Chapter Text
"What do you mean, you've gone straight?" exclaimed Mozzie. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"
"Would you keep your voice down? They know me here." They were dining at La Palette, a bistro on La Rue de Seine near the auction house. Thankfully, the regular wait staff, Cherie and Marcello, were busy with other customers.
Moz toned down his tone, but the deluge of dismay was just beginning. "I'm telling you, I ran a statistical analysis before your farce of a commutation hearing a couple of years back, and seventy-one percent of guys who retire from crime wind up dead within five years. It's not just old scores or run-ins with trigger-happy law enforcement, either. Nearly half of them died in accidents, probably caused by inattention due to dulling of the critical faculties and outright boredom. You can't go straight, Neal. It's a recipe for death!"
"It's Victor now, Victor Moreau. And I'm already dead. Pretty sure I'm immune to further fatalities." He had no intention of succumbing to a mundane accident, and retribution—from either side of the law—was one of the reasons he'd put Neal Caffrey behind him. But there'd been other motives for his leaving too, and now he could never go back. He wanted desperately to ask after Peter and Elizabeth, but that would only earn him another reproachful glare, and glad as he was to see Moz after so many months, he could do without any more recriminations. He forced a cheerful grin.
"Well, what are you going to do for funds?" asked Mozzie, as if playing a trump card.
"What most people do. I have a job." The details could wait until they were in private. "So, how's New York these days?"
"The same," said Mozzie. "Right now I'm more interested in Paris and her alluring array of museums and private collections. Have you at least cased the Musée d'Orsay?"