She smiled at him when he ended the kiss, “Do you think we can steel the hope of the late prisoners?”

He frowned, “Prisoners?”

“The famous name of the bridge refers to the sighs of prisoners who, passing from the courtroom in the Doge’s Palace to the prison, sighed as they took a last look at freedom glimpsing the lagoon through its small windows. You’ve never been inside the bridge?” He shook his head. “We should go tomorrow morning.”

“I’d love to, baby.” He grinned at her.

“Did you know that Casanova was one of the most famous inmates of the prison? He escaped onto the roof one night, reentered the palace, and was let out through the front door as if he were a magistrate working late.”

“Casanova… You know the most peculiar things, don’t you?” He never felt so happy in his whole life. He had never dreamt of finding a woman like her.

“Do you know how many women he bedded during his life?”

He shook his head, amazed. “No, but you do.”

“He boasted in his memoirs that he had a hundred-and-twenty-two lovers. The question is,” she wiggled her brows at him, teasing, “did he satisfy them all?”

“The legend says he did,” he chuckled, “but what matters to me is: Do I satisfy you?” he murmured on her ear.

“I’ll answer,” she bit his earlobe, “this ridiculous question” and she kissed his throat, “back at the hotel room.”

He cupped his face and stared deeply into her eyes, “I can’t wait, baby.”


Saturday, February 6th, 2010.

9.30 a.m.

Ethan nuzzled Sophia’s neck. “Wake up, lazybones. Breakfast is here.”

As always, he was already up and dressed before her.

What on earth he does to me to make me sleep late, I can’t fathom. “Good morning.” She stretched lazily on the bed and blinked. Saturday the sixth! “Oh! Ethan!” She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him, “Happy birthday, my dear.”

She kissed him on the lips and jumped from the bed. Grabbing a wrap, she opened the chest of drawers digging with one hand under her clothes for his gifts while the other struggled to tie her wrap. She turned to him, hiding two boxes behind her back. He grinned at her sudden clumsiness.

“I have something for you. I hope you like it.”

His azure eyes sparkled with love. “The best gift you can give me is your smile.”

“Very well,” she smiled broadly at him. “Seems I have made the right choice.” She handed him the smaller box from her back and handed it to him with a quick kiss on his cheek. “But first, this.” She put the box in his hand. “This reminds me of your eyes. I had them made for you.”

He first opened the cream and navy card attached to the box.


Venice, February 6th, 2010.

Dear Ethan,

I wish you the same happiness you have given me.

Sophia.


He kissed her on the lips, enchanted. “You’re so sweet, baby.”

From a black velvet box, he removed a pair of classic square cufflinks and four shirt studs. Each one featured a three carat cushion-cut Brazilian Paraíba tourmaline almost the exact color of his eyes set in platinum.

“Sophia, darling…” he breathed. “They’re extraordinary. Where did you find such a gem?”

“Well, the Paraíba tourmaline is Brazilian.” She lifted a shoulder, dismissing all the trouble she had been through to locate the exact color and size she wanted. The gems were very rare. And the color she had chosen, even more so.

“The color is exquisite, isn’t it? Just like your eyes.” She smiled at him. “Now. This isn’t your main gift, but, I think you will like it the most.” A big, rectangular bluish-gray silk box from Buccellati wrapped with a gray shiny ribbon appeared from behind her back. “Open it,” she beckoned.

He eyed her askance and opened the box taking out another case. He lifted the lid slowly, blinking when he looked at the intricate silver frame that encased a photo of him embracing a smiling Sophia, in front a beautiful sunset at his manor in Scotland they had visited the previous weekend. At the bottom of the photo was a message in her handwriting, in dark-green ink.


Thanks for bringing me back to life. S.


It took his breath away.

“Oh, baby.” He sat there, frozen, looking at the photo and at the message, in complete wonder. This woman is absolutely perfect. “Sophia… What have I done to deserve you?”


7.50 p.m.

Sophia admired Bianchi’s work on her hair. The diamond headband Ethan had given her earlier that afternoon shimmered in the mirror. It was similar to the one by Swarovski she had tried on yesterday.

He is really crazy. She shook her head, a broad smile on her face, and reapplied the lipstick when she heard Ethan cursing in the bedroom.

“Need some help?” she inquired, entering the bedroom. She first noticed two Venetian velvet capes on the bed: one plain and one hooded and lined with white ermine. Alongside them were identical Columbine black masks decorated with silver Italian lace and Swarovski crystal, two pairs of black gloves, a small, velvet-embroidered pouch handbag, a walking stick, and a black tricorn hat with black plumes.

Ethan stood in front of the mirror, wearing a gray wig, a black velvet dress coat finished with antique silver braids and breeches, a silver brocade waistcoat buttoned over a black shirt with cuffs and jabot lace, black knee-high socks, and black velvet shoes with a silver buckle and two-inch heels.

“I don’t know if this was such a good idea,” he spun on his heels facing her.

“What-” she stopped, openmouthed. She bit her lip to hold her laughter but wasn’t able to interrupt the twist of her lips.

“Laugh on,” his mouth curled up, too. “I’m ridiculous, I know.”

An unbidden grin appeared on Sophia’s face as she walked up to him and her fingertips touched his shaved jaw. “Have you gone crazy? Why did you do it?”

“It was that bloody Marco Bianchi’s idea.” He leaned his face on her palm, scolding. “He said that men from the eighteenth century didn’t have beards.” He shrugged.

Sophia giggled and shook her head. “You silly man.” She kissed his jaw, running her lips over it, “I like it better this way. You have a strong jaw.”

He captured her lips with his, appeased. “So it’s settled. No more beard for me.” He extended his bent arm, “Shall we, Your Majesty?”


They arrived punctually at eight-thirty. From the moment they approached the sumptuous Palazzo Pisani Moretta on the Grand Canal, Sophia’s imagination soared. Upon their arrival at the doorstep, they were welcomed into a fairy-tale world of dancers, singers, musicians, jesters, acrobats, and fire-eaters.

The façade of the palazzo was an example of Venetian gothic floral style with its two floors of six-light mullioned windows and ogival arches.

Inside the palace, the sensual and sophisticated decor depicted debauchery at its most extreme. Ancient decadent Rome mixed with Bram Stoker’s Dracula and creatures of hell. Representations of flesh abounded everywhere. Decadent sculptures and paintings of lascivious nudes proliferated. Devils, winged-demons, extravagantly dressed vampires and barely dressed pans, harpies, and fallen angels, some bare breasted, others covered only in body makeup, taunted the guests as they arrived.

The air resonated with the theme of the ball: Seven Dreams-Seven Sins. Candles were the only lighting and they were everywhere: in the candelabra, hanging from the walls and ceilings, and on tables, inside and around skulls on niches or consoles.

“God, Ethan. This is more scandalous than Carnival in Rio.”

“Never been to Rio.” He eyed her, “Are you shocked?”

“No, no at all.” She linked their arms. “We should go together, one day. It’s one of the most beautiful places in earth.” But deadly.

After drinking a glass of champagne, they were invited upstairs to the Noble Floor to dine by candlelight amongst lavish red-and-black décor.

The palazzo’s interiors, created in the baroque style, added the final touch to the decadent ambience.

They were directed to their table by a grim vampire who wore just a loincloth. He helped Sophia with her seat and left. Their table seated six but it was still empty.

“Can I leave you alone for a second?” As she nodded, he kissed her lips, “I’ll return in a minute, baby.”

Sophia looked around. The rooms were intimate and personal, silk paneled and with outstanding ceiling frescoes. Comedians and magicians walked among the guests, entertaining.

“Buona sera.” A man wearing a golden and black mask, similar to the one worn by the Phantom of the Opera, sat on the chair by her side. “Mi scusi, signorina.”

“Of course,” she answered in Italian. “Good evening.”

“You’re Italian?” he asked, in a cultured voice.

She looked around searching for Ethan. “No.”

“First time in Venice?”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Do you like it here?”

“Yes, Venice is stunning.”

The masked man smiled at her. “As are you.”

She startled.

“But, of course, my dear, you know that, don’t you?” The dark eyes behind the mask gleamed. “If they had a contest for the belle of the ball, you, undoubtedly, would win.”

My goodness. “Oh, please,” Sophia murmured and looked down at her pouch bag, playing with it.

“I’m Giulio Spedalletti. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Sophia,” she murmured.

“Just Sophia?”

“We’re at a masked ball. Identities aren’t supposed to matter here.” She smiled graciously at him.