The radio on the Vespa was fighting a losing battle against the wind, but the brassy blast of a trumpet cut through anyway. Marco leaned into the curve of the Amalfi coast, the scent of saltwater and expensive lemon trees sticking to his linen shirt.
"To never going back," she replied, as the chorus kicked in and the world turned Technicolor. fedez_tananai_mara_sattei_la_dolce_vita_officia...
Marco didn't look at his phone. Sofia didn't check the time. He just popped the cap off a cold glass bottle, the fizz echoing the rhythm of the song, and handed it to her with a wink. "To the sweet life," he said. The radio on the Vespa was fighting a
He skidded to a halt in front of a nameless bar with a neon sign that flickered Aperitivo . The bead curtain rattled as they stepped inside. The floor was checkered, the air smelled of espresso and bitter orange, and a jukebox in the corner was spinning a record that sounded exactly like the sun coming out. Marco didn't look at his phone