In the beating heart of Venice, the Morosini Palace is undergoing days of feverish preparation: crates of gems and velvets pile up, horses and men-at-arms await the signal to depart for Antwerp. Girolamo Morosini, silent ruler of his kingdom of marble and money, orchestrates every detail with the precision of a general.
But beneath the surface of order, another current flows—that of feelings and secrets. Lorenzo, her right-hand man, hides a love that burns in the shadows for Elisabetta Mion, daughter of a notary of the Curia. As the city prepares for the journey and the lagoon sunsets turn golden, a clandestine letter triggers an irreversible fate. In the night, Elisabetta defies prudence to follow the call of her heart, but Venice does not forgive lovers. Among silent streets, still waters, and shadows that move too quickly, a gondola disappears into the darkness, and with it the breath of a promise. From that moment, nothing will be the same again.
Between mercantile intrigue, forbidden love, and a kidnapping in the lagoon night, the twelfth chapter reveals the dark face of sixteenth-century Venice
Tales. 1572 Blood Carnival. Chapter 12. The Disappearance of Elisabetta Mion
In those days, the Morosini palace knew no silence. From dawn until late into the night, the courtyard swarmed like an anthill, the rhythm of footsteps on cobblestones melding with the thud of loaded crates, the neighing of horses, and the clang of shoes being hammered by the farriers. The journey to Antwerp—long, risky, yet indispensable for business—required meticulous organization, and Girolamo Morosini demanded that nothing be left to chance.
The March air was humid, a blend of salt and mist, but when the sun managed to pierce the clouds it traced golden reflections across the marble façade, making the palace seem a great casket ready to open upon the world. Inside, in wide rooms scented with wax, servants hurried about with ledgers, scales, baskets of provisions, sealed barrels, covering cloths, and tack. Morosini’s voice—steady and authoritative—rose now and then like a command.
— I want the water drawn from the well of Sant’Alvise, not from Cannaregio — he told a servant.
— It’s fresher and lasts longer. And have the coopers check every iron hoop; I want no leaks on the road.In the loggia beneath the portico, two men were inspecting the wine stores. Barrels stood in neat rows with small, hand-written tags: Malvasia of Candia, Verona Red, Istrian White. Beside them, a wooden chest lined with pewter held the traveling glasses, because even far from Venice Morosini insisted on the same elegance as at home.....
