Marco

Francesco escorted a woman across the marble steps toward me. She was wearing a lush red dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her heels clicked with confidence, hips swaying like she knew what I wanted.

Long dark hair, porcelain skin, light blue eyes—not as intense as hers, but the resemblance was enough to twist something in my gut.

Francesco stopped in front of me, a scowl on his face. “She looks like her,” he muttered.

“Don’t,” I said flatly, already lighting a cigarette.

He gave a quiet snort. “Right. You’re working on it.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered under his breath.

I didn’t think he...