Gone Rose, Mafia’s Regret
I paused at the door, not looking back, and said every word clearly, "He never truly saw me, so what is there to regret?"
Walking out of the Federal Building, the late autumn wind cut through the Manhattan streets like a knife.
In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of a French restaurant, I suddenly spotted a familiar figure.
Enzo was wearing his usual custom black suit, his profile sharp and cold. Bianca, on the other hand, wore a white haute couture gown, looking like a pure swan as she looked up at him and smiled.
It was a match that would make anyone jealous.
Enzo held a peeled truffle chocolate, feeding it into her mouth, then gently wiped a crumb from the corner of her lips with his