Rosa’s face reflected her nervousness as she glanced at the tray. It was laid out with syringes, pills, and lines of powdered poison in neat rows. Her eyes snapped back to Luciano.
“I… I don’t do drugs,” she whispered, her voice rushed and desperate.
Reid poured whisky into a glass for Luciano—his usual ritual—but Luciano’s attention never left Rosa. A dark smirk curved his lips.
“I don’t believe you. Women like you—selling their bodies and chasing pleasure—don’t tell me you’ve never tasted this.” His gaze cut into her. “This is real fun, Rosie.”
He ground the half-burnt cigarette into the crystal ashtray until the cherry died. Reaching for the glass pipe, he took a slow, punishing inhale that made the contents hiss. He leaned back, neck muscles cording like wire as he held the smoke
