Around 6:40 am, Rosa and Mr. Massera returned the rental car to a drop-off point near the Santa Apolónia Train Station. They were planning to walk the rest of the way to the station. Before heading out, however, Mr. Massera handed Rosa a small manila envelope.

His demeanor switched back to all business as he informed her, "This is everything my men have gathered on Favreau and Moulin. Put it to good use."

She accepted the envelope from him. "Merci, I will do just that."

For the sake of discretion, Mr. Massera left first. Rosa stayed behind for a few minutes to review the documents and photographs inside the envelope. Once Rosa made it to the station, she purchased her ticket to Madrid after Mr. Massera and went on to board a separate seat in a separate car as though they were two perfect strangers.

Armed with her envelope and bottle of thallium, Rosa headed straight for the car where Mr. Massera informed her that Favreau would be seated. When the automatic door to the Car 7 slid open, Rosa slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses to mask her facial features as she stepped inside.

Right away, in Seat 7-4B, she spied a gentleman who appeared to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, who matched the photograph of Favreau in her envelope. He had salt-and-peppered brown hair and gray eyes. His skin carried the somewhat unnatural orange hue of a bad spray tan. Dressed like an unassuming office worker in a gray dress shirt and dark khaki pants, Favreau appeared surprisingly clean cut for a caïd's son.

Rosa slipped into the seat, 7-4A, right next to him. 7-4A wasn't her seat, but it didn't matter. She wasn't planning to stay long, anyway. Favreau glanced over as she sat down, once, then, twice, as he did a subtle double take of her braless top. The air conditioning on the train was chilly. A fact—that her hardened nipples seemed to be fully aware of.

As his eyes lingered on her breasts, Favreau frowned at her. "That seat is taken."

It came out sounding more like, "Zat seat ees tah-ken." His French accent in English was thick. Even thicker than hers.

Although, the contents inside Mr. Massera's envelope had claimed that Favreau was supposed to be going solo on this trip, Rosa realized, then, that Favreau might still be traveling with a companion—a bodyguard, perhaps?—given his status as the heir to his father's clan.

Before responding to Favreau, Rosa took this opportunity to do a quick, close-up scan of his belongings. She was pleased when she spotted a brand new water bottle tucked in a pocket on the side of his backpack.

Firstly, Rosa made a mental note of the size and brand of the bottle and hoped that she would be able to purchase the same one somewhere on the train. If not, she would have to find a way to pour the thallium into his water bottle the next time he took a restroom break.

Secondly, Rosa planned to come back later to take a peek at Favreau's companion: Another obstacle that needed to be removed before she could make her move.

For now, though, her work here was done.

It was time to disappear.

A second later, Rosa released a soft, sheepish chuckle as she pretended to double check her seat number.

Once more, to blur her identity, Rosa leaned away from her French accent and leaned into a feigned British accent as she remarked in English, "Oh, bollocks. You're right. I am in the wrong seat. Excuse me."

Favreau gave her a curt nod as she rose to leave, grunting, "Happens to the best of us."

She left him without another word.

It was best to act as forgettable as possible for the next eleven hours.

After Rosa exited Car 7, she ducked inside one of the restrooms to remove her sunglasses and opted to change into her least flashy and most modest outfit. The ankle-length sundress and sweater cardigan made her look like a harmless grade school teacher. She also altered her hairstyle by twisting and knotting her long, dark hair into a neat, tidy bun atop her head.

An hour later, Rosa returned to Car 7 to check on Favreau and his companion. She chose to remain in the corridor connection without entering the actual car. This way, she would remain unlikely to be seen. As Rosa peered through the windowed door into Car 7, she found a very large and intimidating bald man seated in 7-4A beside Favreau. He was dressed inconspicuously, like Favreau, in business casual attire while sporting a dark goatee.

Who was this bald fucker?

More importantly, how could she get both Favreau and Baldie away from their seats?

The more she reviewed her initial plan, the more it no longer seemed feasible. A seasoned criminal like Favreau was unlikely to leave his belongings completely unattended. Favreau and his man would probably take turns, always leaving one person behind to watch over their shit, if they had to leave their seats for whatever reason.

Rosa decided to switch strategies.

Like wind, like water, in her profession, especially, she needed to always be ready to adapt and move around any obstruction. Earlier that morning, through force of habit, Rosa had packed her Louis Vuitton bag to the nines with an arsenal of backup equipment.

Backup equipment—like a medical syringe and needle.

Right then and there, Rosa decided to inject the thallium into Favreau rather than having the man ingest it like De León. The pro's and con's regarding this change of plan felt riskier in some ways and more efficient in others.

Pro: She wouldn't have to worry about luring Baldie and Favreau from that stupid water bottle. She wouldn't have to worry about removing and replacing the bottle, either, which would require her to linger in their seats for, at least, a minute or two each time, upping her risk of getting caught or seen by other passengers.

Con: A second point of contact would have to be made with Favreau. Her timing and sleight of hand would have to be impeccable, undetectable, since she only had one shot to get it right. Otherwise, she would give herself away and risk getting caught in her own trap.

After retiring again to the restroom to prepare her thallium-infused syringe, Rosa returned to the corridor connection by Car 7. Tucking the syringe into the cuff of her cardigan, Rosa pretended to scroll through her phone as she waited for Favreau's next trip to the restroom.

When, at last, Favreau rose from his seat to take a piss, Rosa trailed after him with unhurried steps. The closest restroom was located in between Car 4 and 5. Rosa watched him disappear into the restroom before returning to the corridor connection between Car 6 and 7. Knowing Favreau would have to pass by her to get back to his seat, Rosa camped out like a patient she-snake at the only entrance and exit to a rodent's burrow. He would come to her. Eventually. Inevitably.

Rosa checked the time on her phone as she waited for Favreau. The train was about five hours into its voyage now. Six hours to go. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. A few of the other passengers were moving about as well, going to the restroom, stretching their legs, and making polite conversation with one another as they moved around the cars.

Their presence provided some much appreciated background noise and movement. All of which could become distractions to hide her nefarious intentions.

A few minutes later, she noticed Favreau walking towards her from several meters away. Without making eye contact, Rosa started moving towards him as though she was on her way to the restroom.

By trade, Rosa was technically an assassin. A hitman. Or hitwoman. She wasn't a master pickpocket by any means, but she was familiar with some of their tricks. The human mind, in its most natural, unguarded state, tended to focus on harder, louder touch points over lighter, softer ones. When executed in tandem, for example, senses would almost always process the pain and noise from a slap to the cheek over the sensation of a tap on the shoulder.

As Favreau neared her person, Rosa chose to utilize this very gambit. When he came close enough, she proceeded to trip and fall towards him while dropping her phone at the same time. Rosa was careful to make everything look "accidental," pretending to steady herself by placing one hand on his thigh, gripping his flesh almost a little too firmly, as her arm pressed into his crotch.

In gripping his thigh so tightly and brushing up against his manhood, Favreau's concentration would be focused near the center of his body rather than the lower parts of his body as her other hand, in feather-light, lightning-fast movements—dropped the syringe from her cuff and poked the needle through the fabric of his pants, injecting the contents into his calf within two seconds flat.

Rosa stayed kneeling before him for several more seconds as she "fumbled around" to recover her phone from the ground. She took this time to slide the syringe into one of her pockets. Out of hand. Out of sight.

Then, she stood up.

Wearing an apologetic, flustered expression, Rosa deepened the timbre of her voice and laid on a heavy French accent as she exclaimed, "Pardon, I am so sorry!"

"Watch where you are going next time, mademoiselle," Favreau growled in irritated tones.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Rosa mumbled in a small, submissive voice as she shuffled away from him.

This entire exchange between them hadn't lasted longer than a minute or two.

As they parted ways, Favreau didn't seem to be aware of what had really transpired between them. It appeared, Rosa noted gratefully, the tiny pinch in his calf had been successfully masked by her hard grip on his thigh.

The hardest part of her job was done. Now, for the rest of the ride, Rosa simply needed to stay out of Favreau and Baldie's way and monitor them from a safe distance. Might as well get some rest. Rosa decided to return to her seat in Car 10. On the way over, Rosa passed through Car 9. Mr. Massera was supposed to be seated in Car 9. She looked around for her sponsor. By the time she spotted him, his devil-black gaze was already locked onto her face. There was a question in his eyes.

Only slowing her stride by a little, Rosa walked by him and muttered in a voice soft and low, "Done."

"Already?"

"Oui."

He murmured back, "Impressive."

"I know."

Mr. Massera chuckled under his breath as she strutted away like a kitten who had just eaten a canary.

After Rosa finally settled into her seat, the remaining six hours of the train ride passed in relative peace. She actually found it to be quite boring. Uneventful. She bought some lunch on the train. She checked on Favreau. She napped a little. She checked on Favreau again. She stared out the window. Majestic green mountainscapes were interspersed with high, dry plateaus and plenty of good farmland. The scenery outside the train windows was nice, still boring, but nice.

They arrived in Madrid around 7:00 pm. Rosa and Mr. Massera departed the Madrid Atocha Railway Station, separately, like strangers as well. From there, she checked into the motel—not hotel—that Mr. Massera had booked for them.

As Rosa entered the room, she was dismayed to find that it was even smaller than she had anticipated. It barely held enough space for a small full-sized bed and a tiny bathroom. The place was definitely not up to her usual standards. She tried to make herself comfortable in the cramped, shabby room. It wasn't easy, though. Everything looked so outdated and unclean.

Later, Rosa decided with renewed determination, she would find a way to convince Mr. Massera to upgrade them to a better room.

Where was the bastard, anyway?

He was certainly taking his sweet time getting to their motel.

After Rosa showered and unpacked her belongings, her employer had yet to show his face. She checked her phone. He hadn't messaged her any updates.

What the hell was he doing?

No matter.

Mr. Massera was a big boy.

Clearly, as she had discovered from firsthand experience, he could take care of himself and hold his own against a strong opponent.

He was sure to pop up sooner or later.

Rosa decided to take this time to do some recon on her next hit: Moulin.

Additionally, she made a quick phone call to one of her old associates from London, a retired hitman who used to work for the British mob. His name was Harrison Murray. Harry had been an ex-MI6 operative before he turned to the dark side. He was now in hiding and not an easy person to get a hold of unless he trusted the hell out of you. Harry trusted Rosa, to an extent, and Rosa trusted Harry, to an extent. Years ago, he served as a mentor of sorts to Rosa when she was first starting out in the business. At his age, Harry had become a cunning old fox who seemed to know everyone and everything. Rosa liked going to him for intel because he was no longer entrenched or interested in the politics of their world, which meant he was less likely to stir shit up with whatever knowledge she imparted to him.

Harry picked up on the seventh ring. "Hello... Rosa."

Rosa greeted him fondly, "Bonne soirée, Harry."

"What can I do for you this evening?"

"I want you to look into a man named Cristiano Massera for me," Rosa declared sweetly. "I will pay you handsomely for your help."

"All you have is a name?"

She provided Harry with Mr. Massera's birth date.

"I'll get back to you shortly."

"Merci."

Forty-five minutes later, Harry called back to inform Rosa, "I have good news for you and bad news for you."

"Good news first," she demanded.

"Well, I found a 'Cristiano Massera' with the exact birth date that you provided."

Immediately, Rosa's ears perked up. "Oh? That sounds like good news to me! What is the bad news, then?"

"He's, supposedly, a school teacher from Catanzaro, Calabria in Italy. His record is clean as a whistle. No felonies. No arrests. No known ties to our world."

"How very interesting," Rosa drawled quietly, more to herself than to Harry. "I appreciate your assistance."

"I don't know if I helped out much. To be honest, at first glance, his profile seems irrelevant and insignificant. I'm sure there's more to his story, though, if someone like you is asking about him."

"Yes, I am sure there is plenty more to his story that I have yet to uncover," she replied. "Thank you again. You have helped me determine something important—"

What she had determined was that—Mr. Massera had been toying with her.

His real identity was likely buried behind his assumed persona. Cristiano Massera was merely a man made of smoke and mirrors. The smug bastard knew this, of course, when he told her about his birth date. To Rosa, this little investigation of hers was beginning to feel a lot like a test.

An initiation of sorts.

What had Mr. Massera said earlier?

The fucker wanted to see if he would be getting his money's worth with someone like her, non?

She narrowed her eyes.

Rosa intended to show him just how good she was at dredging out the truth.

To Harry, she murmured with steely resolve, "Keep digging for me, please. I want to know if there are any connections between the Favreau's in Paris and the De León's from Palermo. I am sure they have something to do with my new friend, Mr. Massera..."