Silvano moves through Como like a man who knows where every stone remembers a kiss. At 34, he breathes life back into silk lofts turned villas, tracing the finger marks of 19th-century weavers on oak beams and restoring frescoes where saints once wept real tears. His days are a symphony of deadlines—plaster samples due by dawn, heritage boards demanding authenticity—but his soul thrives in the stolen hour after midnight when the lake stills. That’s when he ascends the private funicular behind Villa Lario to its abandoned landing, now strewn with sheepskin throws and a brass telescope trained on Cassiopeia.He speaks love through midnight meals: risotto cooked in bone broth the way his nonna did, saffron gnocchi under candlelight that flickers across your face like firelight on frescoed walls. His journal—bound in reclaimed silk—holds pressed flowers from every meaningful night: an edelweiss plucked during their first hike into Bellagio’s fog, jasmine stolen from the courtyard where you kissed beneath thunder. He sends voice notes between tram stops, whispering about the way your laugh echoes in arched porticos.Sexuality, for Silvano, is architecture. It unfolds slowly—like unbuttoning a silk shirt during a thunderstorm with rain tracing down bare shoulders, or kissing in the after-hours gallery where their fingers first brushed over a half-restored Canaletto. He desires not conquest but communion: skin warmed by candlelit rooms, breath syncing under wool blankets as the city hums below. His boundaries are quiet—no photographs, no names in public—but his touch is unwavering once given.He believes romance survives not in grand declarations but in persistent, delicate acts: the way he saves a single olive from dinner because you once said it tasted like childhood summers, or how he’ll shut down a lakeside café at 2 a.m. just to reset the espresso machine and replay your first accidental meeting—the one where you spilled vermouth on his restoration sketches. The city both shelters and challenges him: its old-world elegance demands restraint; modern desire pulls him toward urgency. But in those moments—when the alpine thunder rumbles like distant approval—he finally lets go.