Inside the house, Hector and Hera sat me down and told me about Francheska Falcon.
“Everyone still believes she’s alive,” Hector said, his voice steady but cold. “She died while we were abroad, but no one knows the truth except me and Hera.”
I swallowed hard. “How did she die?”
Hector’s jaw tightened. “Her death is tied to the debt the De Santis family owes me.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Instead, Hera took over, describing Francheska in detail.
“She was timid, reserved, always hiding from the crowd,” she said. “She loved flowers, just like you. And she was a painter.”
My breath hitched. “She painted?”
Hera nodded. “She found solace in it.”
Just like me. Memories of my mother encouraging me to paint when my father died flashed in my mind. Francheska and I were eerily similar. It was almost as if fate had placed me in her shoes before I even realized it.
Hector leaned forward, his dark gaze piercing. “Your resemblance to her is uncanny, but it’s not enough. If you want revenge, you need to fully become her.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You need to change your face.”
The words slammed into me like a blow. I stared at him, frozen.