Mournful seconds stretched into grief-stricken minutes.

She lost track of time. The world turned into a chilling black void. Her mind grew disoriented. Her lungs struggled to draw breath.

For years, it had been possible to not feel, to not think, to evade her past as Rosa Lenoir.

Today, Mesrine's appearance had made it impossible to pretend that Inès Nadir never existed.

Life had never felt bleaker.

Perhaps, she should've shown herself to Mesrine in the hotel room today.

To let him put her out of her misery.

So she could be reunited with Nijah.

Rosa started to shiver even though there was hardly a draft in the room.

A second later, she felt someone drape a blanket around her shoulders, wrapping her naked, trembling body in a snug cocoon of softness. Then, a wall of body heat and masculine arms closed around her once more, chasing away the cold and steadying her quivers. This small gesture of kindness soothed her senses. Rosa leaned into the warmth. She could feel his strong, steady heartbeat pounding against her chest. The rhythm was calming. As a result, her frenzied thoughts and emotions calmed as well.

Her storm wasn't over, but the worst of it was beginning to pass. At this point, she felt all cried out. Dried and drained to the bone. A sobering stillness crept over her.

Rosa winced as her eyes, sore and swollen from tears, flicked open at last.

Mr. Massera sat before her. His black eyes darted towards hers. His mouth set in a grim line. Relief and worry appeared to crowd his handsome features.

He asked in a tentative manner, "Feeling better?"

Sniffling, she countered hoarsely, "What do you think?"

"It is not my place to say," Mr. Massera replied as he tried to draw a straight answer from her, "I want to hear it from you."

Rosa felt vulnerable under his penetrating gaze.

She mumbled, "You must think I am une femme folle."

A madwoman.

A madwoman who burst into unrestrained sobs at the mention of another woman's name.

"Life fucks with everyone's sanity," he offered, "every now and then."

"How diplomatique of you."

Again, diplomatically, Mr. Massera supplied, "What matters is how we pick up the pieces afterwards."

In a small, sad voice, Rosa sighed, "But some pieces remain broken. No matter how much we wish to fix them. The dead cannot come back to life."

His ears seemed to perk up. "The dead?"

Did he know about Nijah?

Rosa assessed his reaction, he didn't give anything away, so she shrugged it off by saying, "Do not overthink what I said. It was an analogy."

His dark brow rose. "An analogy?"

"Oui."

"Well, broken things do not always need to be fixed," he murmured, "sometimes, surviving a fall is enough. Getting back up again is the best way to fuck with whatever and whoever broke us in the first place."

The man spoke with such conviction.

Rosa wondered if he had been speaking from firsthand experience.

She arched an eyebrow and hummed, "Is this little pep talk meant to comfort me... or you?"

"Do not overthink it," Mr. Massera retorted, throwing Rosa's words back at her, "it was only an analogy."

She found herself mimicking him as well, "Only an analogy, hmm?"

"Sì."

Rosa sniffed. "Stop stealing my lines."

Amused, he supplied, "In that case, I will say that—I have learned to appreciate broken things. Flaws and cracks can be... bellissima."

She knew this word in Italian.

Beautiful.

Mr. Massera held her gaze for a long, unwavering beat.

Rosa frowned a little.

The bastard had likened her to a beautiful and broken thing. She didn't know whether to feel insulted or complimented—or both. Regardless, Rosa refused to be treated like some charity case. Mr. Massera might view her as a tragic, little whore, but even tragic, little whores had their pride.

"Let me go," Rosa ordered in dull, lifeless tones.

His brow furrowed as he relaxed his arms around her. "Am I hurting you?"

"Just let me go," she repeated a bit more forcibly.

Clumsily, she began shuffling away from Mr. Massera, and he didn't try to hold her back.

With a shaky sigh, Rosa laid down on the mattress with the blanket still wrapped around her. As she shifted into a more comfortable position, Mr. Massera reached behind them to grab some tissues from the end table.

He handed the tissues to her. "For you."

Frowning, Rosa accepted them. "Do I look like a mess?"

"No, you look... human. For once."

Rosa's frown deepened as she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. "I look like a human? What did I look like before? A fucking bunny rabbit?"

"Not at all," Mr. Massera replied with a trace of a smile, "you have always been flawless in appearance and on assignment—"

"But?"

"This is the first time I have seen you let your guard down."

The bastard was being more tactful with his words. It seemed he was afraid to spook her again.

Was she being too hard on him?

The man might have been the one who put her in harm's way, but he had also saved her from Mesrine. In truth, Mr. Massera had been unnecessarily kind to her so far.

In softer tones, Rosa decided to apologize, "Pardon, I did not mean to cry all over your shirt. I promise it will not happen again."

The gleam in his devil-black eyes gentled as he assured her, "It is fine. I do not mind."

Rosa side-eyed him with some doubt. "Non?"

Side-eyeing her back, Mr. Massera remarked dryly, "For the record, you still look beautiful even with tears and snot running down your face."

"Merci, I think," she grunted, again, not knowing whether to feel insulted or complimented. "I-I do not know what got into me..."

This was a lie, of course, but the elephant in the room had yet to be addressed: Her past as a completely different woman.

As Rosa's rationale returned to a semi-normal mindset, a bit of her signature pluck and daring came back as well, and she suddenly felt the need to know just exactly how much dirt Mr. Massera had dug up on her.

Rosa coughed. "Tell me, mon beau..."

He scooted closer to her on the bed. "Yes?"

"What do you know about... Inès?"

Mr. Massera's dark gaze grew narrow and keen. "I do not know much, to be honest."

Rosa attempted to examine him more closely.

Was he lying here?

Was he testing her?

She chose to lie, "I have never heard her name."

To test him, too.

Even though he probably already knew that she was Inès.

His eyes pierced into her. "No?"

"Non."

"I would like to know more about her."

It seemed Mr. Massera was willing to play along. He had yet to call her bluff.

"Why?"

Mr. Massera reached over, then, and ghosted his knuckles along her jawline. "For one, Inès interests me."

"She... does?"

His palm began to caress her cheek. "From what I have been told, I hear she is a very dangerous woman."

He grazed his thumb over her lower lip. "And a very desirable woman."

"Or a very fucked up one," Rosa suggested bitterly.

Mr. Massera kept his hand featherlight on her. Barely there. "I will not pretend to understand what she has been through, but I admire her strength."

His words coupled with his touch sent a different kind of shiver through Rosa.

Feeling flushed, she asked hesitantly, "You admire her? You do not think that she is a... whore?"

Watching her intently, he whispered in low, dark tones, "Dio, non ho mai voluto più una donna. Spero, un giorno, di farti supplicare di essere la mia puttana e solo la mia puttana, in modo che la tua piccola figa perfetta possa essere scopata e goduta nel modo che merita."

This Italian bastard!

She scowled and demanded, "In English, s'il vous plaît."

With cautious movements, Mr. Massera lowered himself to lay beside her in bed. "Do you think that she is a whore?"

"I asked you first."

"It does not matter what I think."

"Just answer the question."

"Very well, then," he replied promptly. "Sì, I think she is a whore."

Rosa inhaled an outraged gasp. "How dare you!"

Smirking, he drawled, "But is it not possible for a woman to be a whore and a warrior at the same time?"

"I—"

His smirk faded as he interrupted with a surprisingly earnest expression, "Be whatever you want to be, Miss Lenoir, regardless of your past, and do not let anyone tell you otherwise. Either way, my opinion of you remains the same. I have said it before. I will say it again. In my eyes, you are fucking perfect. From head to toe. If that is what you wanted to know."

Her mouth fell open.

Rosa's heart brimmed with bliss as her thoughts stunted with disbelief. Mr. Massera had turned the tables on her so quickly that she was struggling to keep up.

He had praised her to the moon and the stars.

He had also let the fucking cat out of the bag.

Lamely, she tried to salvage her not-so-secret secret, "I thought we were talking about... Inès?"

"You and I both know," Mr. Massera countered patiently, "we were never talking about Inès. We were always talking about... you."

Rosa's face crumpled with dismay even though his admission didn't shock her.

"So," she whispered, "you know everything."

He shook his head with a strained grimace, "Not everything. I probably know more about Mesrine than I know about you."

Rosa swore under her breath and glanced away.

Using his thumb and forefinger to cradle her chin, Mr. Massera turned her face back to him. "Look at me. Please."

Her amber eyes flicked towards him. "What do you want?"

He cast her a pointed look. "May I ask, when was the last time you cried, Miss Lenoir?"

Two years ago.

On Nijah's birthday.

But Rosa didn't want to share such intimate details with Mr. Massera.

She challenged, "Why does it matter?"

He murmured, "Because you do not seem to be the kind of woman who sheds real tears. Often."

Rosa released a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "How can you say that with a straight face? My very real tears are still drying on your shirt."

His expression darkened. "Any man who hurt you enough to make you cry—to the extent you did just now—deserves to die."

Her chest tightened with anxiety. "Are you talking about... Mesrine?"

Clenching his jaw, Mr. Massera gave a firm nod.

"Oh, Dieu," she gasped.

The thought of going head to head with the blue-eyed monster was downright horrifying.

Yet, the possibility of taking down Mesrine—for good—also fascinated Rosa in a morbid way, calling to her like a vengeful moth flying towards a killer flame.

Mr. Massera continued to stoke her intrigue in low, foreboding tones, "I am sure I do not know half of the ways that Mesrine has fucked you over, but, I promise you, Miss Lenoir, if you give me your trust, together, we will find a way to send him to hell."

His words gave her pause.

Misgivings prickled even while her body melted against him.

God, it was so tempting to dive headfirst into Mr. Massera's waiting arms, to hold him to his deadly promise against Mesrine, but, when push came to shove, she still didn't trust the bastard.

Rosa's thoughts raced back to her final interrogation with Moulin.

Granted, it was probably true that Mr. Massera cared for her well-being. But only to a limit, only if her well-being was in harmony with the endgame: His arms trafficking ambitions.

Inspiration and speculation struck Rosa as her mind replayed pieces of their previous conversations.

If you failed to kill Lavigne in Marseille, then I would not be sitting here right now, having this conversation with you, and risking my life to seek your services on more permanent terms.

De León and Favreau and Moulin were all practice runs.

To test her abilities.

To assess her worthiness.

I need to know that I can count on you to do the same if I bring you into my inner circle.

Rosa surmised that Mr. Massera wouldn't even consider initiating her—if not for her ties to Mesrine. This was probably why he didn't ask her to kill Mesrine alongside Favreau and Moulin even though Favreau, Mesrine, and Vosa appeared to be his top competitors eyeing the spoils of the fallen De León clan.

Rosa suspected that Mr. Massera might be dangling Mesrine in front of her like a carrot.

To entice her.

To rally her to his cause through a common enemy.

I am blackmailing you, and I think it will work.

A carrot that could easily double as blackmail.

Several more theories raced to the front of Rosa's calculations, and Mr. Massera's motives grew clearer still: The man had hired her because he needed a killer at his disposal, but he had probably selected her, specifically, because of the years-long hatred she harbored for Mesrine.

It was an ingenious method of recruitment, really, enabling Mr. Massera to kill two birds with one stone. In hiring Rosa, he had found himself a competent hitwoman who was unlikely to betray him until Mesrine was dead.

Now, there were only two obscure questions that dwelled in Rosa—

One, how did Hugo's death tie into Mr. Massera's complex web of hidden agendas?

Two, what had Mr. Massera meant by this statement: Maybe you do not need me, but I need you?

Did Mr. Massera need her for himself?

Or were they both doing someone else's dirty work?

Upon drawing these conclusions, she was finally able to turn her attention back to the man whose arms were still wrapped around her body. Mr. Massera stirred up such a conflicting mix of emotions. She wanted to work with him, she wanted to fuck him as well, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to believe him. Not fully, anyway. Not yet. Maybe never.

Rosa leaned over to press a light kiss on Mr. Massera's cheek, murmuring, "You have piqued my interest, mon beau. Trust, however, as we once discussed, is a two-way street."

"What are you trying to say?" he grunted, fingers tightening at her hip.

"I cannot give you my trust," she explained softly, choosing to take a shot in the dark, "until you tell me about your connections to Leonardo Vosa..."

Mr. Massera's body tensed slightly around her, and, when his devil-black eyes flickered with recognition at the mention of Vosa's name, Rosa sensed that her shot in the dark—had likely hit its mark.

❧

Dio, non ho mai voluto più una donna. Spero, un giorno, di farti supplicare di essere la mia puttana e solo la mia puttana, in modo che la tua piccola figa perfetta possa essere scopata e goduta nel modo che merita.

God, I have never wanted a woman more. I hope, someday, to make you beg to be my whore and only my whore, so that your perfect little pussy can be fucked and pleasured in the way it deserves.