The gondola glides slowly through the golden hues of Venice, and with it the fate of Lorenzo Vendramin, returning from a mission that brought him face to face with truth and deception. His return to Palazzo Morosini marks the beginning of a new investigation, more subtle and dangerous than he had anticipated.
Amid secret registers, erased names, and invisible masterminds, the Serenissima reveals its most ambiguous side. But it is the sudden disappearance of a young woman—intelligent, vibrant, and mysterious—that truly shakes Lorenzo, dragging him into a maze of lies that combines power, faith, and emotion. In the coppery light of the Venetian sunset, every word becomes a clue, every silence a threat. And the truth, like the water of the canals, seems ready to swallow anyone who dares seek it.
In the heart of the Serenissima, amid political intrigues and forbidden passions, Lorenzo Vendramin returns from Mantua with a ring that weighs like a sentence
Stories. 1572 – Carnival of Blood. Chapter 21: The Gonzaga Ring and the Disappearance of Elisabetta
The gondola slid beneath the Venetian sun with the same measured slowness with which Lorenzo, that morning, measured the beat of his own heart. The narrow streets passed by like pages being turned: men at work, women washing linen, the smell of the sea mingling with that of cooking from the warehouses.
Pietro walked beside him on the pier — a calm, focused shadow, ready to vanish in an instant if necessary. Lorenzo held the small chest containing the ring he had recovered at the court of the Gonzagas, and every so often he opened it, staring at it, as if to make sure it was not another trap. He crossed the doorway of Palazzo Morosini like a man returning to the center of his own world: familiarity was not a comfort, but a weapon.
The hall smelled of wax and spices; a few oriental caskets peeked from alcoves.
A page recognized Lorenzo and, with a respectful nod, led him to the study. The room was as always: maps hung on the walls, ledgers neatly aligned on dark shelves, and the globe in the corner seemed to await a spin. Girolamo Morosini sat behind his walnut desk, pipe lit between his fingers — a thin thread of smoke coiling lazily in the light — his gaze stripped of unnecessary pleasantries.“Vendramin.” Morosini’s voice allowed no warmth, yet there was a measured note of it beneath the discipline. “You look like a man returned from a place that divides the world into before and after. Speak.”...
