The basement air was thick with cigarette smoke, spilled gin, and the sharp bite of illegal whiskey. Red velvet curtains muffled the chaos of the main room while the jazz band upstairs pounded out a syncopated rhythm that vibrated through the floorboards. The speakeasy known only as The Red Rose was packed tonight, but the real action always happened in the back rooms.
Elizabeth Monroe slipped through the heavy curtain wearing a shimmering silver silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid moonlight. The hem stopped scandalously high on her thighs, and long strands of pearls swung between her small breasts with every step. Her dark bob was pinned with diamond clips, lips painted a dangerous crimson. She looked every inch the carefree flapper, but her eyes scanned the room with sharp
