His voice sounded so soft and melodic.

Gentle.

Soothing.

Exactly as she remembered.

Yet, a soul-deep dread ran down her spine.

Rosa stared into the cold, blue eyes of the man who had, once upon a time, not so long ago, put her through hell and back, and a deadened feeling numbed her senses. She became emotionless, heartless, lifeless, sitting still as a statue between her two daunting jailers.

A survival mechanism, perhaps?

Unlike the paralyzing terror that had defeated Rosa in Moulin's hotel room, this fear felt far more removed from her person.

Time continued to flow.

Breaths dragged in and out of her lungs.

The sun was rising.

As their cab crept down the streets of Madrid, she became a passenger trapped inside her own horror movie, watching it play out in real time.

Despite his calm demeanor, Mesrine was going to skin her alive. She was sure of it.

With far more poise and composure than she actually possessed, Rosa demanded in a quiet murmur, "Comment m'as tu trouvé?"

How did you find me?

"Hugo," came Julien Mesrine's reply.

"Hugo... Granger?" she repeated with widening eyes.

The ugly blonde fuck she had tossed into the Atlantic with Cristiano?

"Oui. Hugo Granger était l'un de mes hommes. Avant, je présume, Massera l'a tué."

Yes. Hugo Granger was one of my men. Before Massera killed him.

He knew about Hugo's death?

"Fuck," Rosa muttered under her breath.

It appeared Mesrine hadn't changed much at all. He still had eyes and ears in every corner of the criminal underworld.

Mesrine coughed. "Quand Hugo t'a vu ce soir-là au club marseillais, il m'a tout de suite fait un rapport."

When Hugo saw you that night in the Marseille club, he reported back to me right away.

Rosa's expression darkened. "Je vois."

I see.

"J'ai toujours soupçonné que tu avais simulé ta mort il y a toutes ces années. Depuis, j'essaie de te traquer."

I always suspected that you had faked your death all those years ago. I have been trying to hunt you down ever since.

Rosa could only hum in distress as her mind began to wrap itself around the direness of her circumstances.

Was Mesrine planning to put her out of her misery soon?

It seemed likely. Maybe after he raped her a few times and knocked her around even more. He had always been a sadistic, vengeful monster, and, in his eyes, she was someone who had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

A defeated resignation sank in. It was followed by a wash of regret. After the way she had left things with Cristiano, he wouldn't come for her even if she didn't show up at the airport. She was going to die without ever seeing her 'mon beau' again.

Would he miss her once she was gone from this world?

Would he mourn her?

Just a little?

Rosa's heart squeezed with an unexpected clench of sorrow and longing.

She wouldn't even be able to reunite with Nijah. Her baby was in heaven. She was most definitely headed for hell.

Fate was such an unkind mistress.

Sharp, unwanted tears stung her vision. Her eyes closed for a moment. She managed to hold them at bay.

If only, if only—

Forcing the tragic yearning from her heart, she asked in a small voice, "Je suppose que vous n'avez traversé tous ces problèmes que pour me trouver, alors vous pouvez me tuer?"

I assume you only went through all this trouble to find me, so you can kill me?

His reply came instantly, "Pourquoi voudrais-je que tu meures alors que tu es plus précieux pour moi... vivant?"

Why would I want you dead when you are more valuable to me... alive?

Rosa's eyebrows shot up with alarm.

What did he want with her, then?

Mesrine grunted at one of the bullish bodyguards who was holding her down, "Montrez-lui la fille."

Show her the girl.

Rosa's heart made a panicked leap inside her chest.

What... girl?

The bald fucker to her left pulled out a plastic bag and removed several photographs from the sleeve.

Four photographs dropped onto Rosa's lap. She released an audible gasp. All of them featured the same girl. A petite child with amber-colored eyes and dark, wavy hair and an olive-toned complexion. In disbelief, Rosa quickly scanned the pictures. The preschool-aged princesse was smiling and sitting on Mesrine's lap in the first image. Crying in Mesrine's arms in the second one. Playing with a doll by herself in the third. Eating a cookie with Mesrine in the fourth photograph.

The girl appeared close to four-years-old. She would be around the same age as—

"Nijah?" Rosa breathed out in a trembling sigh.

—if her baby had lived.

Rosa's mind began to spiral.

Non, non, non!

This was impossible.

Nijah was dead. Gone. Rosa had watched the little one draw her last breath. With her own tear-soaked eyes. She had held Nijah's tiny, lifeless body in her arms all night. Wailing and sobbing as wave after wave of grief nearly overtook her sanity.

And yet, and yet—

Rosa took another look at the photographs. She couldn't help but question the soundness of her memories. This sweet, perfect, little girl looked so much like Nijah.

A crazed, frenzied, desperate sense of hope filled her soul.

What if, what if—

Mesrine's voice, low and soft, cut through her tide of madness, "Sais-tu ce que je veux de toi, ma moitié?"

Do you know what I want from you, my other half?

Ah, the catch.

There was always some kind of catch with Mesrine.

Immediately, her mind snapped back to reality. Rosa glared at the blue-eyed monster through the rearview mirror. For a minute there, he almost had her. Hook, line, and sinker.

How could she forget?

Mesrine was forever full of the most evil brand of bullshit. He was a puppet master. A weaver of lies, and a bender of truths whenever it served his whims and purposes. The man was a gaslighter of the highest order. She was a nobody. She was simply his plaything. Rosa resisted the age-old pull to submit and surrender to him.

Old habits were hard to break, though.

In this critical moment that threatened to shatter Rosa's sensibilities, a flare of strength emerged from hidden depths in her consciousness.

Is it not possible for a woman to be a whore and a warrior at the same time?

Be whatever you want to be, Miss Lenoir, regardless of your past, and do not let anyone tell you otherwise.

Cristiano's words had seemingly come out of nowhere, but, right then, Rosa clung to them with all her might.

Silently, Rosa reminded herself of the brutal truth: Nijah was dead. She would be delusional to believe otherwise. Mesrine had probably snatched up some poor child who resembled Nijah and taken some photographs with her. For the sole purpose of manipulating her. To throw her off her game. To make her his puppet, his slave, his whore again.

Rosa set her jaw.

Mesrine had her outmuscled at present. Three to one. Her body was restrained, but her mind remained free. She might be able to outthink him yet. Rosa refused to give in without a fight even while paranoia continued to trickle through her veins.

She switched to English, "I do not know, but I am sure you will tell me."

Speaking to Mesrine in French felt too intimate. Too familiar. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of reliving any part of their sordid past together.

Mesrine replied in English as well, "I am looking for a new Hugo since my old one is dead."

Rosa frowned. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Hugo was keeping a close eye on Massera for me. I hear you have become rather close with that Italian asshole as of late."

Damn.

Word traveled fast.

Rosa remarked with a noncommittal expression, "Have I?"

What a small, shady world they lived in.

Shrewdly, she considered the likelihood of Rodrigo snitching to Mesrine like a little, singing bird after their run-in in the Pigmalión?

Could Rodrigo be one of Mesrine's informants?

Rosa couldn't say for sure, but she was definitely suspicious. The timing of all this felt too coincidental.

Mesrine ignored Rosa's comment and proceeded as though she hadn't spoken, "De León and Favreau and Moulin are all gone."

Did he know that she was the one who had unalived all three of them?

Perhaps, in Mesrine's mind, she was still the same pliable, submissive girl he had been able to oppress and abuse?

He never had the chance to witness her deadly, dangerous side after they parted ways, after all.

Mesrine rambled on, "I am well aware of Massera's agenda against me. I feel like you would be useful in helping me take him down before he takes me down."

Understanding dawned on Rosa.

Was this the real reason why Cristiano had shot Hugo in Lisbon?

Not to save her?

But to save himself?

The tricky, manipulative bastard.

How predictable of him to use Hugo's death as an opportunity to garner her trust. To rally her assistance to dispose of the body. To play hero to her damsel when he was actually the one in distress. She wasn't even upset or surprised at this point. He was mafia, after all.

Rosa gave Mesrine a long, hard look. "You want me to spy on Massera for you?"

Mesrine bowed his head gracefully. "Oui."

Rosa released a sharp bark of laughter. "Massera is not the kind of man anyone would want to fuck over. I am not interested crossing him."

Their vehicle zipped by a tree-lined street with upscale boutiques and shops. "I am planning to reward you."

She eyed him warily. "How?"

"I will take you back, ma moitié. No questions asked. Our little Nijah needs her mère. I want us to be a family again."

Did he really expect her to believe in his stark raving version of reality?

She was no longer a mother. They were no longer a family. The little girl in the photographs looked like Nijah, but she wasn't Nijah. Nijah was lost to them, and Rosa would rather die than return to Mesrine's side.

Although, she knew better than to voice her thoughts aloud.

For now, Rosa needed to play along with Mesrine's twisted game if she wanted a hair's breadth of a chance to escape this ordeal.

All she dared to offer in response was—

"I miss Nijah with my whole heart."

He inquired, "Does this mean you will come back to us?"

Anxiously, she wondered if he believed in his own delusions. Mesrine tended to suffer from short bouts of mania from time to time.

Who was the child, anyway?

Did Mesrine think that she was actually Nijah?

Or had the monster finally come to terms with the hand he played in Nijah's death?

Rosa stammered, "I-I do not know..."

For a second, pure rage flashed in Mesrine's pale blue eyes. His fingers gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Rosa recoiled out of habit, but then his fury disappeared. He didn't lash out at her.

In a calmer, more even-toned manner, Mesrine countered, "Then, I will kill the girl and take you back. By force. If necessary."

Her head snapped up with dismay. "What?"

The cab was now rolling down Calle de Sambara, and it became clear to Rosa that, if she actually managed to escape from Mesrine's clutches today, she might be forced to ally herself with Cristiano regardless of whether or not she trusted the man in full. Mesrine would never let her go now that he found her. Like wind, like water, she needed to adapt to this dangerous new terrain. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and partnering with a tricky, manipulative bastard like Cristiano felt necessary if she wished to fend off a monster like Mesrine.

Mesrine cooed at her, "Never forget. You belong to me, Inès. You will forever belong to me."

Rosa's insides seethed with disgust at his words, but she forced herself to maintain a neutral, accommodating expression on her face. Gone was her sass. Her fire. Her bite. Years of experience had taught her never to fight back. Not openly, anyway. Mesrine enjoyed holding the upper hand, and he didn't respond well to even the slightest hint of insubordination or retaliation.

So, Rosa did what she had always done with him: Smile and lie through her teeth until she could remove herself from his warpath.

Quietly, she asked, "Did you miss me, Julien?"

He gave a long pause.

She prompted him again with his favorite term of endearment, "Ma moitié?"

This seemed to break down his barriers.

"Every fucking day," he finally confessed.

"I missed you, too," Rosa replied with a faint smile.

She had never been happier without him in her life, but her feigned admission seemed to please Mesrine.

In begrudging tones, he admitted, "I know I may have been harsh with you from time to time, but never doubt my love for you. No man will ever love you as much as I do."

"I know," Rosa responded agreeably. "Our love is unlike any other."

Mesrine grunted in approval.

Rosa poured on more honey, "I have been feeling so lost on my own, but I was too ashamed to go back to you."

If she didn't put up a little bit of resistance, then Mesrine might get suspicious of her intentions.

He contended, "You should be ashamed, but know that you belong with me."

Rosa hesitated before grumbling, "I did not think you would want me back."

"I want you more than ever."

Obsessive fucker.

She let out a forlorn, breathy sigh. "But I am scared."

Mesrine scoffed, "Of what?"

Rosa knew exactly what to say to please him, to feed his ego, "Of how much I need you. Without you, Julien, I have become nothing."

His entire countenance brimmed with smug satisfaction. "I am glad you finally realize this. Are you going to help me with Massera, then?"

Lies kept sliding off of her tongue so readily. "Oui."

"That is more like it."

"I am yours, Julien. Forever. Always."

Mesrine threatened, "I hope you are not lying to me."

"I am being honest with you," she insisted. "Kill me now if you do not believe me."

Right away, the bodyguards on either side of Rosa took her up on the invitation. They drew their guns. Both barrels were aimed at her temples.

Mesrine challenged, "You want me to put a bullet in you? Right now?"

"Yes," Rosa declared without a trace of fear, "I would rather die than have you doubt me."

Her ballsy remark was half true. She would rather die than return to Mesrine.

Several long, tense beats dragged between them.

Rosa's heart hammered away in her chest. She was gambling her life on Mesrine's claim. The claim that she was more valuable to him alive than dead.

Did he value her enough to keep her around?

Or were her brains about to get blown out?

Rosa uttered a silent prayer for her soul, readying herself to become a blood-splattered corpse in the next second or two.