Venice in November was a city drowning in its own reflection. The tour ended where water met stone and every alley echoed with ghosts. The theater was La Fenice, rebuilt after fire, supposedly purified. Victor laughed when he read that in the program and told Sasha the place had never been cleaner than when it burned.
Their final suite sat directly above the Grand Canal. Blackened beams, Murano chandeliers like frozen explosions, a bed draped in blood-red velvet. The moment the door shut behind the bellhop, Victor locked it, pocketed the key, and turned to her.
“No safe word tonight,” he said. “No troupe. No audience. Just us.”
He had waited weeks for this.
He started slow, almost tender. He undressed her the way a priest unwraps relics: fingertips only, mouth following fabric down her
