Against her better judgment, Rosa found herself leaving behind the sunny, sandy beaches of Lisbon to follow Mr. Massera to the train station. He told her to pack lightly for about a week in Madrid. Within the hour, they left his hotel room and took off in their rental car.

On the ride over, Rosa muttered with a sullen expression, "I cannot believe I am giving up my vacation for you."

Keeping his hands on the wheel, he side-eyed her, promising, "I will make it worth your while."

Rosa demanded, "How?"

"€100,000 for five days of work."

Her eyes narrowed with interest. "€100,000, you say?"

Mr. Massera confirmed with a nod, "€100,000."

She prodded, "What do you need from me?"

"Claude Moulin. Jean-Luc Favreau," he replied. "Make them disappear."

Rosa's mouth dropped. "Two assignments? In five days?"

"Yes."

Immediately, her mind reeled with one too many chaotic thoughts.

Because Rosa recognized both of these names—a little too well.

Jean-Luc Favreau was the son of Étienne Favreau, a well-known caïd, or mob boss, who operated out of Paris. The Favreau's were in a similar line of work as Julien Mesrine, her former jailor, slaver, and lover. Rosa had since escaped the cage Mesrine had placed around her mind, body, and soul, but the man remained a very prominent and dangerous figure in the underbelly of Europe's sex trafficking circuits. Rosa's blood ran cold at the thought of him. Rosa didn't like to think about Mesrine at all. He terrified her to this day.

Meanwhile, Rosa had only learned about Claude Moulin during her last assignment with Gaspare De León. Moulin was a criminal defense lawyer who was often called upon by the French mob whenever their members encountered legal troubles. When Gaspare De León was still alive, Moulin had been one of his closest confidants in France. Moulin was the one who helped De León escape to Marseille with a new identity.

As targets, Favreau and Moulin would be two of the highest profile names that had ever been presented to Rosa. It seemed, to her, that their deaths would cause a much greater ripple through the underworld than the death of De León, who had been nothing more than a disgraced, forsaken heir of a fallen clan.

Rosa's eyes snapped towards Mr. Massera as she tried to suss him out.

What the fuck was he trying to do here?

The waters in their world were relatively calm.

Why rock the boat at all?

He was about to mess with some very dangerous individuals who had friends in dark, scary places. She would need to proceed with caution or risk losing her head alongside him.

Not to mention, it usually took her weeks just to prepare for one assignment.

"Two assignments in five days does not seem possible," she grumbled.

"Make it possible."

"Easier said than done."

"My men have already done much of the legwork for you," Mr. Massera countered.

What men?

What legwork?

Rosa frowned slightly. "What are you talking about?"

She wasn't aware that Mr. Massera had been in a position of authority to command anyone other than, say, David Candia to do his bidding.

Again, suspicion roused in her.

Who was Mr. Massera, really?

Maybe he wasn't a nobody like her.

Maybe he was a somebody, after all?

Mr. Massera explained calmly, "As I was saying, my men have already cleared the path for you. All you have to do is make Moulin and Favreau look like... accidents."

Rosa sighed, "'Accidents' do not appear out of thin air, mon beau. They take time and planning, you know, if we intend for them to look convincing."

Mr. Massera ignored her protest and proceeded to reach into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic medicine bottle. He handed it to her.

"What is this?" Rosa asked as she accepted the bottle from him.

The corner of his mouth quipped up. "Thallium."

Her amber eyes flashed with understanding. "Ah."

Outside their vehicle, a blend of old and new world architecture in Gothic and Baroque and contemporary styles flashed by Rosa's peripheral vision. Scenic views of the vividly blue waters where the Tagus met the Atlantic had also been keeping her company for the duration of the ride. They drove past the Lisbon Cathedral, then, with its massive stone walls and two imposing clock towers.

Such a lovely city—Lisbon. So full of charm and culture and history.

Rosa fucking loved their pastéis de nata. She could eat those scrumptious little egg tarts by the dozen.

Pity, Rosa mourned inwardly, that she wouldn't get to enjoy them any longer.

As though on cue, Mr. Massera's deep voice drew back her wandering attention with a clipped, business-like efficiency, "Favreau will be on the train with us today. It will take approximately eleven hours to travel from Lisbon to Madrid. Please take care of him during that time."

She scowled. "Are you being serious?"

"Of course."

Apparently, Mr. Massera expected her to poison Favreau on the train some time within the next eleven hours?

This wouldn't be easy.

His confidence in her abilities wasn't in vain, though. It could be done. Rosa knew she could get the job done. In fact, Rosa was already daydreaming about all of the Louboutin's she would be able to buy with her incoming €100,000 paycheck.

Eagerly, she prompted, "What about Moulin?"

Mr. Massera shot Rosa a pointed look. "Moulin will be attending an art auction at a museum over the next few days in Madrid. I assume you will be able to figure out something before he leaves the city?"

"I will figure something out," she assured him.

"I feel," he murmured, casting an admiring look in her direction, "this will be the beginning of a long partnership."

"You are getting too excited again, Mr. Massera," chided Rosa. "For now, I am only taking on one job at a time. I want the rest of my €30,000 for De León, and the €100,000 you promised me for Favreau and Moulin before we discuss any kind of long-term arrangements..."

Once more, she questioned how a mere bodyguard's salary would be able to fund the expenses for her services.

Mr. Massera seemed to read her mind when he said, "Do not worry. I never make promises I cannot keep. You will get your money."

Rosa studied him with a guarded expression.

Where was his money coming from, anyway?

A syndicate who wished to strike at Étienne Favreau?

Or, perhaps, a rich and powerful enemy of Gaspare De León?

"You better keep your promises to me," she hummed, "or there will be hell to pay."

"You can trust me, Miss Lenoir. David has been paying you on time, no?"

She gave a noncommittal grunt.

What he said was true, though.

David had been paying her on time, but did Mr. Massera deserve her trust?

Not yet.

Rosa sensed the bastard had been telling her half-truths and almost-lies from the moment he showed up, uninvited, in her suite.

Who knew whether his version of events was fact or fiction?

Hugo was conveniently dead, so Mr. Massera could spin reality whichever way suited his agenda.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Massera?"

"Yes?"

With a thoughtful expression, Rosa drawled, "If you want me to continue working for you, then be honest with me."

"I have been honest with you," he insisted.

She wasn't so sure.

Rosa started with a cough, "There has been something weighing on my mind..."

"Oh?"

Through narrowed eyes, she stated coolly, "You claimed that Hugo suspected me after De León's death. That was why he tracked me down in Lisbon and snuck into my suite. That was why you showed up as well. To stop him from gathering any... information... from me. Information—that might lead back to you?"

A wary gleam entered his dark eyes before he replied, "Everything you have said is not... wrong. I stand by my claims."

Did he, now?

Yet, that night in Marseille, the ugly blonde hadn't appeared to be particularly suspicious of her. After Rosa danced for De León and poisoned him, Hugo hadn't witnessed the tense exchange between Mr. Massera and her unclosed locket, either, since he was in the restroom.

Most importantly, De León's reported cause of death, drug and alcohol overdose, fell very much in line with the consequences of his lifestyle: The man had been a heavy drinker and a heavy user for years. Very intentionally, Rosa had taken these factors into consideration when she was preparing for her assignment.

Frankly, Hugo didn't have a good reason to blame Adèle Moreau, a forgettable dancer who had simply passed through for the evening a week prior to De León's self-induced demise.

Furthermore, even if Hugo decided to condemn her without much evidence—

Rosa drawled, "I do not mean to be rude to a dead man, but, honestly, Hugo seems too stupide to track me down without a real name."

Mr. Massera retorted, "Yet, he still managed to find you in Lisbon. Maybe he was not as stupid as you think..."

Or, maybe, Hugo hadn't come to Lisbon for her.

Maybe he had come for something else.

For someone else.

She snorted. "S'il vous plaît, tell me, how did this not-so-stupid man find me? I am all ears."

"Someone must have tipped him off."

Rosa smiled. "Someone like you?"

Mr. Massera smiled back. "Of course not."

"Bull," she remarked softly, "shit."

"Maybe I am full of bullshit," he returned with a low chuckle, "or maybe you are too suspicious of an honest man."

"That is exactly what a bullshitter would say," murmured Rosa.

His dark, piercing eyes snapped towards her, then, full of cunning and calculation. "Are you smart enough to figure me out, Miss Lenoir?"

She growled, "Is that a challenge?"

"No," he said with a slight smirk, "it is an... invitation. I would love to see whether or not I am getting my money's worth with someone like you..."