With a sigh, Rosa muttered under her breath, "Get dressed, mon beau, and come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"The bathroom. I want to see Hugo for myself."

He frowned, eyeing his Beretta on the ground. "Can I have my gun back?"

"Non."

His frown deepened with displeasure as he began to put his shirt and trousers back on. "You will have to learn to trust me if we are going to dispose of his body together."

Within a few quick strides, Rosa slid behind Mr. Massera to shove the barrel of her Beretta into his back.

She murmured, "Do not take this personally, but I have been fucked over too many times to trust anyone."

All of a sudden, in a lightning fast blur, he whipped around without warning and grabbed Rosa's wrist. She gasped in distress. Using his superior strength, he twisted the gun away from her hand into his grip. Rosa realized, too late, that her first mistake had been coming within arm's reach of her opponent. She should've known better. She had grown too bold thinking he was unarmed. It was a mistake that she would take care not to make again.

"Enfoiré!" Rosa railed at him.

Asshole!

She lunged at him in a cold, calculated rage, attempting to snatch her weapon back. They tussled around the room for a few minutes. Rosa was faster, more agile, flitting around Mr. Massera like an angry hummingbird to his unconcerned hawk. Her steps were quick, her aim was sure, but the bastard always managed to keep her beloved Beretta just out of her reach.

Usually, Rosa never struggled this much to hold her own against a man, but, this time, her adversary wasn't a regular man. He was nothing like Mr. Lavigne or her other unsuspecting targets. This time, the man in question was an industry professional. As a bodyguard, he appeared to be even better trained at hand-to-hand combat than her. Rosa rarely fought her opponents face-to-face. She preferred to maim or kill at a distance with a gun—or take them on, up close and personal, using her femininity and sexuality as a completely different kind of weapon.

They continued to wrestle for supremacy.

Mr. Massera was stronger by far, and taller, bulkier. Trying to outmaneuver him in such close combat felt like fighting against a solid brick wall. In time, he caught Rosa by the waist and launched her towards one of the couches in the sitting area of her suite. The tufted, green velvet one. Rosa landed on the soft cushions with a frustrated grunt.

Her silk slip dress—a sexy little Versace number that was the same beautiful brown tone as her skin—was all out of sorts from their fight. The thin straps had fallen from her shoulders, and her skirt had ripped at the seams. Rosa's chest was panting from exertion as she glared death wishes in Mr. Massera's direction.

He had the audacity to smirk back at her.

The smug bastard!

Then, with the seasoned movements of a veteran firearm user, Mr. Massera emptied out the magazine and tossed her Beretta next to his discarded Beretta by the entryway.

Now, both pistols were out of their reach.

"Do not take this personally," he threw back at her in infuriatingly condescending tones, "but I have also been fucked over too many times to trust anyone. If I cannot have a gun, then you cannot have one, either."

She growled, "Fuck you!"

"Maybe later," Mr. Massera chuckled as his gaze dragged appreciatively over her bare legs and heaving breasts, "right now, we need to figure out how to get Hugo's body out of your suite without being seen."

Oh, yes.

Hugo.

Rosa wrinkled her nose in distaste. She wasn't looking forward to the task at all. Over the years, Rosa had been forced to make dozens of dead bodies vanish into thin air, but the effort of it all was downright exhausting and, oftentimes, messy and disgusting.

"I suppose you are right," she admitted with some reluctance. "We should take care of Hugo first."

Mr. Massera grunted in agreement.

Rosa released a grumpy sigh as they moved towards the bathroom. She let him walk ahead of her on purpose. Feeling vulnerable without her trusty Beretta in hand, Rosa was careful not to get too close to the man, to consistently maintain an-arm's-reach-long gap behind him.

Just in case he decided to come at her again.

When they arrived at the doorway to the bathroom, Rosa peered inside like a curious feline. Her amber eyes flickered with dismay at the gruesome scene that greeted her.

There—laying still as a statue in her black marble jacuzzi bathtub—was Hugo Granger.

The man was still a blonde fucker, still an ugly fucker, but, now, he was also a dead fucker.

Rosa did a quick check to see how much clean up would be necessary. Her gaze darted here and there for signs of damage and nasty stains.

No bullet holes in the tiles or walls.

No blood.

No guts.

No brain matter.

Good.

The bathroom looked pristine save for the corpse in the tub. Contrary to the dramatic spray and splatter of gunshot wounds shown in Hollywood movies, gunshot wounds in real life weren't as messy. It was a blessing, really.

Mr. Massera's deep voice cut into Rosa's thoughts as he prompted, "Any ideas on how to move his body?"

She gave a firm nod. "Wait here."

Rosa stepped away to find her phone. He immediately trailed after her, staying close to monitor her every move. The problem of Hugo's corpse had somehow bonded them in an unspoken truce, but the trust between them remained thin. She could tell that he was eavesdropping closely during each one of her phone conversations. After Rosa ended her last call, she turned her attention back to Mr. Massera.

She informed him, "I asked the concierge to deliver a wheelchair to my room."

He commented, "I thought that was ballsy of you."

Rosa tried to reassure him, "I plan to meet them at the door. I will not let anyone come inside. Do not worry."

"So, you intend to cart Hugo's body out of here on a fucking wheelchair?"

"Yes."

"What if someone notices that he is dead and not disabled?"

"It is well after midnight. Everyone is asleep, and Hugo's condition can be easily disguised with a hoodie and a pair of sunglasses. People are not as observant as you think. We just have to be quick about it."

Mr. Massera asked, "Are there security cameras in this hotel?"

"Only in the main lobby," she replied.

"How do you know for sure?"

She scoffed, "Because I always make sure to do my homework before I travel, and I would never stay in a place where my every move is being recorded."

Approval flashed across his handsome features. "That is good to know."

"As long as you and I avoid the lobby and go out the back exit, we can be invisible."

"Got it."

"I also secured a rental car and private boat reservation for us."

He remarked in mild tones, "You intend to dump Hugo in the sea?"

"Yes."

The corner mouth of his mouth quipped up. "You have thought of everything, haven't you?"

Rosa shrugged. "I try."

Thinking of everything was the only reason why all of her targets were buried six feet under, and she was still standing. Overthinking shit to the point of paranoia was necessary for survival. Not a choice.

Just then, a light 'knock-knock-knock' sounded at the door.

Rosa tensed slightly until she remembered that it was probably room service delivering the wheelchair.

Mr. Massera glanced over to her. "Are you ready to do this?"

Rosa glanced back at him, tightening her jaw, as she fired back, "Are you?"

Her inquiry hung in the air as his dark obsidian eyes fell upon her amber gaze. His usual cold, dead-eyed expression warmed ever so slightly as a moment of camaraderie passed between them.

Then, in that steady, quiet demeanor of his, Mr. Massera affirmed, "I am always ready for anything, Miss Lenoir. Nothing surprises me anymore."

She believed him.

She saw glimpses of herself in him as well.

"I guess," Rosa hummed, "we are more alike than I thought, after all."