Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
And yet...
La fille made Sylvain feel again, and the realization set him on edge.
He was but a callow youth the first and last time he had felt such possessiveness towards a woman. He had thought he had outgrown such needs. But he was mistaken, clearly, with how merely watching his darling little thief move through his domain had his powerful body already hungry for her flesh.
He had thought Annie's betrayal had killed this part of him. It would have been better for both of them if that were the case, and she was but a passing fancy.
If only.
Sylvain watched her slip in and out of the shadows, her every move exquisitely deceptive, every stolen valuable the product of criminally good craftsmanship. He watched her trail her fingers over another mark's arms. Such lovely, elegant fingers. He had no trouble imagining her using those fingers as she played the piano. Or struggling as she did her best to wrap those same fingers around the throbbing evidence of his arousal.
"Have the car ready," Sylvain said abruptly. "And inform Judge Grimault he'll be needed at once."
This time, Noel did not even bother trying to hide his surprise. "Monsieur—"
His master raised a brow, and Noel knew better than to continue.
"As you wish, monsieur."
Sylvain leaned back against his seat as he watched his Liana slip a diamond cufflink into her clutch before making her way toward the exit.
"Have the warehouse ready as well," he decided.
"For la fille?" Noel asked.
"Oui."
By morning, his Liana would be his.
And in return, his darling little thief would give him something Sylvain hadn't realized he was missing until he saw her tonight.
A queen worthy of his empire.
Chapter Two
THE CATACOMBS AREN'T my usual hunting ground. They belong to the dead, and I'm not even talking about skeletons from centuries past. Or ghosts. Anything supernatural would be a lot less scary to deal with, believe me.
Everyone who's ever been on the wrong side of the law knows better than to mess around here. Because these catacombs? They belong to him.
Monsieur Le Dernier.
Mr. Last, in English. As in...he's the last face you'll see, if you're stupid enough to defy his rules.
Like I'm doing now.
Because I have no choice.
Rent's overdue, and Maman's meds won't buy themselves.
There comes a time when one must choose whether to risk death...or have someone else die.
C'est la vie.
But for now, it is time to put such morbid thoughts away and focus. The night is young, and there's much stealing to be done.
Le Dernier is unlike any club I've ever infiltrated. The entrance itself is hidden beneath an unassuming café in the 14th arrondissement, requiring a passcode that changes nightly—a passcode I spent three weeks tracking down. The staircase spirals down twelve meters below street level before opening into a limestone palace of debauchery.
The club honors its macabre setting rather than disguising it. Centuries-old skulls embedded in the walls peer out from behind glass display cases, illuminated by crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains in deep burgundy frame alcoves where the soulless conduct their business away from prying eyes. The music pulses through the stone itself, vibrating in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Even the bar is a masterpiece of dark elegance—black marble veined with gold, bottles arranged by color rather than type, from bloody red to poisonous purple—while the uniformed staff seem more like well-trained assassins than club employees, gliding here and there, their alert gazes not missing a single thing.
I can't help but wonder if the refined horror of this place mirrors how Monsieur Le Dernier deals with his enemies. Is there a way of making one's enemies disappear...elegantly? I'm just asking, for a friend. Just, um, professional curiosity.
Enfin bref. But anyway.
Enough about the eerie beauty of this place. I've wasted too much time as it is, and I've yet to scan the room for potentials.
So, let's see...
An older businessman with the Patek Philippe who hasn't been able to stop staring at my legs. An industrialist whose Vacheron Constantin can cover Maman's treatments for months. And if necessary, that sweet, harmless tech entrepreneur from Silicon Valley. But I do hope not. He seems too nice to be targeted, and I'm no thief without honor.
Now, who to target first?
I consider my options carefully. The businessman has had too much to drink already—sloppy marks make sloppy exits. The entrepreneur is surrounded by friends, making a clean approach difficult. The industrialist, however, stands alone at the bar, just tipsy enough to be confident but not enough to be careless. Perfect.
I decide on the industrialist.
Step one: eye contact.
Step two: let him buy you a drink.
Step three: get close enough to admire his timepiece.
Step four: make it disappear.
Rinse, cycle, repeat.
Most times, stealing doesn't bother me at all. I've successfully fooled myself into thinking I'm Robin Hood's daughter in my past life, and I'm just continuing our family's legacy. I do my research and steal only from evil men.