Read Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) for Free Online

cheeks flush warm.
    In the cold air of dawn, I see little puffs of my own breath escape like I’m an unruly dragon. Yet to my surprise, the heavy door creaks open again. Without glancing up, the same nun as before stuffs a crumpled wad of newspaper into my hands. Confused, I wonder if her mind is slipping a little, and she thinks we’ve come to collect the trash. But when I open the folds of paper I spy a large hunk of bread and wedge of cheese.
    “
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