“Aronne Santini?!” Romeo’s voice thundered through the hall.

“This is impossible he’s dead!”

The man standing before Gosto bore a striking resemblance to him, down to the raven-black hair and sharp jawline. A cold smirk tugged at his lips. “Go on, brother. Say it. You know who I am.” His tone was ice, soaked in venomous loathing. But what unsettled me most wasn’t the hatred in his voice it was that I recognized it. It was the voice of the stranger I’d met in the garden the ...