Page 48

Epilogue

BEING THE QUEEN OFthe catacombs is a harder role than I ever imagined.

The underground palace pulses around me, bodies swaying to music that vibrates through limestone walls. From my perch on the mezzanine (the same spot where Sylvain fell in love at first sight,fyi, even if the silly man continues to deny this), I survey the kingdom I never wanted but have somehow come to love.

My husband sits beside me, one hand resting possessively on my thigh while he discusses something with Noel. And since all they talk about these days are boring stuff like numbers and more numbers, I simply tune them out and focus on what's happening below.

Ooh, target spotted!

I know that man. Or rather, I know what he's managed to get away with, and how many people he's hurt because of it. That watch on his wrist would be so, so easy to—

Sylvain squeezes my thigh, and when I look up, and my husband arches a brow?

Oops.

I blink at him in sham innocence. "Oui, monsieur?"

But sadly, he's not fooled at all. "Behave,ma petite."

I sigh.Busted again.I really was an idiot to think being a queen would be a lot more fun than being Paris's most successful pickpocket.

The night winds down as the club empties, and we make our way to the waiting limo. The streets of Paris glitter in the midnight hour, and I let my head rest against Sylvain's shoulder as we drive toward the marina where his sailboat is docked.

My phone chirps with a message, and I smile when I see who it's from.

My Dearest Frenemy,

Bonjour! How fares Paris's most cowardly little pickpocket? You had every opportunity to steal that man's watch at the embassy dinner! Shame on you.

All the best,

Sarica

P.S. Say hello to your Maman for me. I still can't believe a lovely woman like her has a daughter like you.

Sylvain shakes his head when he reads this. "It is clear to everyone that both of you like each other."

I let out an offended gasp. "That's such a horrible thing to say." Can't he see how hard Sarica and I are working at being catty? Our plan is doomed to fail if we don't get this right, and I'm still shaking my head at his words even as I type my reply.

Hello to Boston's Pink-Haired Curse!

That man you're talking about is the leader of STRAKH. Only an idiot would steal from him. Which you obviously are.

Sincerely,

Liana

P.S. I still have a hard time believing Giancarlo Marchetti married someone like you.