Rosa awoke the next morning.

Not all at once.

But in groggy, gradual increments.

Her mind and body didn't feel fully refreshed or rested. There was something about sleeping beside another person that made it impossible to relax her guard even in a subconscious, slumbering state.

Especially when that person was a trained killer with unknown intentions.

With eyelids still feeling too heavy to lift open, her hand crept blindly over to Mr. Massera's side of the bed.

The sheets felt cool and empty to the touch.

Shit.

Where did he go?

Her eyes blinked open and alert. Morning light poured through the window, stinging her vision as her gaze adjusted to the brightness. She sat up and glanced around the motel room in a sleepy stupor, searching for her missing bedmate. Rosa scanned the motel room—tiny television, rundown dresser, peeling wallpaper—until she found him standing in the corner of the room. Mr. Massera cut a tall and imposing figure. Rosa noticed that he was already fully clothed and drinking a cup of coffee.

Yawning, she grumbled, "How long have you been up?"

Mr. Massera's gaze flicked towards her. "Not long."

"What time is it?"

"9:08 am."

Already?

Today, at 10:00 am, Claude Moulin was set to attend a private auction sponsored by the Museo Cerralbo.

Rosa needed to get ready to go. She was planning to sneak into Moulin's hotel room while he attended the auction. There, she would await his return.

First—to question him about Mr. Massera.

Then—to unalive him for the rest of her paycheck.

Moulin's suicide note had already been written for him. Rosa was able to forge it in his own hand after mimicking some pen-to-paper documents obtained during her preparation weeks ago for Lavigne's assignment. She had also uncovered a bit of his medical history. Apparently, Moulin had suffered from chronic depression and anxiety ever since he became a lawyer. Thus, death by suicide wouldn't raise too many eyebrows with authorities or his underworld associates.

Sometimes, the levels of her own diabolical genius frightened her, but working smarter and not harder had always been Rosa's preferred method of doing things.

She leapt from the mattress like a student who was running late for class, sighing at Mr. Massera, "Why didn't you wake me?"

Without waiting for his reply, Rosa hustled across the room to get dressed. Her firm, rounded tits bounced along with her stride.

Mr. Massera's eyes followed her swaying breasts every step of the way. "What?"

The man sounded distracted. He looked distracted, too.

Wryly, Rosa called him out, "Enjoying the view?"

"I am only looking," Mr. Massera remarked mildly, "I will not touch."

"I plan to head out soon," Rosa informed him in a preoccupied manner as she shrugged into a fitted black blazer, sans dress shirt, with matching black trousers, "to earn the rest of my €100,000."

Even buttoned up all the way, the blazer cut a low, scandalous V down her décolletage.

"It seems we will both be put to work today," Mr. Massera murmured, allowing his eyes to wander appreciatively all over her as though she was his woman. "I will be out as well. If I do not return tonight, there is no need to wait up. We can touch base tomorrow morning."

She frowned at him.

He was planning to be gone all night?

Even though Rosa predicted that Mr. Massera wouldn't offer a straight answer, she still dared to ask, "Out? All night? Doing what, mon beau? I am curious."

Mr. Massera replied in his predictably vague demeanor, "Use your imagination."

Rosa rolled her eyes. "Just do not get killed before you pay me!"

She dashed into the bathroom to get ready.

"I will make sure to live," he called after her with a voice of amusement, "just to spite you."

Rosa taunted over her shoulder, "Spite me, then, s'il vous plait. I want my money."

She heard Mr. Massera's laugh echo from outside the bathroom. Then, Rosa ignored him completely as she brushed her teeth, washed her face, dabbed on some makeup, and styled her hair. When she was done, Rosa frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The natural curl in her dark tresses was beginning to come back. An uncomfortable feeling sank in her stomach. It was probably time to schedule another visit with her hairdresser.

For a straight perm.

Seven years ago, at nineteen, Rosa had been "promoted" from her usual duties to become Mesrine's private fuck toy. Right away, the brute made it known how much he despised her curly hair. Mesrine's list of preferences for how he wanted her to dress, to look, and to act as his woman was endless and absurd. He always tried to make her feel ugly. Not good enough. Inferior.

Their relationship had lasted less than a year, but it took a much longer time for Rosa to undo the damage Mesrine inflicted on her self esteem. Admittedly, she started buying beautiful, expensive things—clothes, shoes, bags—to help herself feel more beautiful and expensive. Shopping became her therapy. It helped her feel worthy.

To an extent.

But hair, unlike clothes or shoes or bags, couldn't be so easily swapped out or interchanged, and, stupidly, this superficial matter of hair was one of the few lingering insecurities in her psyche. Rosa felt ashamed for allowing Mesrine's shadow to loom over her, but she could still hear his voice in her head, telling her how she could only be desirable with straight hair. Not au naturel. Never au naturel.

A burst of resentment bubbled up inside her as she stared in the mirror.

Fuck Mesrine!

Fuck him to hell!

She was a fucking goddess with straight or curly hair!

Marching out in quick, stomping footsteps, Rosa exited the bathroom and grabbed her purse with one angry swipe.

Mr. Massera raised his eyebrows at her sudden change of mood. "Leaving... already?"

"Oui," Rosa muttered as she stepped into her black patent leather, red-soled Louboutin's.

Looking concerned, he started to ask, "Are you—"

But Rosa didn't let him finish. She was already out the door, off to kill a man.

Once Rosa made it out of the motel, she strolled down the sidewalk, stilettos clicking on the pavement, to find a busier intersection. From there, Rosa hailed a cab and got inside. She told the driver where to go in her clumsy Spanish, and soon they were rolling down the streets of Madrid towards her destination.

Based on the information Mr. Massera had provided in the manila envelope, Rosa knew that Moulin had checked himself into a very nice hotel, the Hotel Fénix Gran Meliá, in the Salamanca district, one of the wealthiest areas in all of Madrid.

Their motel, on the other hand, was located in the Ciudad Lineal district, and this district, unlike posh Salamanca, was considered to be a corridor of lower middle-class suburbs.

Meanwhile, Museo Cerralbo was nestled in the Moncloa-Aravaca district, an area brimming with clubs and bars to cater to the local students attending Ciudad Universitaria.

Moulin's hotel, their motel, and the museum were all relatively close to one another. Rosa quickly did the math in her head. Moulin's commute from his hotel to the museum would take approximately ten minutes. It would take her about fifteen minutes to get to his hotel. The auction was scheduled to start at ten o' clock and run until noon.

It was currently 9:48 am.

This meant Moulin had likely left his hotel by now to get to the auction on time, so his room would be empty once she arrived on site, and the man would, again, likely grab a bite for lunch after the auction ended, which left her a solid two to three hours to find a way into his hotel room, rummage through his belongings, and set up for her assignment.

Everything she needed was in her purse: Beretta. Hotel key card. A deadly cocktail of prescription drugs. Suicide note.

At 10:02 am, the cab pulled up to the front of Hotel Fénix Gran Meliá. Rosa paid the fare, stepped out of the vehicle, slipped on her sunglasses, and entered the hotel lobby with the quiet, subdued confidence of someone who had every right to be there. Without making eye contact with anyone, Rosa took the elevator up to the fourth floor where Moulin's room was located.

She pulled the key card from her purse.

Mr. Massera hadn't been lying when he handed Rosa the manila envelope. His men had, indeed, done much of the legwork for her, going so far as to provide a hacked master key card for the entire hotel. She would be able enter any room, once, undetected, until the hotel's next security software update.

Once more, against her will, Rosa found herself in awe of Mr. Massera's meticulous planning and resourcefulness. She would've never been able to secure such a powerful tool on her own. Clearly, the bastard commanded a group of talented associates under him. Rosa already knew about David, his middle man, the one who handled financial transactions. She guessed there was probably a hacker in the mix as well. Someone with the technological know-how to hack a hotel key card.

Pensively, the corners of Rosa's mouth turned down, grimacing, as the elevator continued to rise up, up, up—

It seemed, for whatever reason, Mr. Massera was quite keen on initiating her into his merry band of outlaws.

It almost felt like he was assembling a ragtag army of sorts?

A group of specialized individuals?

Each an expert in their field of crime.

Mr. Massera was going after some real sharks. Favreau and Moulin's deaths were bound to ruffle some dangerous feathers and shake up the entire establishment.

Once more, Rosa wondered: Why?

He wasn't behaving at all like a bodyguard.

He was acting like a man who wanted to become ca—

Rosa was unable to finish her final thought. The elevator doors dinged open then, and her mind snapped back to the task at hand.

Rosa made a beeline for Room 411. Moulin's room. At the door, she scanned her key card on the keypad. A soft, mechanical 'click' sounded, the door unlocked, and in Rosa went as though she was a guest entering her own domain.

Easy.

Effortless.

Rosa's guard began to rise as she glanced around Moulin's silent, seemingly empty room.

A little too easy and effortless, perhaps?