Chapter 7 - A Scent of Sulfur and Bitter SaltBy 4:00 AM, the sea mist over the lagoon had blown out toward the Adriatic, leaving the sky washed in a brilliant, crystal-clear sheet of sapphire and silver.
The waters of the Grand Canal below the balcony were calm, reflecting the brilliant winter moon that hung over the domes of the Salute like a curved silver coin.
Lorenzo and Chiara stood together on the private master loggia of the palazzo, forty meters above the singing tide.
The cool night breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind them, carrying the clean scent of ocean salt, curing pine, and the sweet warmth of the olive wood smoke from the hearth.
Lorenzo held Chiara from behind, his massive, scarred arms wrapped securely around her waist, his chin resting gently against the dark silk of her hair.
Her left hand rested over his, the heavy platinum band and the seven-carat sapphire ring catching the silver glow of the stars.
"Are you tired, Donna Chiara?" Lorenzo whispered into her ear.
Chiara leaned back against the broad, solid warmth of his chest, smiling up at the starlit sky, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against her shoulder blades.
She thought of the drafty subterranean workshops, the smoking iron tongs tearing through her canvas smock, the thirteen hundred euros a month in her bank account, and the moment a man with a sea serpent tattooed across his throat had boarded the palazzo and demanded a chair for his wife.
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"Not anymore, Lorenzo," Chiara whispered back, turning in his arms to cup his rugged, handsome face in both of her hands. "Tonight, our lagoon is finally home."
He smiled—the soft, peaceful smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole—and kissed his wife beneath the Venetian stars.
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