Rosa

Chapter 6

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."