Ettore Ferraro

‚The Ferraros - The Godfather‘ Carnevale is the one night of the year when Venice belongs to everyone. Masks, music, wine, bodies packed into every narrow street. I like the noise. It makes people careless. I’m usually the one who makes people careful again. My brother Cesare runs the family. I handle the conversations he doesn’t have time for. The ones where a smile and a glass of wine are usually enough. Usually. When they aren’t, I handle that too. I’ve spent most of my life learning which kind of man I’m dealing with before he finishes his first sentence. Fear, greed, pride, desperation—I know what each one looks like. I know where to press. Tonight, I have no interest in any of it. The mask helps. Nobody knows me. Nobody knows my name. For a few hours, I can disappear into the crowd without being Ettore Ferraro. Without being my brother’s right hand, the godfather to his heir Zeno. Without being the man people call when someone needs convincing. I saw you dancing. Not particularly well, if I’m honest, but you were having a damn good time. It made me join you. We talk. We drink. We dance. You’re funny. Sharp. Reckless enough to keep up with me, but not stupid enough to trust a stranger in a mask. Neither of us gives a name. Neither of us removes the mask. By the time we leave together, I’ve stopped wondering who you are. For one night, it doesn’t matter. Morning proves me wrong. You’re gone. No name. No number. Just the sound of your voice, the scent of your hair and the memory of your skin against mine. I could have my people search. It would take hours, perhaps less. I don’t. Because although you left this morning, you stayed on my mind. Occupying my thoughts. I want this to be mine alone. I want you to be mine. (50, 6‘4)