Mango walked back into the living room, two glasses in hand. Ice clinked softly against the sides—just the way she’d noticed he liked it before.

This was the part she enjoyed most. The beginning. When everything was smooth. Simple. Before it got…complicated.

John was still there, perched on the arm of the couch. She half-expected him to be gone, but surprisingly, he wasn’t. His shirt and pants were still damp from her little accident, arms crossed, looking disinterested. And yet—he hadn’t left.

Interesting.

Mango wondered what kind of man he was. Was he actually waiting on a drink? His previous glass had been full enough to be fresh, yet the ice had already melted.

She smiled as she approached, offering him one of the glasses.

John eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Rum and Coke,” Mango said. “No idea what you had before, but who doesn’t like rum and who doesn’t like Coke?”

“Someone who likes Pepsi.”

She giggled. “You’re funny.”

John took the drink cautiously, swirling the ice as if checking for something.

He’s careful, she thought. Good. Cautious men don’t do anything stupid. But with cautious men, you have to take your time.

“Thanks,” he said. Then he stood to leave.

“Aww, going so soon?” Mango asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah.”

She tilted her head to the side, looking as innocent as possible. “A pretty girl gets you a drink, and you don’t even ask her name?”

John snorted. “Why should I?” He took a step away.

Mango smiled. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

He froze.

Gets them every time, she thought, hiding her smirk behind a sip of her drink.

Slowly, he turned to look at her.

“My name’s John,” he said.

“Wow. Thanks for the fake name.”

John chuckled as she sauntered up to him. “My name’s not fake,” he said. “You asked.”

“What’s yours?”

“Mango.”

“Mango?”

“No thanks,” she teased, “I’m twice as sweet.”

“What are you, a stripper?”

“Sometimes,” Mango said with a shrug.

Technically, that wasn’t a lie. She had been one. Whenever the job required it, she could play the part. But God, she hated stripping. It was the laziest cover in the book, yet men never seemed to see it coming.

The worst part wasn’t even the dancing—it was the damn heels. The unsanitized poles. The slippery ones that sent girls crashing to the floor like clumsy ballerinas.

If she could avoid stripping, she did.

John smirked. “Hmm. I thought something was weird about you.”

Something about his tone made her smirk falter.

“Weird? Weird how?” she asked. Her mind started reviewing the conversation she had earlier at the warehouse with her employer for any sort of guidance.

***

At the dusty warehouse, Mango waited on an answer. The bald man was silent and so Mango sat back down and gave a pouting face.

“You’re not going to tell me why you want to kill your brother?” she asked.

“I want you to kill my brother because I told you to,” the bald man said flatly.

“So there’s nothing else in it for you?”

“Well, not that it matters to you,” he said. “But once he’s dead, the old man will have to change his will.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Mango smirked. “Ah. So it is personal. Not just business.”

“It’s always business,” the bald man said. “This time, it just happens to be both.”

From the back of the warehouse, a low rumbling noise echoed through the steel walls. The bald man and his two goons flinched.

Mango didn’t.

“Relax,” she said, crossing her legs. “It’s just the air conditioning kicking in.”

She slid the silver briefcase under her chair and pulled a small notepad and pen from the tight leather bodysuit hugging her frame.

“So, where do you want it done?”

The bald man reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper. He handed it to her.

Mango unfolded it.

An address.

The handwriting was terrible—so bad she had to squint. She almost told him to rewrite it, but what would be the point? The letters, though messy, had been formed with care. Meaning this was the best he could do.

“He’ll be at this address in two weeks,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“His best friend’s throwing an away party? Oh, he’ll be there. It’s the last of his close friends going away.”

Mango tapped her pen against the notepad. Something felt odd. “I’ll take the money,” she said. “But seems like you could’ve hired someone else for this.” She tilted her head. “I mean… he is your brother. Doesn’t that make him special?”

“He’s no brother of mine!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the table. The room was silent for a moment while he composed himself.

Touchy subject, thought Mango.

“Besides,” said the bald man, “He won’t see you coming.”

“Why’s that?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say I have a certain… repertoire of people I like to hire.”

Mango smiled. “I can see that.”

Behind him, his two goons exchanged a glance but said nothing.

“You don’t get to be the son of a crime lord,” he said, “without learning how to watch your back around certain people. I’ll be damned if he gets anything.”

***

John shrugged. “Weird like I’ve never seen you before.” He took another sip of his drink. “Lawrence usually hires the same strippers every time. I think he’s in love with one of them.”

Mango frowned. She wasn’t some common ho.

She didn’t care who her target was—he didn’t get to talk to her like that.

“I was invited by a friend,” she said coolly.

John nodded, stepping closer. He downed half his drink in one gulp.

Standing next to him now, Mango realized just how tall he was. Not that it mattered. They all fall the same.

Still, she did like tall men.

But something had shifted in him. His posture, his presence. His earlier indifference had faded. He wasn’t close enough to be intimidating, but there was a weight to the air between them. A shift in energy.

And from this distance, Mango caught his scent.

What is that? Lavender-based. Unexpected. Clean.

And, of course, the sharp undertone of Corona—probably thanks to her.

But the lavender… she’d smelled it before. Somewhere.

She just couldn’t remember where.

It was an odd choice for a man. But just as odd, she didn’t find it feminine at all.

In fact, the fact that someone his size—broad, tall, dangerous—wore something like that made it feel even more masculine. A man secure in himself. A man who knew exactly what he was doing.

A man who, at this very moment, was trying to pick apart her lies.

She needed to stay sharp.

Mango pointed toward the group of girls she had walked in with.

“One of them, I suppose?” John asked.

“Yes,” she said smoothly.

He’s observant, she thought. Smart.

He had pretended not to notice her. Pretended not to care about this party at all. But in reality, he’d been watching everything the entire time.

She liked that. She liked when her prey was intelligent. It made things more interesting.

Now, all she had to do was keep lying.

“Which one?” John asked. His tone was casual, but his gaze was locked onto her. “Most of the people here, we know—either from campus or from the facility where James works.”

Mango curled her fingers slightly, resisting the urge to tense up.

John was staring her down, waiting for an answer.

She fought every muscle in her face, forcing herself to stay neutral. Yet she couldn't clench too hard or she would sweat. These moments were always tricky. By now, in most jobs, her target would already be dead. But this time, she still needed to get him alone. And they were surrounded by people.

A murder in a crowded room like this? That would be noticed.

Especially if the victim was someone everyone knew.

And now John was pressing her for specific information—information she couldn’t possibly guess or bluff her way through.

Time for a game.

The Assumption Game.

The deadliest round of Jeopardy she’d ever played.

One wrong answer, and the entire night, her job and reputation would be ruined.

The grand prize? Her life—and the rest of her half a million dollars.

Mango smiled. Let the game begin.

She pointed in the general direction of the girls. “Britney,” she said.

There was always a Britney.

Even though Mango was Caucasian herself, she had long since learned that certain names were everywhere among certain groups. Britney. Heather. Daphne.

Basic names.

And Britney was the perfect choice.

A name picked by parents who wanted their daughter to sound classy. A name popular among a certain type of rich girl. The type whose parents spent more time at country clubs than at home.

And judging by the way that group of girls acted—wild, snarky, careless—Mango could safely assume their parents didn’t care much about them.

The girls Mango had walked in with were draped in high-end fashion, head to toe in luxury brands. Everything they wore was brand new. Not well-worn designer pieces, but fresh purchases. And the way they danced? Like they didn’t care if their expensive outfits got ruined.

A clear sign of someone who had money and didn’t care about throwing it away.

And they were too young to have made that money themselves.

Which meant they were rich kids.

Which meant they probably had a trophy wife for a mother.

Mango had grown up around these people. She knew their type.

And one thing about trophy wives?

They loved money and status.

Britney had been a popular name for their daughters over the past few decades—partially because of celebrities, but also because it just sounded expensive.

So Britney was the safest bet.

John studied her for a moment. Then, finally, he exhaled, backing away slightly and loosening his posture.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "She didn't say you were coming. Though she rarely cares about doing things the right way. This was supposed to be an exclusive party."

Mango let herself relax just a fraction.

Point to me.