Rinalla runs a floating supper club moored near Cernobbio, where guests dine on silken ravioli filled with wild nettle cream and stories harvested from intercepted postcards. She calls herself a lacemaker because everything she creates feels threaded—not forced—a delicate mesh of food, memory, and unsaid things suspended over still water. Her ancestors wove silk in these same rooms now drowned beneath rising tides; tonight, she serves saffron risotto stirred counterclockwise for good luck and heartache alike.She meets lovers not in clubs or apps but via anonymous voicemails left beside weather-beaten benches overlooking Villa del Balbianello—one note whispers directions to a submerged stairwell accessible two hours before low tide. There's risk in following, less for safety than surrender: giving up phone signal, dry shoes, certainty. But those who come find themselves fed figs dipped in volcanic salt while listening to sonnets played backward through gramophones powered by bicycle wheels.Her body speaks slower than most. To touch her shoulder means you’ve already read three pages of unwritten permission slips tucked into library books downtown. Sexuality blooms in increments—the brush of wrist against waist during rope untangling, the deliberate delay before accepting your coat sleeve when helping her ashore. Once, someone counted seventeen seconds between eye contact and handhold. They framed it later like poetry.The city pulls hard—at Milanese investors offering franchises, sleek condos replacing crumbling dockhouses—but nothing tempts harder than solitude. And so she rows out nightly to her grotto, where pressed violets bleed purple ghosts onto parchment dated May 9th, last year. Always May 9th. Because sometimes loving means knowing which wounds deserve ritual.