile. He glances at nearby ridges with his usual watchful eye. “They probably built a monastery hidden here centuries ago and defended it from these heights with soldiers when they needed to. Just watch your step.”

  I nod, imagining armed men protecting the church’s interests. Drawing a deep breath, I press forward through the mist, my chest growing tighter by the minute. Not only from the altitude and nippy air, but also from the sick feeling that de Bargona’s men might be upon us from one of those ridges if we allow the sun to get much higher. Surely he’ll notice if his men haven’t returned by noon, and then he’ll send more looking for us. The way I figure it, once I see my mother, we only have a few hours to hitch a ride on a remote road to Switzerland, where hopefully I can tap into my Swiss bank account again and catch a flight back to the states. Whether I can convince Alessia to come with us to meet my father back at Bender Lake is another matter. But one thing I know for sure: at least my heart will have come full circle.

  And then Creek and I can finally start the next chapter of our lives.

  The married chapter.

  That word still sounds so lovely—and foreign—to me. A little like this gypsy ring around my finger. I twirl it a couple of times for good luck, and forge on.

  Creek and I march a few hundred more yards deep into the fog until it feels like it’s swallowed us whole. Moist particles strike my cheeks and spread cold fingers across my face. When my foot slips, causing me to teeter on a steep slope, I let out a tight scream. Creek grabs my hand, righting me.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I don’t think it’s much farther.”

  “Why?” I reply, puffing. The air is getting so thin my lungs are straining.

  Creek turns my shoulders to face east where I should see the glow of sunrise, but all I can perceive is golden-hued fog.

  “Listen . . .”

  I assume he means I’ll hear the falcon cry again. Yet through the mist, I detect the soft echo of singing. It’s a gentle chorus of women’s voices, chanting as if to greet dawn.

  “Cantate Domino,” I mutter—the song I always heard the nuns sing every morning at my old Catholic boarding school. In this fog, where I can’t see a thing, the tune feels oddly familiar, and all at once it’s like I’m a confused sophomore once again at Pinnacle. I shake my head to dispel the shivers that are working their way up my spine.

  “She—she could be among them,” I stutter, just now aware of how nervous I really am. “Out in the courtyard, singing along with the birds in the trees, like I used to hear at my old school if you got up early enough to listen.”

  This realization makes me want to run down the trail and scream “Mom! Mom, I’m here!” And even though I fantasize that she’d surely wrap her arms around me and cover me in kisses, I know my instincts might sabotage our plans.

  “Okay,” I nod to Creek, “I guess this is the part where we act like poor gypsies who need a handout, and hope that we can spot Alessia.”

  “Remember,” Creek says, holding me for a moment in the comfort of his arms, rocking me a little. “Whatever happens is okay. It’s still closure. Tell her what you have to say with no expectations. To clear your soul.”

  I nod, trembling again. Not from cold, but because other than a gypsy wedding to Creek, this is by far the biggest moment of my life. I’m going to meet my mother! I take in a deep breath and head forward in the fog.

  I know I’m walking way too fast, and I’ll probably trip, but my heart is racing even faster. I can sense that the trail beneath my feet seems to rise and then crest. A gust of wind blows past us and for a moment, in a gap that begins to widen in the mist, I see it.

  I see her!

  A woman who’s my mirror image, with an oval face and big brown eyes, just like mine. She’s in a wheelchair being guided by another nun. They slowly settle into a clearing beside an old building with a rustic wooden cross at the top. The nun situates her in a patch of sunshine on a small patio before kneeling beside her chair. She points up at birds in the trees to get Alessia to notice them. But Alessia merely stares at her lap. Her arm is slightly askew with her wrist awkwardly bent, and she makes no motions whatsoever—doesn’t even register that the other nun is there—as if she’s . . . catatonic. The kindly nun smiles and jiggles her to no effect. All of a sudden, I feel the heat rise to my forehead.

  The crazy nun of Venice.

  So this is what they mean.

  She’s stiff as a board—unknowable, unreachable.

  Swiftly, I turn to Creek and clutch the stone at his chest.

  “Mom,” I whisper way too earnestly. “It’s me, your daughter. I’m here! Can’t you hear me?”

  Alessia’s crooked arm flops off her wheelchair. It could be an accident, and I’m hesitant to read too much into her actions. Nevertheless, with my heart in my throat, I watch as she turns away from the nun assisting her.

  For a second, it appears that she might be simply leaning her face to the sunshine. But then she slowly swivels her head. And looks straight at me—

  Tears are trickling down my cheeks.

  “She hears you, baby.”

  When I glance at Creek, his eyes are moist and shining, too.

  I’ve never once seen him cry—not ever. And it leaves me all choked up.

  We may both have had broken mothers, but mine’s here now, and that means I still have a chance.

  But a chance for what?

  I’m not quite sure she actually sees me, or if she just somehow feels my presence in her heart. And when I meet her, it could end up being too much—and Alessia might retreat deep inside herself, or refuse to acknowledge who I am altogether.

  Before I can mull over the possibilities, Creek hugs me and whispers into my hair.

  “You followed your star, Robin,” he says proudly, “and it brought us here. Now let’s see if it can bring us all home.”

  He holds up the ruby heart for me, and the cracks at its center twinkle in a burst of sunlight that breaks through the mist. I watch as the sun spreads over the patio on the side of the church where Alessia sits, seemingly ignorant of the birds and trees and other nuns. Swallowing a deep breath, I glance at Creek.

  “All right,” I say, giving him a fist bump, “let’s do this.”

 
; The sun is higher now, patiently burning away the edges of the mist, and it’s easier for us to pick out the stony trail that winds down to the remote mountain convent. Honest to God, I don’t see a single road out here, so I have no idea how they get food. When we draw closer to the main door of the ancient building, I turn to check Creek’s eyes.

  I should’ve known he’d be all focus again, scanning the rock outcroppings for de Bargona’s men. The trail evens out, and soon enough we stand before the weathered door with a heavy knocker, which I lift and let fall. It echoes a hollow sound through the nearby hills.

  And no one answers.

  It strikes me that they don’t get visitors here very often.

  Just then, I spy a basket beside the door filled with loaves of bread and a sign in Italian that reads Carità.

  I assume it means “free,” and I break off a hunk of bread and stuff it into my mouth, marveling at the coarse grains and Old World flavor, before handing a hunk to Creek.

  He chews slowly, his eyes never leaving our environment. I rap the door again—harder. Before long, it creaks open, but all I can see behind it is a wedge of darkness.

  “Silenzio!” a stern voice warns before I can detect a face.

  After an interminable wait, a hunched woman with grizzled cheeks dares to peek her long nose out the door, spying us with hostile eyes. She begins jabbering a stream of words in Italian like I’ve angered her angels.

  “Grazie!” I spew out with a smile, holding up the bread—it’s the only Italian I know. My desperation takes over in a blink. “Alessia?” I ask, sure my eager expression must look like a long-lost puppy.

  The old nun lets out another river of Italian while Creek slides his boot into the door. I’m not quite sure, but I thought I heard her curse. With an aggression that startles me, she begins slamming the door on Creek’s leg repeatedly with all her might.

  “Ow—Christ!” Creek cries, glancing at me. “She’s a mean one!”

  He stops the door cold with his strong hand and glares at her.

  That glare.

  The one that can freeze any feisty nun—or member of the mob—into place.

  “Now-now,” he says, “you wouldn’t want to hurt us poor gypsies, would you?”

  The nun squints back at him with badger eyes. Though she probably doesn’t understand his words, she appears to comprehend his intentions quite well. To my surprise, she throws up her hands.

  “Monaca pazzesca!” she cries like a blasphemy, shaking her head.

  Creek throws the door open wider, revealing a flock of other nuns shuffling to her aid. One of them carries an iron poker, and it’s enough to startle me into taking a step back.

  The older nun points at us with a long, gnarled finger and shouts “Zingari—Ingles!” like we must be witches.

  Behind her, another nun—much taller and thinner but equally old—gives us a knowing sigh.

  She holds out her hand.

  “You are English?” she asks haltingly.

  Despite the warmth of her smile, her fingers are ice cold as I eagerly give her a handshake to show we’re friendly.

  “Well, American,” I nod. Then words bubble up inside me, and I can’t hold them back a minute longer. “Alessia de Bargona is my mother—”

  A collective gasp releases from the huddle of women, and I watch as they retreat a little as if I’d proclaimed I’m the spawn of Satan.

  One nun holds up the cross of her rosary, seemingly to deflect evil. She points it at my face, then hesitantly leans forward to poke my cheek and jumps back, sputtering Italian.

  From beside her, the old and thinner nun smiles softly.

  “She thinks you are ghost,” the woman says. “Like perhaps Alessia’s spirit is haunting us.”

  “B-but she’s not dead!” I gasp falteringly, as much to convince myself as them. For a second I’m scared. Maybe the woman I saw in the courtyard was the wrong person.

  The old nun shakes her head.

  “No, but she’s not really alive, either.”

  Boldly, the old, thin nun removes the scarf from around my head and fluffs up my hair, judging the contours of my features before gazing into my eyes.

  “Sì,” she affirms. “You do look like your mother. But she was told you were the one who was dead. After birth. She kept having—what do you call them? Visioni of you growing up.” The nun touches my cheek kindly, her fingers feeling warmer this time. “Perhaps she was not so crazy after all?”

  Despite her gentle fingers, the coldest sensation ever winds its way along my skin.

  “Th-they told her I was dead?” I stutter, shocked. I turn to Creek to gaze at the stone around his neck. If Alessia somehow kept sensing I was alive, no wonder people thought she’d lost her mind.

  But she was right.

  “Here,” the old nun takes me by the hand and waves at the others to make space for me to pass. “I lead you to her room. But I must warn you. We are people of God here. And our first concern is His mercy. If she does not want to see you, there’s nothing more I can do.”

  “I-I understand,” I reply, giving her hand a squeeze. My heart speeds out of control.

  As I step through the door, Creek tries to follow after us, but her palm stops his chest cold.

  “No!” she insists, shaking her head. “There are no men here. Not for secoli. Centuries. You must respect our ways.”

  Creeks eyes burn at her like blue flames.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he informs her—holy woman of the cloth be damned. His fists clench with a flash of knuckles that say he means it. “After that, if my wife does not return, there will be hell to pay. Capisce?”

  Chapter 17

  The monastery is every bit as dark and damp as I expected, and there appears to be no electricity—just small torches that light the stone hallways with an amber glow, blackening the walls and ceilings with soot. I walk behind the nun who has my hand in her bony grip, my heart hammering fiercely in my chest.

  This is it—

  I try to heed Creek’s warning not to expect too much.

  Go with the flow.

  But it’s hard not to want to wrap my arms around Alessia the very second I see her.

  She’s a broken woman, I remind myself. She’s been lied to and abandoned. She needs healing before she can ever acknowledge a daughter.

  Measuring my breaths so I don’t hyperventilate, I keep my steps in rhythm with the old nun’s strides till we reach a dark wooden door.

  The nun pulls out a large key ring from her pocket.

  Seriously? They have to keep her locked in?

  Catching the startled look in my eyes, the nun sighs.

  “There are times when she used to run through the halls screaming.” The woman lays her hand kindly on my shoulder, but I can feel her bones through my thin coat. “After she had visioni of you. She called out for her angel. We had to start locking her door to keep her safe from hurting herself.”

  “Hurting?” I ask timidly.

  The nun nods. “She wanted to join you, Rubina. In death—and the after life.”

  I put on my bravest face.

  But the truth is, this woman’s words pierce me to the bone. Partly because it’s obvious she knows my real name. And also because it’s clear that my mother did try to kill herself. To reunite with me—

  Does that mean she wants me back, the same way I’ve ached for her all these years?

  As the nun inserts the key and creaks the door open, I’m about to find out.

  Yet what I see brings nothing but a clench to my throat.

  Alessia sits, frozen, in a simple chair in her spare room, as though she hasn’t moved in years.

  Daylight from a small window casts upon her pale face. Her arms seem awkward and twisted slightly, atrophied and bird-like in their thinness. She looks like a woman whose soul left her body a long time ago.

  “Buongiorno, sorella!” the old nun chirps lightly with the casualness of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.
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  The fact that Alessia’s gaze remains fixed on the floor doesn’t disturb her in the slightest. She turns to me and squeezes my arm.

  “You must have been adopted, no?” she says in a sensitive voice. “We have several monascas who once lost babies who were never the same. Be kind, carissima. Her heart may not be able to hold you right now. I leave you alone for a few minutes.”

  The old nun steps out and shuts the door—and to be honest, part of me wants to call her back. It’s so strange to be isolated in this room with my . . . mother . . . who doesn’t appear to recognize anyone, let alone me. What do I say to her now?

  “I love you,” I whisper, hating myself immediately for spilling words so fast. “I always did.”

  It’s the first sentiment that came to my lips. I’m not in control anymore, and I know it, so I fold my arms to try to regain composure. I feel like I’m six years old again, alone in a huge mansion with nannies and maids who didn’t give a rip about me, wishing I had a mommy who really cared. Tentatively, I step toward her.

  “M-Mom—Alessia?” I stutter. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I’m determined to tell her the truth, even if she never responds. “They lied to you, sweetie. I’m Rubina. And I didn’t die after birth—I’m healthy as a horse. Your father ordered that I be given up for adoption.”

  My own words echo back to me from the stone of her room like I’m talking to a wall.

  This is senseless, I know.

  But God as my witness, I have to say it—even if it means returning to Creek in ten more minutes with nothing gained. At least I’ll know I tried.

  Bravely, I step closer to Alessia and sit down at her feet, searching her dark eyes to make contact.

  “Mother?” I say, hearing the heartbreak in my voice. I stroke her thin leg, feeling self-conscious and almost guilty, like I’ve dared to touch a rare and priceless statue. She doesn’t flinch.

  “Doyle—my daddy—he stole me back,” I confess. “Don’t you understand? He never stopped loving you, Mommy. Or me. He kept the ruby stone all these years. He kept you.”

  Impulsively, I grab her hands, but they’re stiff in my palms.