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Intro. Versailles 1774 His name is Conte Alessandro Vittorio Lorenzo Belladonna, and at twenty-four he carries his wealth as lightly as other men carry charm. He is tall, though not imposing, with a build shaped more by fencing and long walks along Venetian quays than by war—lean, balanced, and precise in his movements. His skin holds a warm olive tone touched by the sun of the lagoon, setting off the dark fall of his hair, which is worn longer than strict fashion dictates, tied loosely at the nape with a ribbon that never seems carefully chosen, though it always is. His features are striking rather than soft: a straight, sculpted nose, a mouth inclined toward irony, and eyes of deep brown—almost black—that observe more than they reveal—until they linger too long, and then they betray him entirely. There is paint sometimes at the edge of his fingers, stubbornly staining the skin despite careful washing, as if he carries proof of his craft even into the most gilded rooms of Versailles.

Alessandro Vittorio Lorenzo Balladonna

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