Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(28)

Will looks unconvinced, but after several long seconds, he steps back into the lobby. “Let me know if you need anything. Okay?”

I nod as the doors start to close, and even after they meet and the elevator begins to climb, I’m still nodding. It’s almost turned into a nervous tick at this point. The elevator takes what might as well be a hundred years to crawl to my floor, and I feel every minute of that time.

My mother is standing outside our front door when I get there. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she shifts her weight lightly from one foot to the other and back again.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Uncle Samuel.” She opens the door to let me into the apartment, but I’m frozen in place. In my mind, I’m imagining all the horrible things that could have happened to my uncle, my father’s brother—all the horrible things Petrov could have done to him in an effort to track us down. Would he really go so far to reach us? He can’t be that mad about us getting to that museum job before he did—can he?

“What happened? Is he hurt? Is he…?” I can’t finish my question, so I leave it open-ended.

My mother’s eyes widen in shock. Then she barks a surprised laugh. “No, dear. He’s fine. I mean, for the most part.” She holds the door wider and motions for me to go in.

For the most part? Then why did she use the code? My mind is reeling as I head immediately for the parlor to look for him.

As I expected, Uncle Samuel is sitting on the couch, but he’s much healthier than I pictured. Except for the fact that he’s basically smashed. He has a bottle of beer in one hand and is swaying like he’s barely holding his own weight semi-upright. He looks at me and grins. “Marisol! You’re here!”

“Hi, Uncle Samuel. What are you doing in New York? I thought you were working with Andre on that job in South Africa.” To my mother I whisper, “How much has he had to drink?”

Uncle Samuel’s not exactly an alcoholic. He just has a stopping problem. As in: he doesn’t. If there’s beer in the house, he’ll keep going back for more until it’s gone. Grandma Rosa once told me that’s why Uncle Samuel and my father weren’t speaking to each other when my father died. And why he showed up wasted to my father’s funeral. He’s sort of the black sheep of the Floreses, traveling from family member to family member until he wears out his welcome. Then it’s on to the next.

It must be our turn again.

“I’m here because I have something important to tell you.” He speaks slowly, like he’s trying to take care to articulate correctly, but his words are still a little slurred. He motions to the two armchairs opposite the couch with a lazy wave of a limp hand. “Please sit.”

“Okay.” I walk fully into the room and sit in one of the chairs. I speak to him in the same tone I imagine I would use with a toddler, all calm pandering topped off with a little condescension. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“You, too.” He points toward my mother, but his direction doesn’t fully line up with her. I wonder how many of her he is seeing right now.

She silently pads across the living room floor and claims the other chair. Her posture is almost regal, all straight lines and stiff spine. To the casual observer, she might appear graceful, classy, almost aristocratic—if that were even a thing anymore. But I know her posture is from muscles tight with tension and worry.

“Good, good,” Uncle Samuel says more to himself than either of us. “Now, I came because I’m here to protect you. With Gabriel gone, it is my responsibility to look after you, and—”

My mother barks a sharp, acerbic laugh, and her posture relaxes. “Your responsibility to protect us? Sam, Gabriel has been gone almost a decade, and you’re just now taking it on yourself to look out for us? Marisol and I have been doing just fine without your help.”

Uncle Samuel reels backward from the force of her reaction. “But there are rumors that Petrov Rosinsky is after you. No one gets the take under his nose, but you two made off with quite a fortune. You can’t possibly expect to protect yourselves from him. You need help. I can help.”

“How?” Now he’s really got my attention. No longer am I just humoring my drunk uncle. I move to the edge of my seat and wait intently for more information.

My uncle’s eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting my question. His lips open and close like a fish out of water while he struggles to come up with an answer. Finally, “I can teach you self-defense.”

I push out a lungful of air on an exasperated sigh. What had I really been expecting? Uncle Samuel’s barely paid any attention to us over the last however many years except to show up on our doorstep acting and smelling like he just bathed in beer. “I already know self-defense.”

“Then I’ll teach you more. And I’ll keep my ear to the ground for any news, so you can be prepared.” He’s visibly growing more confident in his plan with each word he utters.

“Sam, Petrov doesn’t even know where we are,” my mother tells him in the same voice she used to with me when I was little and being particularly dense. My mind flashes back to the guy who was maybe following me on my way to meet Will, but I don’t bring it up. In all likelihood, the guy was just an opportunistic mugger who thought he’d spotted an easy mark. The odds of Petrov’s reach suddenly expanding across an entire ocean in the weeks since we left Europe are low. Even Petrov has his limits.