Rosa

Chapter 2

Rosa entered the doorway. She took a second to observe her surroundings. Remixes of the latest pop and hip hop hits floated towards her ears. Naps and Oboy and Doja Cat were playing in the background at a much more soothing volume than the dance floor outside.

Rosa's amber gaze scanned around some more.

The interior of the private lounge glowed with the same hellish crimson lighting as the rest of the nightclub. Although, it wasn't as dimly lit in here. The room was brighter. Everything was easier to see. An arrangement of contemporary black leather couches and steel and glass tables filled the space. Everything inside looked sleek and expensive, yet, at the same time, sterile and soulless.

Several meters away from where Rosa stood, she saw a portly, balding man with sunken eyes and dark features seated in one of the chairs. A weight of depression clung to him, making the man appear much older than his fifty-some years. There were a few empty shot glasses on the table beside him. His cheeks appeared to be ruddy and rosy from the alcohol.

Good, Rosa noted, he had already completed half of her task for her.

Feigning shyness, she addressed him like a hesitant, curious feline, "Êtes-vous... Monsieur Lavigne?"

Are you... Mr. Lavigne?

He looked over to her with unmasked interest. "Oui? Et tu es?"

Yes? And you are?

Through lowered lashes, Rosa introduced herself, "Je m'appelle Adèle. Je suis une danseuse de Pink Paradise."

My name is Adèle. I'm a dancer from Pink Paradise.

Pink Paradise was a well-known strip club run by les beaux voyous, the French mob, in Marseille.

Mr. Lavigne grunted in a distracted manner. His gaze had since dropped down to her breasts. He was a man, after all, and Rosa was well aware of the fact that her tiny bustier barely contained the spillage of her ample cleavage. She had worn it for this very purpose.

She doubted he was listening to her anymore. Rosa wouldn't be surprised if his actual brain had shut down now that his petit brain was in charge.

Good, she noted again, this idiot was going to be much easier to manipulate than his tall, dark bodyguard outside.

Rosa smiled warmly. "Moulin craignait que tu ne t'ennuies ou que tu te sentes seul ce soir. Il m'a envoyé pour vous divertir."

Mr. Lavigne frowned. Confusion marred his features.

In a mix of Italian and English, he revealed and requested, "Mi scusi, il mio francese... I mean, my French... is not so good. Do you speak... Italian? Or English?"

Giving an accommodating nod, Rosa responded to him in English, though, her accent was drenched in thick French and Arabic notes, "Ah, apologies, mon ami, I do not speak Italian very well, but we may converse in English if you like?"

He replied pleadingly, "Please."

"As I was saying," she started again, preparing to restate everything for him in English, "Moulin worried that you might get bored, or lonely, by yourself tonight. He sent me to entertain you."

A lewd grin lit up his aged face. "Oh, I see! How kind of Moulin. Come, then, dolcezza, I could certainly use your company tonight..."

With a smirk, Rosa sauntered towards him, stopping when she stood within arm's reach of the ugly, old brute.

Practically drooling, Mr. Lavigne reached out to pull her onto his lap. "You are so beautiful. If I may ask—how old are you?"

"I turned eighteen last week," Rosa purred as she moved to straddle his thighs.