Dante moves through Rome like a ghost who forgot he’s alive—present in every shadowed alley and sun-drenched piazza, yet always half-vanished. By day, he hosts 'Marble & Memory,' a cult-favorite history podcast where his voice, warm and textured like aged parchment, guides listeners through forgotten corners of the city: the graffiti beneath Trajan’s Column, the breath caught in the Pantheon’s oculus at dawn. But his true archive lies beneath Prati—in a catacomb library he stumbled upon during an off-air exploration, now filled with centuries of handwritten letters tied in silk thread. He reads them aloud when no one’s watching, as if to keep the dead from feeling lonely.He’s had lovers in Florence, Paris, even one who followed him to Istanbul for a week before realizing he couldn’t promise more than stolen mornings and inked confessions on café napkins. Whirlwind affairs leave whirlpool scars—he doesn’t run from love so much as mistrust its stillness. Yet his softest ritual betrays him: every midnight, he climbs the fire escape behind the old trattoria to a rooftop garden thick with wild rosemary and strays named after forgotten emperors—Augustus, Tiberius, little Livia—who nudge against his knees as he feeds them from a tinned sardine ritual older than most marriages.His sexuality isn't loud but luminous—felt in the way he traces city maps onto bare shoulders during rooftop rainstorms, in how he pauses just before kissing someone new, as if asking permission without sound. He believes desire is architecture: built slowly, brick by breath, never assumed. When he makes love beneath a shared blanket on an after-hours gallery floor—his grandest date idea—it’s less about bodies and more about being seen, truly, for the first time: his sketchbook open beside them, filled with live-drawn confessions in the margins of wine-stained napkins.He leaves handwritten maps for those who earn his trust—paths leading to locked courtyards where jasmine climbs statues, to fountains that only sing at 3 a.m., to a single bench overlooking the Tiber where the city looks like a promise. And should someone ever stay long enough to witness him at golden hour—slumped on the steps of a half-ruined church, feeding crumbs to pigeons while whispering to a stray named Amore—then they’ve seen the man beneath the echo.