Rules for Aging and Larceny: Sneak Peek

by Julia London

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

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Ocean's Eleven meets the Golden Girls when an all-female group of chaotic, elderly thieves come out of retirement for one last heist against a young Crypto-loving DudeBro-type... while trying to repair their fractured friendship along the way.

For fans of Deanna Raybourn's Killers of a Certain Age and Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth.

Frances Deluca has always been a force of nature. Active and agile into her 70s, she can handle anything—except perhaps the stretch of empty days looming ahead. Widowed, with a grown son living far away and her own mortality suddenly in view, Frances longs to feel busy again. What she really wants is the familiar rush of a well-crafted plan coming together. It’s been a while, decades in fact—since Frances and her friends pulled off a heist . . .

Frances, Joan, Edie, and Irene were a girl gang before such things even existed, joining forces in their 20s for a one-time job that revealed a remarkable affinity for crime. They developed a code of honor, taking only from those who deserved it—until misunderstandings and pride drove them apart. 

Now, one by one, Frances manages to convince her old friends to put aside their grudges and reunite. And where better for a reunion tour than Las Vegas? Their target: Rocco Vitali, a mobster’s grandson who’s developed a high-tech shakedown. Rocco is a Crypto-loving scam artist, and Edie’s beloved granddaughter just lost everything to him, including her self-respect. But the women intend to take it all back—with interest.

Risks will be taken. Fractured relationships will be mended. And four badass seniors will discover how formidable a whole lot of experience can be . . .

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 50

Sample

Frances Deluca was kicked out of the Pecan Springs Pickleball Club league the week before the championships, which she considered a direct assault on her unbeaten record. She would not apologize for winning. She was very sporty for her seventy-four years; she still ran six slow miles every week, and every Tuesday and Thursday, for half an hour, she put on a leotard and leg warmers, plugged in her VHS player, and worked out with Jane Fonda.

When she’d picked up pickleball this year, she’d fallen in love with it. She’d played a lot of tennis in her youth and considered herself a natural. She was at the club every afternoon to play as much as she was allowed and then to relive her matches in the bar with whomever would listen. Which turned out to be hardly anyone. And she couldn’t really count the bartender, because, as he reminded her, he was a captive audience.

But the day Sue Landis, the club director, walked into the bar wearing her polka-dot tennis dress, new sneakers, and a jaunty scarf around her neck, Frances knew there was trouble. She’d heard rumblings that some members were dissatisfied with her style of play.

Frances swiveled around on her stool and planted her elbows on the bar behind her as Sue approached. “Did Teresa Clark send you? She really hates losing.”

“Isn’t that ironic, coming from you,” Sue said, eyes narrowed accusingly. She gripped her ever-present clipboard to her chest. “I warned you, Fran. You’re too aggressive on the court.”

“You mean I win too much.” She’d beaten Sue quite handily only that morning. She liked to move her opponents around and make them sweat. Given her opponents’ advanced years, that appeared to be a sore spot for a lot of them. Particularly New Boobs Sue—she considered time on court to be more social than active and always showed up with a full face of makeup, her hair done, earrings dangling, bracelet charming, and designer togs that showcased her recently repositioned rack. Loser.

“It’s not just that you always win, Fran. It’s that you’re so cutthroat about it. We’ve had complaints that you hit too hard. You struck Rob Martinez in his hernia!”

“How was I supposed to know he had a hernia? And anyway, it’s basically a plastic wiffle ball,” Frances complained. Although she had put a little English on the shot into Rob’s groin. “Maybe if Rob allowed Inez to play and stopped covering her half of the court, he could have saved himself. If you think about it, he dove in front of my shot, so he’s at least as much to blame.”

Sue tilted her coiffed head to one side. “Seriously?”

Frances threw up her hands in defeat. “What can I say? I’m competitive. And correct me if I’m wrong, but there was a time in this country when the competitive spirit was how things got done.”

“Frances? It’s not tennis. It’s not a sport. It’s just a game. Our decision is final—you’ve been put on suspension for the championships.”

Frances had huffed and she’d puffed, but privately, she was not surprised. It wasn’t the first time she’d been kicked out of a club. She stood to go. “Thank you. I had a lovely time dominating the Pecan Springs Pickleball Club like a boss.”

“Have you thought about golf?” Sue suggested as Frances picked up her purse and sashayed for the door. “Since you like hitting the ball so hard.”

“I like everything hard, Sue!” Frances called over her shoulder.

She was too athletic to play in a baby league anyway. She’d learned the importance of tip-top physical fitness in her twenties, and she’d been a badass then. She’d kept up with her training all these years, because one never knew when one might fall, and one didn’t want to break a hip. But she’d never thought to join a club—that had been her friend Marjorie’s idea.

After her beloved husband Nick died three years ago, Frances realized that she’d been so busy for so long that she’d never had to look for things to do. She didn’t know how to look for things to do. She’d had a career, she’d been a wife and mother, and then a caretaker to her terminally ill husband. For well into her late sixties, she’d watched Nick waste away, his body so gaunt that in the end she could hardly recognize her once robust husband. As heartbreakingly difficult as it was, she ha. . .