Rosa

Chapter 1

She slipped through the entrance like a shadow. A serpent. Inside the club, the clicks of her stilettos were immediately drowned out by the noisy crowd and thumping music. The nightclub was located in the Cours Julien district of Marseille. It was packed tonight.

She needed to be quick. Clean. Too many eyes and ears around.

Her senses kicked into overdrive. The smoky scent of cigarettes hit her nostrils. Red and pink neon lights cast sultry crimson hues throughout the dance floor. Hypnotic beats blew through the speakers. Everyone around her was dancing, drinking, getting high, and losing themselves to the chaos.

Her long black hair and brown skin glowed reddish beneath the lights, allowing her to blend into the madness. A faint smile rested on her lips. She knew the layout of this club like the back of her hand. Her stride was sure and full of purpose.

She always made sure to do her research, thoroughly, before showing up on site.

Her amber-eyed gaze cut through the mayhem of the intoxicated crowd, scanning for her target: An Italian man in his fifties who went by the alias "Monsieur Lavigne."

Years ago, while fleeing from Palermo, the man formerly known as Signor De León shed his old life and stepped into brand new skin as Mr. Lavigne seemingly overnight. Monsieur Lavigne had gone through great lengths to hide his real identity from the public. Recently, she had gone through even greater lengths to uncover it. Her task hadn't been easy. The fucker was good at hiding from the people who wished to kill him.

People—like her.

She chose not to bring her Beretta tonight. Too messy. This job required a certain level of discretion and finesse.

Otherwise, Monsieur Lavigne's estranged wife wouldn't have selected her for this job.

After flirting with a few of the nightclub staff, she learned from the bartender that Mr. Lavigne was a VIP guest, a frequent visitor of their VIP lounge.

The bartender informed her, "Il est probablement dans le salon en ce moment."

He's probably in the lounge right now.

"Merci," she cooed.

Thank you.

With that knowledge under her belt, she made her way to the private lounge tucked in the back of the club. The door to the lounge was, unfortunately, closed and guarded. Two large men stood on either side of the door. They eyed her with suspicion. She was studying them as well. The one on the right was taller and darker than his companion. Good-looking. The man on the left was blonder and beefier and pale as a ghost. An ugly fuck.

The tall, dark one demanded, "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

What the fuck do you want?

His French carried a thick Italian accent. Definitely not a native speaker.

With a graceful shrug of her slim shoulders, her black trench coat fell to the floor, revealing a flawless hourglass figure in an eye-catching lace bustier and silk panties. The black lace and silk melded perfectly to her sinful curves, leaving very little to the imagination.

Desire flickered in both men's eyes.

In perfect French, she murmured, "Je suis un cadeau de Monsieur Moulin."

I'm gift from Mr. Moulin.

Her French might be fluent, but her French accent was somewhat feigned. In another life, the Moroccan capital of Rabat—and not Paris nor Marseille—was where she had been born and raised. Rabat was where she first learned how to speak French. Luckily, with only a few tweaks of the tongue here and there, her Moroccan French accent was very passable for a metropolitan Parisian native.