The damp, midnight mist creeping off the Grand Canal was cold, heavy, and scented with salt water, aged stone, and wet cedar.
High above the dark, glass-smooth water, the private marble loggia of the Palazzo Gritti-Badoer stood framed against the silhouette of San Giorgio Maggiore across the lagoon. Constructed from white Istrian stone, Gothic pointed arches, and gilded ironwork, the sixteenth-century palazzo served as Nemesis Capital’s discreet Mediterranean command center—a private sanctuary reserved for high-level sovereign restructuring away from the noise of public exchanges. Below the balustrade, the tide lapped softly against ancient wooden mooring poles, their reflections rippling across the dark, mirror-like canal.
I stood near the edge of the stone loggia, holding a crystal flu
