Author's Notes:

1. This chapter takes place 7 years ago

2. If you like Francesca, don't worry. Wait until tomorrow's chapter.

Chapter 2

Francesca had grown tired of her work forging and stealing. The adrenaline rush had dimmed, and the planning of each heist had become almost routine. Perhaps the only appeal the game still had for her was Peter Burke. He would probably be quite annoyed to learn that he was the reason she had stretched out her criminal career this long. A fact she found wonderfully amusing.

She reached a decision that it was time to retire. She informed the gallery owner, Michael Kaleska of her intentions.

"Michael, my dear, I really must return to Italy. I have enjoyed our arrangement, but nothing lasts forever. It is time."

"Look, I understand your feelings. Of course, you're free to do what you want. But Francesca, there is one more score I really need your help with. Please, do this for me, then you can retire and enjoy your freedom. We've had a long run together, and I've made you a lot of money."

"Yes, and I have made you much money as well."

"Please, Francesca, you owe me this one last job. This is going to be my last opportunity for a decent profit once you're gone."

She wanted to be done with the whole operation, but Michael had been good to her over the years. And she did feel a little guilty for abandoning him abruptly. Against her better judgment, she finally agreed to this one last job. Michael provided her with the details and an invitation to lunch so that she could meet the mark, one Henry Marston, and devise her plan.

A few weeks later, everything was in place. She had completed the forgery she intended to substitute for the original painting. She had learned the security system. She had charmed Henry Marston into hosting a party to display one of her own original pieces. The forgery had been smuggled in with her own painting. She intended to return after the party and make the switch. Everything was prepared, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something she was missing. Something was off.

Because she intended that Francesca's appearance at the Henry Marston party would be her last, she had an invitation sent to Peter to attend. Not very wise, she admitted to herself, but she wanted to see him one last time and say goodbye. Oddly enough, she thought of him more as a trusted friend than as an opponent. She was going to miss him, dearly.

Peter was intrigued when he received her invitation. He had a feeling that this was no ordinary meeting. He arrived at the party and kept a close watch on Francesca as she held court with her admirers. When Francesca finally caught sight of him, she laughingly shooed away the other guests around her. She pulled him out to the balcony so that they could speak privately.

"Ah, my dear Peter, how kind of you to come when I need you. How sad this is for me, but I must retire to Italy. I fear we shall not see each other again. It breaks my heart, but we always knew this could not last forever, didn't we?"

"You're leaving the country? Why?"

"Ah caro, it is, how do you say, the climate."

"Getting too hot for you?"

Francesca smothered a laugh and continued. "And this life, it weighs upon me. I long for a life with more meaning, less amusement."

"You could confess—I can guarantee you'll get life without amusement."

Francesca's smile was genuine at this clever comment. "I truly will miss you, Peter."

Peter tilted his head and stared at her trying to analyze her words. She suddenly seemed less theatrical, less flamboyant, less Francesca. She sounded totally sincere, and the look in her eyes was guileless. "You really are retiring, aren't you?"

"Yes, Peter. I give you my word."

"You know that stopping doesn't wipe the slate clean of your past activities?"

"Of course not. But you haven't managed to prove any of my 'past activities", have you? But you have one more chance."

"One more chance? You're pulling one more job? Damn it, Francesca, don't do it. If you've decided to quit, then do it. Now."

"I would like to. But it's too late to back out." The feeling that accepting this job had been a colossal mistake showed on her face.

At her troubled expression, Peter started again to try to talk her out of this last job.

But other guests wandered out onto the balcony, and the time for confidences was at an end.

With the full force of Francesca's personality suddenly restored, she laughed—a little too loudly—and gently stroked Peter's face with her fingertips. "Ah, caro, what tomorrow will bring, we do not know. But it always comes. And so we must be patient." With that she left Peter and returned to the party.

Peter shook his head and sighed. Such a waste of talent and genius. He was glad she was retiring, but he intended to take full advantage of this last opportunity to catch her and, although with regret, send her to prison.

She had used that phrase again about tomorrow always coming. Was it just part of the persona she was using, or was she really talking about tomorrow, as in 'the job was going down tonight'? He called an agent who he knew would be working late. "Look up anything you can on Henry Marston. I want to know what paintings he has, what he has bought recently and who else might be interested in them. Call me when you get some answers. Next, he called Hughes at home. "I think Francesca Rossi is planning a heist for tonight. Can you authorize a stake out? I have a hunch this is our last chance at her."

With the stake out organized and good intel on the painting he suspected was the target, Peter waited outside Henry Marston's home. The party broke up hours ago, and Peter had watched Francesca leave. He hadn't seen her return yet, but he was certain she would.

Peter was right about her returning, only he had missed it. Francesca had left the party with much fanfare and happy farewells. In the limo that had picked her up, Michael drove her around the block. She changed into black clothing and put on a black ski mask. She slipped out of the limo and returned undetected to the Marston house.

Earlier in the day she had disconnected the security cameras along the path to the painting. She retrieved the forgery she had left there that afternoon and hid until the household quieted and everyone was asleep. Switching the paintings took but a minute, and she was on her way out with the original, reconnecting the cameras as she went. Michael was supposed to be waiting for her. She would deliver the painting to him and he would give her the half of the fee the client paid in advance. Michael would collect the second half of the fee for himself. The client would never know that she was involved.

That was how it was supposed to work. But when she got into the limo, the client and a second man were waiting inside with Michael. The client, a large, burly man, relieved Francesca of the painting while the second man pointed a gun at her head. Michael said, "Sorry about this, Francesca, but these guys don't want any loose ends."

In blind panic she kicked at the man's hand holding the gun. She twisted away and flew out the limo door running for her life. She raced back towards the house and literally ran headlong straight into Peter.

He grabbed her and held her arms as she struggled. "Francesca! Stop, it's over!" He lifted her face to his. She was deathly pale, her pupils were dilated and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.

"Peter?" She recognized his voice and her eager gaze focused on his face in the moonlight. She wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Peter, I am so glad to see you. But we have to get out of here. There are men with guns after me."

"Yes, I know. I'm one of them. And you're under arrest." Peter turned her around and tried to cuff her hands behind her back.

She was struggling. "Peter, you don't understand. Those men are killers. We have to go. Now!"

"Stop resisting. You knew this was going to happen. And what happened to your accent?"

"I told you, Francesca is retiring, and the damned accent is going with her." By this point, Peter had her handcuffed. He turned her around to face him again, his back to the direction she had run from.

Francesca didn't see the man in the shadows. She only saw the moonlight on the gun in his hand. She watched as the gun was raised to point at Peter's head. She screamed, "No!" and threw herself at Peter to knock him out of the way. He fell. She didn't. The bullet hit her in the face. She seemed frozen for a moment, then crumpled face down to the ground. Peter rolled away and came up with his gun and fired. The man went down. Two other agents ran up to secure the gunman.

Peter moved back to Francesca. He quickly released the handcuffs and eased her arms to her sides. He rolled her onto her back. "Oh, no! God, no." The right side of her face was covered in blood. Her lifeless eyes stared up at him. He checked her neck for a pulse and found nothing. "Damn." It wasn't supposed to be like this. Prisoners didn't sacrifice their lives to save him. She had been his responsibility and he had failed to protect her. "Francesca, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Drawing his hand down her face, he closed those beautiful teal blue eyes forever. His breath caught as he felt a knife blade of grief cut through him. He'd lost a dear friend.

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