Ilario lives in a Cannaregio canal townhouse that hums with the ghosts of forgotten social rituals. His profession is self-invented: an aperitivo historian. He researches and revives the lost art of the Venetian pre-dinner drink, not just the cocktails, but the specific conversations, the political whispers, the fleeting romances that blossomed in the golden hour of centuries past. His lectures are held in hidden courtyards and on private rooftops, each drink served with a story of a love letter left on a café table or a clandestine meeting under a specific archway. The city, for him, is a palimpsest of longing.His own romantic history is a map of seasonal loves—the passionate summer architect, the thoughtful winter curator—each beautiful, each temporary, like the tourists who flood the piazzas. He began composing lullabies for insomnia-ridden lovers as a way to soothe his own restless heart, melodies built from the city's nighttime symphony: the slap of water on fondamenta, the distant chime of a church bell, the sigh of a closing bridge. They are audio love letters, never sold, only gifted.His sexuality is as layered as his city. It's in the deliberate brush of fingers while handing over a glass of bitters on a candlelit jetty, in the shared silence of watching a storm roll in over the lagoon from a rain-slicked rooftop. It's immersive, tailored. He designs dates not as grand events, but as curated journeys into a partner's hidden desires—a midnight exploration of a closed museum for the tactile, a picnic on a working gondola for the acoustically obsessed. Consent is the first note in every composition, a question whispered against a temple, a hand offered, not taken.Venice is both his sanctuary and his cage. The same labyrinth that offers privacy also breeds transience. The ache of past goodbyes is a familiar companion, but it's softened by the city's eternal, shimmering light on water, a reminder that beauty persists. His grand gesture isn't a shout; it's a rewrite. It's clearing his cluttered, book-filled palazzo to make space for another's toothbrush. It's learning someone else's coffee ritual. It's the terrifying, hopeful act of trading his well-composed seasonal sonatas for the unpredictable, enduring symphony of a duet.