Chapter 38: Emperor of Wrath: Epilogue

“I’m going to state for the record—yet again, I might add—that this is a terrible idea.”

I ignore the voice in my ear as I twirl the diamond blade in a perfect circle around the suction cup. With a tiny cracking sound, I’m in. Slowly, keeping pressure on the suction button, I pull my arm away.

The big circle of glass comes away clean.

I grin as I set everything aside and then use the whisper-quiet sander to dull the edges of the brand spanking new hole in the skylight.

“Hello? You heard me, yes?”

“Yes, I heard,” I sigh to Freya. “Settle down. I’m in.”

It’s not traditional to commit felony larceny right before your own second wedding celebration. But it’s not traditional to have a second wedding celebration, either.

And I don’t mean a second one like you’ve gotten divorced and this is having another try at marriage. I mean a second celebration of the wedding you already had. With the person you’ve already been married to for a few months.

But when have I ever been one for tradition?

“Hey, I don’t want to be late. That spread looks nice,” Freya murmurs.

It should be. Someone spent a fortune on it. And that “someone” is Yelizaveta Solovyova, aka the White Queen.

The woman who used Valon Leka’s services for much of her “shipping logistics.”

And also the woman to whom Valon owed a fuckload of money, Valon having tried to double dip by selling her merchandise to the Cosa Nostra.

Yelizaveta, apparently, does not play around. When she found out Valon owed her somewhere north of forty million dollars, she put the screws to him. That’s why he was pushing so hard to work with Sota and Kenzo: he needed their money. Or more likely, he needed their merchandise so he could sell that to the Cosa Nostra and pay the White Queen off.

Considering she was ready, willing and able to have Valon’s brother killed to motivate Valon to pay her?

Yeah, I might rip off the Yakuza, too.

On paper, for political reasons, it’s Kir who’s footing the bill for Kenzo and I’s second wedding celebration, seeing as how the first was a bit of a disaster. But it’s technically Yelizaveta who’s paying.

I’m fine with that.

As to why Valon was trying to get rid of Kenzo and Sota? Well, that question is still unanswered. Kenzo’s friend Tetsuya, who just so happens to be the new Kyoto chief of police—totally coincidental, I’m sure—thinks it was a move by a rival Yakuza family. There’s evidence that someone within the Yakuza world was willing to pay the cash-strapped Valon to get it done, but no one’s claimed responsibility yet.

Probably a good thing, given that the Mori-kai is now unquestionably the most powerful family in Kyoto, with inroads being made into Tokyo, too.

But I digress.

I test the supports of the pulley system, then clip my harness in, step over the edge of the skylight, and lower myself into the dark penthouse.

I’ve spent months trying to track this item down. I’ve talked to antiques dealers worldwide, bribed underground resellers on four continents, and looked into every rumor.

Turns out the fucking thing never left Kyoto at all.

Freya’s already disabled the alarms, the heat sensors and the lasers. So once my feet hit the floor, I can move fast. I unclip and bolt into the bedroom. Tempting as it is to swipe the Degas on the wall over the safe, I did make a promise to both Kir and Kenzo: no more theft.

Okay, I’m making a small exception for the task at hand. But a thirty-million-dollar painting? That feels like…overkill.

The wealthy private collector who lives here is out of the country for the next week, but still. I’m on a time crunch. That said, the safe is insanely easy to crack, and I’ve got it open in less than a minute.

I grin as I lay eyes on the little silver necklace resting on a display block.

I’ve seen this necklace before. I’ve held it before.

In fact, I’m the asshole who stole it from its rightful owner and sold it to a black-market dealer here in Kyoto, who then turned around and sold it to someone else also right here in Kyoto for a nice markup.

It’s been here ever since.

I pluck it from its resting place and set it in the nice little black velvet box I’ve selected for the occasion. I grin, imagining the look on Kenzo’s face when I give this back to him. I even wrote him a nice card.

Needless to say, all of this comes with letting him do whatever he wants to me tonight, however he wants to do it. But honestly, that’s more of an “us” present than a “him” present.

“You’re not seriously going to—Goddammit, Annika Brancovich, what⁠—”

“Mori,” I correct Freya. “Annika Mori, thank you very much.”

“Whatever. What the fuck happened to Annika the bad-ass thief? Because that chick wouldn’t go to all the trouble of breaking into a place to steal a necklace only to leave money for it.”

I smirk as I set the fat roll of bills down where the necklace previously was. I’ve even included a little extra, for the skylight.

“Hey, I made a promise.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. If you’re done, we have a party to get to.”

I do end up being twenty minutes late for my own party. Not because of the job, but because my dress was being an asshole and reminding me why I’ve historically not worn them.

But I don’t think Kenzo minds. The second I walk in, he’s pulling me into his arms, dipping me, and kissing me thoroughly in front of everyone.

He’s speechless when I give him his gift. Then he’s kissing me all over again and telling me he loves me.

Then he’s pulling me into a side room and giving me a present: two shiny gold and black toys, which have me shuddering and gripping his arm as he slowly pushes them into me.

Back with our friends and family, he twirls me across the dance floor and kisses me again.

“I love you, wife,” he growls quietly, holding me in his arms.

“I love you too, husband,” I murmur back, my lips finding his.

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