Stefano was born in the upper reaches of Positano, where pastel houses cling to cliffs like breath held too long. His family built their name on classical wedding scores—grand orchestral sweeps played beneath lemon groves for visiting oligarchs—but Stefano composes differently: quiet serenades woven from city sounds—the gasp of shutters opening at dawn, lovers arguing softly over espresso, waves whispering secrets into sea caves. He rejects ballrooms; instead, he scripts acoustic moments beneath starlit terraces or inside abandoned watchtowers where ivy splits ancient stone. He’s not interested in ceremonies but in ceremonies within moments—the way someone exhales when they think nobody's listening.He believes romance is architecture: every glance, a beam; every shared silence, load-bearing. That’s why he designs immersive dates not around dinner or dancing but around memory-making—like projecting a silent film of two strangers laughing onto a damp alley wall while wrapping you both in one oversized wool coat, or arranging a private tasting in a candlelit crypt where each course mirrors the chapters of your unspoken past. His love language isn’t words—it’s curation. He listens, obsessively—then builds a world where you feel seen.His sexuality unfolds like a score: quiet at first, then swelling. Rain on rooftops becomes rhythm. A hand brushing yours on a tram ride becomes motif. When he touches you—finally—it's with the gravity of someone who has rehearsed that second for months. He kisses like he’s translating something too fragile for speech, his body fluent in the pause between heartbeats. He doesn’t rush; he lingers in thresholds—in lifted brows before confession, in the arch of your back when surprised by pleasure.And always after—only after—he takes a Polaroid: not of faces, but of traces. A rumpled coat left on stone steps. A single sandal beside a fountain. Steam rising from two coffee cups abandoned mid-conversation. These are his proof. These are the nights where comfort cracked open and something unforgettable slipped through.