Rosa entered the doorway. She took a second to observe her surroundings. Remixes of the latest pop and hip hop hits floated towards her ears. Naps and Oboy and Doja Cat were playing in the background at a much more soothing volume than the dance floor outside.

Rosa's amber gaze scanned around some more.

The interior of the private lounge glowed with the same hellish crimson lighting as the rest of the nightclub. Although, it wasn't as dimly lit in here. The room was brighter. Everything was easier to see. An arrangement of contemporary black leather couches and steel and glass tables filled the space. Everything inside looked sleek and expensive, yet, at the same time, sterile and soulless.

Several meters away from where Rosa stood, she saw a portly, balding man with sunken eyes and dark features seated in one of the chairs. A weight of depression clung to him, making the man appear much older than his fifty-some years. There were a few empty shot glasses on the table beside him. His cheeks appeared to be ruddy and rosy from the alcohol.

Good, Rosa noted, he had already completed half of her task for her.

Feigning shyness, she addressed him like a hesitant, curious feline, "Êtes-vous... Monsieur Lavigne?"

Are you... Mr. Lavigne?

He looked over to her with unmasked interest. "Oui? Et tu es?"

Yes? And you are?

Through lowered lashes, Rosa introduced herself, "Je m'appelle Adèle. Je suis une danseuse de Pink Paradise."

My name is Adèle. I'm a dancer from Pink Paradise.

Pink Paradise was a well-known strip club run by les beaux voyous, the French mob, in Marseille.

Mr. Lavigne grunted in a distracted manner. His gaze had since dropped down to her breasts. He was a man, after all, and Rosa was well aware of the fact that her tiny bustier barely contained the spillage of her ample cleavage. She had worn it for this very purpose.

She doubted he was listening to her anymore. Rosa wouldn't be surprised if his actual brain had shut down now that his petit brain was in charge.

Good, she noted again, this idiot was going to be much easier to manipulate than his tall, dark bodyguard outside.

Rosa smiled warmly. "Moulin craignait que tu ne t'ennuies ou que tu te sentes seul ce soir. Il m'a envoyé pour vous divertir."

Mr. Lavigne frowned. Confusion marred his features.

In a mix of Italian and English, he revealed and requested, "Mi scusi, il mio francese... I mean, my French... is not so good. Do you speak... Italian? Or English?"

Giving an accommodating nod, Rosa responded to him in English, though, her accent was drenched in thick French and Arabic notes, "Ah, apologies, mon ami, I do not speak Italian very well, but we may converse in English if you like?"

He replied pleadingly, "Please."

"As I was saying," she started again, preparing to restate everything for him in English, "Moulin worried that you might get bored, or lonely, by yourself tonight. He sent me to entertain you."

A lewd grin lit up his aged face. "Oh, I see! How kind of Moulin. Come, then, dolcezza, I could certainly use your company tonight..."

With a smirk, Rosa sauntered towards him, stopping when she stood within arm's reach of the ugly, old brute.

Practically drooling, Mr. Lavigne reached out to pull her onto his lap. "You are so beautiful. If I may ask—how old are you?"

"I turned eighteen last week," Rosa purred as she moved to straddle his thighs.

"Eighteen, you say?"

"Eighteen," she confirmed, "and one week."

"Wonderful, wonderful," he grumbled in approval, "just wonderful."

Over the next thirty minutes, Mr. Lavigne pawed and petted Rosa all over as she "entertained" him in time to the music. Her hips snapped and rolled in elegant yet erotic motions over his disgusting erection, her sex dancing just out of reach every time he tried to thrust against her.

It didn't take long for him to become more desperate and, as a result, more aggressive. Handsier. Ballsier. He started squeezing her tits and slapping her ass. His crassness, his roughness, made her want to stab him in the neck. Rosa kept her composure, though, smiling, flirting, through her annoyance and disdain like a consummate professional.

As Mr. Lavigne grew more comfortable around her, she started plowing him with drinks. Champagne. Wine. Scotch.

At the earliest opportunity, Rosa added the thallium, discreetly, of course, into the scotch and watched the old pervert drink every last drop.

By 1:00 am, Mr. Lavigne seemed to be half in love with her, and Rosa struggled to make her escape from him. The man whined and wheedled and offered cash as incentive for her not to go.

He begged, shoving a €100 note between the deep V of her breasts, "Stay, stay! Just ten minutes more, per favore!"

Again and again, Rosa tried to wriggle out of his clutches.

Mr. Lavigne only let her go after she promised to see him again. Soon.

This was only a half-lie.

Even though Mr. Lavigne's days were now fatally numbered, Rosa sensed the two of them were likely to meet again—

In hell.

Her soul was already damned. She would likely die young, too. Her profession came with more occupational hazards than most jobs.

Ah, well.

C'est la vie!

As Rosa exited out the door, she ran into the tall, dark bodyguard once more. The ugly blonde was nowhere in sight.

She inquired, "Où est ton ami?"

Where's your friend?

He responded, "Il fallait qu'il pisse."

He had to take a piss.

The tall, dark man then gave her a quick once-over. He looked as though he had something else to say.

Rosa prompted, "Quoi?"

What?

His eyes flicked towards the overflow of cash that had been stuffed under the straps of her bustier and the sides of her panties.

The tall, dark man remarked, "On dirait que tu t'en es bien sorti là-dedans."

Looks like you did well for yourself in there.

Rosa rolled her shoulders in an unimpressed shrug as she buttoned up her trench coat. "Bof. J'ai fait mieux."

Whatever. I've done better.

His devil-black gaze, intent and piercing, searched for her eyes—as though to read her, to learn her. The scrutiny he placed upon her was, again, unsettling. Their eyes met for a moment, a strange spark flared between them, and she quickly looked away.

Rosa was about to head out for the night when he asked, "Alors, tu t'es bien comporté?"

So, did you behave yourself?

It took Rosa a second to realize that he was referring to her cheeky remark from earlier—

If I do something naughty, you can punish me later.

Rosa's eyes widened slightly as she studied him closer.

Was that a flicker of interest she spied in his dark eyes?

Was this grumpy bastard actually flirting with her?

It was hard to tell from his resting bitch face.

The corner of her mouth quipped with amusement.

She couldn't resist teasing him, then, taunting him with the naughty devil inside of her, "Pas du tout. Peut-être que quelqu'un doit me punir."

Not at all. Maybe someone needs to punish me.

This time, her suggestion seemed to make his eyes darken with unmistakable interest.

He demanded in lower, huskier tones, "C'est une invitation?"

Is that an invitation?

Rosa's breath caught slightly.

The tall, dark man's gaze remained steadfast on her face as though willing her to say 'yes,' and the sexy timbre of his voice affected her more than she wanted to admit. Her pulse began fluttering in a foolish, flighty rhythm, and she instantly regretted baiting him.

What the fuck was she doing? Flirting with this guy?

Rosa knew she needed to get on her way. The sooner, the better. Her job here was done. There was no need to stick around and waste another minute.

As she readied herself to go, however, another argument suddenly emerged in her mind, holding her in place.

On second thought, Rosa reasoned, she didn't want to raise any suspicions with this bodyguard. Something about him set her on edge. He was observant. Too observant. The way he had been studying her necklace so carefully was very telling. The way he kept looking at her made her feel naked, exposed. At this point, dashing away in too much of a hurry might raise a red flag. If the thallium did its job over the coming week, any strange behavior on her part, right now, might, later on, prompt the tall, dark man to question her hand in his employer's demise.

With a furrowed brow, Rosa decided it might be safer to keep up her act a little bit longer, to convince him that she merely was a guiltless, hardworking, little whore trying to grind and hustle her way to a better life.

Yes, this tactic was probably the best way to deflect from the actual blood on her hands.

Thus, Rosa chose to play the part of Adèle Moreau for a few more minutes.

She addressed his question—Is that an invitation?—with an easy, breezy, business-like attitude, "Je doute que vous soyez assez homme pour me gérer, mais, pour le bon prix, je suis certainement prêt à vous laisser essayer..."

I doubt you're man enough to handle me, but, for the right price, I'm certainly willing to let you try...

Immediately, in response, the man stepped forward to close the gap between them.

Rosa stifled a gasp as his broad chest nearly brushed against her breasts. She hadn't realized just how tall he was until his height towered over her much smaller frame like a threat. Rosa had to will herself not to shrink away. With some effort, she held her ground. She stood as tall as possible with all 167 centimeters of her lesser height.

Gazing down at her with a softer expression, almost like a lover, his hand slowly reached over again to clasp her necklace.

He murmured, "Autorise moi..."

Allow me...

What was he talking about?

She frowned and glanced down.

Her golden eyes flickered with distress.

Shit.

Her locket was hanging on her chain, slightly ajar. She must have forgotten to close it all the way when—

He snapped it shut for her with a soft 'click,' remarking, "Là. C'est mieux. Vous devriez être plus prudent, cependant, la prochaine fois."

There. That's better. You should be more careful, though, next time.

At this, Rosa's head snapped up to look at him, to really look at him.

Her eyes narrowed sharply.

The cracked opening on her locket had been barely noticeable—a one or two millimeter gap, at most.

This eagle-eyed bastard!

Something in his tone, in the knowing expression on his handsome face, sent a shiver down her spine.

The bastard spoke as though he was warning her.

The bastard spoke as though he suspected that she had been up to no good, that she had done a very naughty thing to his employer inside the lounge.

Fuck!

He knew she wasn't innocent.

He simply couldn't prove anything yet because Mr. Lavigne was still alive inside the lounge—grossly drunk off his ass and slurring up a storm, sure—but alive.

With her mind spinning, calmly, collectedly, Rosa analyzed the playing field. She had seen plenty of men like him kill a person over a gut feeling, a slight infraction. Over nothing, really.

Was the tall, dark one going to come for her?

She was unarmed, she would also be outnumbered once the blonde guard returned from his piss, which meant she needed to get the hell out of this nightclub and the hell away from these men before shit hit the fan.

With a smile of gratitude, Rosa mumbled, "Merci pour votre aide et votre sollicitude. Maintenant, il se fait tard, je devrais vraiment y aller..."

Thank you for your help and your concern. Now, it's getting late, I really should get going...

His black eyes gleamed shrewdly. "Partir si tôt?"

Leaving so soon?

Rosa feigned a sleepy yawn. "Que puis-je dire? Une garce en a marre de lui secouer le cul toute la journée et toute la nuit..."

What can I say? A bitch gets tired from shaking her ass all day and all night...

The man chuckled, low and deep, under his breath. "Assez juste. Au revoir."

Fair enough. Until we see each other again.

She muttered, "Bonne nuit, mon beau."

Good night, my beautiful one.

"Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle—Moreau."

Good night, Miss—Moreau.

The hard pause and decided emphasis the man had uttered alongside her false name, again, made it feel as though he was toying with her, his wolf to her lamb, challenging her to come clean with her lies.

It was time to go.

Hurriedly, swiftly, Rosa disappeared into the night, hoping that this wolf wouldn't come for her throat once Mr. Lavigne met his maker in a few days' time.