She slipped through the entrance like a shadow. A serpent. Inside the club, the clicks of her stilettos were immediately drowned out by the noisy crowd and thumping music. The nightclub was located in the Cours Julien district of Marseille. It was packed tonight.

She needed to be quick. Clean. Too many eyes and ears around.

Her senses kicked into overdrive. The smoky scent of cigarettes hit her nostrils. Red and pink neon lights cast sultry crimson hues throughout the dance floor. Hypnotic beats blew through the speakers. Everyone around her was dancing, drinking, getting high, and losing themselves to the chaos.

Her long black hair and brown skin glowed reddish beneath the lights, allowing her to blend into the madness. A faint smile rested on her lips. She knew the layout of this club like the back of her hand. Her stride was sure and full of purpose.

She always made sure to do her research, thoroughly, before showing up on site.

Her amber-eyed gaze cut through the mayhem of the intoxicated crowd, scanning for her target: An Italian man in his fifties who went by the alias "Monsieur Lavigne."

Years ago, while fleeing from Palermo, the man formerly known as Signor De León shed his old life and stepped into brand new skin as Mr. Lavigne seemingly overnight. Monsieur Lavigne had gone through great lengths to hide his real identity from the public. Recently, she had gone through even greater lengths to uncover it. Her task hadn't been easy. The fucker was good at hiding from the people who wished to kill him.

People—like her.

She chose not to bring her Beretta tonight. Too messy. This job required a certain level of discretion and finesse.

Otherwise, Monsieur Lavigne's estranged wife wouldn't have selected her for this job.

After flirting with a few of the nightclub staff, she learned from the bartender that Mr. Lavigne was a VIP guest, a frequent visitor of their VIP lounge.

The bartender informed her, "Il est probablement dans le salon en ce moment."

He's probably in the lounge right now.

"Merci," she cooed.

Thank you.

With that knowledge under her belt, she made her way to the private lounge tucked in the back of the club. The door to the lounge was, unfortunately, closed and guarded. Two large men stood on either side of the door. They eyed her with suspicion. She was studying them as well. The one on the right was taller and darker than his companion. Good-looking. The man on the left was blonder and beefier and pale as a ghost. An ugly fuck.

The tall, dark one demanded, "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

What the fuck do you want?

His French carried a thick Italian accent. Definitely not a native speaker.

With a graceful shrug of her slim shoulders, her black trench coat fell to the floor, revealing a flawless hourglass figure in an eye-catching lace bustier and silk panties. The black lace and silk melded perfectly to her sinful curves, leaving very little to the imagination.

Desire flickered in both men's eyes.

In perfect French, she murmured, "Je suis un cadeau de Monsieur Moulin."

I'm gift from Mr. Moulin.

Her French might be fluent, but her French accent was somewhat feigned. In another life, the Moroccan capital of Rabat—and not Paris nor Marseille—was where she had been born and raised. Rabat was where she first learned how to speak French. Luckily, with only a few tweaks of the tongue here and there, her Moroccan French accent was very passable for a metropolitan Parisian native.

The tall, dark one remained wary of her, asserting in harsh tones, "Quel genre de cadeau?"

What kind of gift?

She had to commend him. Even with her tits and ass on full display, lust didn't lower his guard.

Wryly, she drawled, "Moulin m'a envoyé danser pour Monsieur Lavigne."

Moulin sent me to dance for Mr. Lavigne.

Claude Moulin was a trusted friend of Monsieur Lavigne. It had taken two weeks of careful reconnaissance to retrieve this precious bit of information and another two weeks to set all the pieces in play for her job tonight.

"Tu es là pour," the tall, dark man gave a steady pause, "Lavigne?"

You're here for... Lavigne?

His devil-black gaze lingered on her face, seeming to scrutinize her, attempting to read her.

She lowered her lashes. "Oui."

She kept her expression vacant and doll-eyed, betraying nothing of her knowledge about Mr. Lavigne's true identity.

The blonde one piped up, "Quel est ton nom, salope?"

What's your name, bitch?

Unlike his partner, this man's French sounded native to Marseille.

She cooed at him, "Adèle."

She always liked the name "Adèle."

A shame it wasn't her name.

He barked at her, "Adèle—quoi?"

Adèle—what?

She supplied, "Adèle Moreau."

Lies, lies, all lies.

She went by the name "Rosa Lenoir" now, even though that wasn't her real name, either. Years ago, the girl she had been, Inès Nadir, died alongside the real Rosa.

She was living with a ghost's name now.

The blonde continued to interrogate her, "Quel âge as-tu?"

How old are you?

Her smile widened sweetly as she answered, "Dix-huit."

Eighteen.

She was actually twenty-six.

But Rosa suspected that pigs like Monsieur Lavigne liked their girls on the younger side.

They always did.

Might as well let the pig enjoy what little was left of his life.

The blonde one asked, "Tu es armé?"

You armed?

She arched an eyebrow and struck an inviting pose, letting her near-naked form speak for itself, "Est-ce que je suis, mon ami?"

Does it look like I am, my friend?

Aside from her bustier, panties, and stilettos, Rosa wore only one other accessory on her person.

A dainty, gold, oval-shaped locket dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. Engraved upon the surface of the locket: A crucifix. The 900 milligrams of thallium tucked within the locket was the only weapon she brought tonight. 10 milligrams per 1 kilogram of body weight was considered lethal. Monsieur Lavigne weighed around 90 kilograms. Rosa had prepared it just for him, this poison hidden behind a crucifix. The unholy in the holy.

It appealed to her dark, twisted sense of humor.

It was also an effective way to kill someone without getting caught.

Known as the "poisoner's poison," thallium was odorless, tasteless, colorless, hard to detect in autopsies, and, most importantly, slow-acting.

In a few days' time, Monsieur Lavigne's friends and allies would be unlikely to trace his death back to her.

Rosa set her jaw.

It was go-time.

After weeks of prep work, she was more than ready to get in, get out, and get paid for this job. Irritation pricked Rosa as she eyed the guards standing in her way.

Well, maybe not quite go-time.

She needed to get through these two dumb motherfuckers first.

Over the next minute, Rosa let the blonde's beady eyes roam all over her body. He was likely searching for signs of hidden weapons. Pocket knives, razors, blades. Or maybe he was simply taking in the view. Rosa supposed she was a stunning sight to behold.

As the blonde leered away, he scoffed at her, "On ne sait jamais. Les chiennes peuvent cacher toutes sortes de secrets dans leur corps."

You never know. Bitches can hide all sorts of secrets in their bodies.

Rosa countered in steady tones, "Si vous voulez me chercher, cela vous coûtera."

If you want to search me, it'll cost you.

The blonde smirked, still eyeing her barely covered curves in a lecherous manner. "Vous n'avez pas l'air bon marché."

You don't look cheap.

She preened shamelessly. "Bien sûr que non. Dieu ne m'a pas donné ce corps gratuitement."

Of course not. God didn't give me this body for free.

The tall, dark one interjected with a growl, "Assez! Viens ici, salope. Vous ne pouvez pas entrer jusqu'à ce que je le dise."

Enough! Come here, bitch. You can't go inside until I say so.

Fearlessly, Rosa took a step towards him and mimicked his gruff assertiveness in a playful manner, "Allez! Voyons quels secrets tu peux trouver sur moi."

Come on! Let's see what secrets you can find on me.

Ignoring her mischievous tone, he started patting her down—all business, no pleasure. His large hands caressed her everywhere in a very intentional, methodical manner. Light but thorough. Slow but nonsexual.

To Rosa's genuine surprise, she felt her skin begin to simmer ever so slightly from his touch.

His fingers chanced upon her necklace, plucking curiously at the gold chain.

He asked, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

What's this?

His dark eyes bore into her with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see right through her ruse, as though she was standing before him guilty, caught, red-handed.

With wide, earnest eyes, Rosa decided to take a gamble and appeal to his Italian-ness and his Catholic-ness.

At least, she assumed he was Italian from his accent when he spoke in French.

From there, she had also assumed that he was probably a mama's boy and a die-hard Catholic—as were most Italian men.

Rosa sighed tragically as her gaze swept towards her necklace, "Ce collier appartenait à ma mère."

This necklace belonged to my mother.

The man kept his expression stoic and unreadable.

His heart didn't appear to be moved at all when he drawled, "L'a-t-il fait, maintenant?"

Did it, now?

Still, Rosa refused to give up.

She insisted softly, "Ma mère m'a élevé pour être une bonne catholique. Je ne l'enlève jamais."

My mother raised me to be a good Catholic. I never take it off.

More lies.

Rosa had never been a Catholic.

Although, there was a time when she believed in something other than the hell that had become her life, when she woke up to the sweet, doughy smells of her jadda's sfenj for breakfast, when she could sleep soundly at night in the safety of her ʾum and ʾab's home. Back then, she had been a good daughter, a good granddaughter, a believer in the good of people.

Sadly, her beliefs had since dissipated.

Rosa no longer believed in anything or anyone except herself.

Tension-filled seconds ticked by as the tall, dark man examined her necklace more closely.

Rosa took this time to examine him, too.

Up close, the man was a real sexy fucker. Handsome, symmetrical features. Black hair. Even blacker eyes. Tanned skin. A few tats here and there. The back of his right hand displayed a Gothic-looking black rose vine, full of thorns, wrapped around a cracked skull. Old scars, fresh ones, too, were scattered across his knuckles. He didn't look like someone who could be readily fucked around with, and yet—

A small ornate crucifix, much like the one on her locket, was inked on the side of his neck, a centimeter below his ear. It was as she suspected: He was a good Catholic boy.

His combination of the holy and unholy was sinfully attractive. There was no doubt about it. This fucker was hot. Dangerous.

Like her.

If needed, she'd seduce the man right then and there to distract him from taking her locket.

She wouldn't enjoy fucking him—she never enjoyed sex, after all—but she was willing to do it. Sex was a means to an end in her line of work. Sometimes, it could be used as a weapon.

Their eyes met. Black to gold. Amber to obsidian. She held his gaze with an exaggerated look of doe-eyed innocence.

He let go of her necklace.

Thank fuck. She wouldn't have to touch him. She might be somewhat attracted to the man, but she hated close sexual contact of any sort, especially with men. Relief flooded her entire being. Rosa was careful not to let it show.

Seconds later, though, a spike of alarm replaced her sense of relief. Rosa uttered a soft gasp as the man's palms slipped beneath the cups of her bustier and the lace of her panties. As he checked the underswells of her breasts and the upper curves of her buttocks, an unexpected spark of heat flared in her.

This unfamiliar surge of lust was... unsettling.

Instinctively, she decided to use her wiles to mask her unease.

Rosa teased him in breathy tones, "Appréciez-vous cela autant que moi?"

Are you enjoying this as much as I am?

His devil-black eyes flicked towards her.

Sternly, he ordered, "Comport toi."

Behave.

She laughed darkly.

His hands continued to skirt across her body, inspecting here, inspecting there.

Her eyes followed his movements. For some reason, this man's touch felt strangely soothing on her skin. He didn't paw. He didn't grope. He wasn't rough. Not like other men. However, he certainly took his sweet fucking time. An eternity seemed to pass before the tall, dark man was convinced that she wasn't a threat.

Victory sang through her veins when, at last, he opened the door to let her into the private lounge.

He grunted, "Alors vas-y."

Go on, then.

Rosa smiled graciously. "Merci."

Thank you.

He scowled at her. "N'essayez rien de drôle. Nous serons juste à l'extérieur."

Don't try anything funny. We'll be right outside.

She winked at him as her fingers toyed with the golden locket between her breasts.

"Ne vous inquiétez pas, mon beau. Si je fais quelque chose de méchant, tu pourras me punir plus tard."

Don't worry, my beautiful one. If I do something naughty, you can punish me later.

Then, Rosa bent over in a slow, sensual descent to pick up her fallen trench coat, arching her back to emphasize the sweet curves of her tits and ass. She snuck a sly peek at the tall, dark man. At last, a glimpse of his lust seemed to be overtaking his sense of duty. His jaw was clenching. His dark eyes were riveted on her body.

With a small, pleased smile, Rosa swung her coat over her shoulder, brushed past him, hips swaying, stilettos clicking, and, like a wolf in lamb's lingerie, she stepped into the lounge to seek out her prey.