HEART FULL OF SCARS

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 Pablo Course 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 "Mr. Anthony."

Years ago, while fleeing from Palermo, the man formerly known as Signor Patrick shed his old life and stepped into brand new skin as Mr. Anthony seemingly overnight. Mr. Anthony 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, Mr Anthony'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. Anthony was a VIP guest, a frequent visitor of their VIP lounge.

The bartender informed her, "He's probably in the living room right now."

He's probably in the lounge right now.

"THANKS," she cooed.

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, "What do you want?"

What the fuck do you want?

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.

She murmured, "I am a gift from Mr Andy.".

The tall, dark one remained wary of her, asserting in harsh tones, "What kind of gift?"

She had to commend him. Even with her tits and ass on full display, lust didn't lower his guard.

Wryly, she drawled, "Andy sent me to dance for Mr Anthony."

Andy sent me to dance for Mr. Anthony.

Claude Andy was a trusted friend of Mr. Anthony. It had taken two weeks of careful reconnaissance to retrieve this precious bit of information and another two weeks to set all the pieces in play for her job tonight.

"You're here for... Anthony?"

His devil-black gaze lingered on her face, seeming to scrutinize her, attempting to read her.

She lowered her lashes. "Yes.

She kept her expression vacant and doll-eyed, betraying nothing of her knowledge about Mr. Anthony's true identity.

The blonde one piped up, "What's your name, bitch?"

She cooed at him, "Adele."

She always liked the name "Adele."

A shame it wasn't her name.

He barked at her, "Adele-what?"

She lied, "Adele Jack."

Her real name is "Pamela Williams".Due to an incident that claimed the life of someone close to her, the good side of her that goes with the name Pamela had died a longtime ago.

She was living with a ghost's name now.

The blonde continued to interrogate her, "How old are you?"

Her smile widened sweetly as she answered, "Eighteen."

She was actually twenty-six.

But Pamela suspected that pigs like Mr. Anthony liked their girls on the younger side.

They always did.

Might as well let the pig enjoy what little was left of his life.

The blonde one asked, "Are you armed?"

You armed?

She arched an eyebrow and struck an inviting pose, letting her near-naked form speak for itself, "Am I, my friend?"

Does it look like I am, my friend?

Aside from her bustier, panties, and stilettos, Pamela wore only one other accessory on her person.

A dainty, gold, oval-shaped locket dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. Engraved upon the surface of the locket: A crucifix. The 900 milligrams of thallium tucked within the locket was the only weapon she brought tonight. 10 milligrams per 1 kilogram of body weight was considered lethal. Mr. Anthony weighed around 90 kilograms. Pamela had prepared it just for him, this poison hidden behind a crucifix. The unholy in the holy.

It appealed to her dark, twisted sense of humor.

It was also an effective way to kill someone without getting caught.

Known as the "poisoner's poison," thallium was odorless, tasteless, colorless, hard to detect in autopsies, and, most importantly, slow-acting.

In a few days' time, Mr Anthony's friends and allies would be unlikely to trace his death back to her.

Pamela set her jaw.

It was go-time.

After weeks of prep work, she was more than ready to get in, get out, and get paid for this job. Irritation pricked Pamela as she eyed the guards standing in her way.

Well, maybe not quite go-time.

She needed to get through these two dumb motherfuckers first.

Over the next minute, Pamela let the blonde's beady eyes roam all over her body. He was likely searching for signs of hidden weapons. Pocket knives, razors, blades. Or maybe he was simply taking in the view. Pamela supposed she was a stunning sight to behold.

As the blonde leered away, he scoffed at her, "You never know. Bitches can hide all kinds of secrets in their bodies."

You never know. Bitches can hide all sorts of secrets in their bodies.

Pamela countered in steady tones, "If you want to look for me it will cost you."

If you want to search me, it'll cost you.

The blonde smirked, still eyeing her barely covered curves in a lecherous manner. "You don't look cheap."

You don't look cheap.

She preened shamelessly. "Of course not. God didn't give me this body for free."

Of course not. God didn't give me this body for free.

The tall, dark one interjected with a growl, "Enough! Come here, bitch. You can't come in until I say so."

Enough! Come here, bitch. You can't go inside until I say so.

Fearlessly, Pamela took a step towards him and mimicked his gruff assertiveness in a playful manner, "Come on! Let's see what secrets you can find about me."

Come on! Let's see what secrets you can find on me.

Ignoring her mischievous tone, he started patting her down-all business, no pleasure. His large hands caressed her everywhere in a very intentional, methodical manner. Light but thorough. Slow but nonsexual.

To Pamela's genuine surprise, she felt her skin begin to simmer ever so slightly from his touch.

His fingers chanced upon her necklace, plucking curiously at the gold chain.

He asked, "What is this?"

His dark eyes bore into her with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see right through her.

She had assumed that he was probably a mama's boy and a die-hard Catholic-as were most Italian men.

Pamela sighed tragically as her gaze swept towards her necklace, "This necklace belonged to my mother."

This necklace belonged to my mother.

The man kept his expression stoic and unreadable.

His heart didn't appear to be moved at all when he drawled, "Has he done it now?"

Did it, now?

Still, Pamela refused to give up.

She insisted softly, "My mother raised me to be a good Catholic. I never take that away."

My mother raised me to be a good Catholic. I never take it off.

More lies.

Pamela had never been a Catholic.

Although, there was a time when she believed in something other than the hell that had become her life, when she woke up to the sweet, doughy smells of her jadda's sfenj for breakfast, when she could sleep soundly at night in the safety of her ʾum and ʾab's home. Back then, she had been a good daughter, a good granddaughter, a believer in the good of people.

Sadly, her beliefs had since dissipated.

Pamela no longer believed in anything or anyone except herself.

Tension-filled seconds ticked by as the tall, dark man examined her necklace more closely.

Pamela took this time to examine him, too.

Up close, the man was a real sexy fucker. Handsome, symmetrical features. Black hair. Even blacker eyes. Tanned skin. A few tats here and there. The back of his right hand displayed a Gothic-looking black rose vine, full of thorns, wrapped around a cracked skull. Old scars, fresh ones, too, were scattered across his knuckles. He didn't look like someone who could be readily fucked around with, and yet-

A small ornate crucifix, much like the one on her locket, was inked on the side of his neck, a centimeter below his ear. It was as she suspected: He was a good Catholic boy.

His combination of the holy and unholy was sinfully attractive. There was no doubt about it. This fucker was hot. Dangerous.

Like her.

If needed, she'd seduce the man right then and there to distract him from taking her locket.

She wouldn't enjoy fucking him-she never enjoyed sex, after all-but she was willing to do it. Sex was a means to an end in her line of work. Sometimes, it could be used as a weapon.

Their eyes met. Black to gold. Amber to obsidian. She held his gaze with an exaggerated look of doe-eyed innocence.

He let go of her necklace.

Thank fuck. She wouldn't have to touch him. She might be somewhat attracted to the man, but she hated close sexual contact of any sort, especially with men. Relief flooded her entire being. Pamela was careful not to let it show.

Seconds later, though, a spike of alarm replaced her sense of relief. Pamela uttered a soft gasp as the man's palms slipped beneath the cups of her bustier and the lace of her panties. As he checked the underswells of her breasts and the upper curves of her buttocks, an unexpected spark of heat flared in her.

This unfamiliar surge of lust was... unsettling.

Instinctively, she decided to use her wiles to mask her unease.

Pamela teased him in breathy tones, "Do you appreciate this as much as I do?"

Are you enjoying this as much as I am?

His devil-black eyes flicked towards her.

Sternly, he ordered, "Behave."

She laughed darkly.

His hands continued to skirt across her body, inspecting here, inspecting there.

Her eyes followed his movements. For some reason, this man's touch felt strangely soothing on her skin. He didn't paw. He didn't grope. He wasn't rough. Not like other men. However, he certainly took his sweet fucking time. An eternity seemed to pass before the tall, dark man was convinced that she wasn't a threat.

Victory sang through her veins when, at last, he opened the door to let her into the private lounge.

He grunted, "So go ahead."

Go on, then.

Pamela smiled graciously. "THANKS."

Thank you.

He scowled at her. "Don't try anything funny. We'll be right outside."

Don't try anything funny. We'll be right outside.

She winked at him as her fingers toyed with the golden locket between her breasts.

"Don't worry, my handsome. If I do something naughty, you can punish me later."

Then, Pamela bent over in a slow, sensual descent to pick up her fallen trench coat, arching her back to emphasize the sweet curves of her tits and ass. She snuck a sly peek at the tall, dark man. At last, a glimpse of his lust seemed to be overtaking his sense of duty. His jaw was clenching. His dark eyes were riveted on her body.

With a small, pleased smile, Pamela swung her coat over her shoulder, brushed past him, hips swaying, stilettos clicking, and, like a wolf in lamb's lingerie, she stepped into the lounge to seek out her