Heart full of Love

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.