21st November 1850

The morning awakens cold and still. The light of dawn cannot warm the frigid air that seeps through the palace windows. I rise early, after a restless sleep filled with dreams of Michael. I see him in my thoughts, his shining blonde hair, the smile that lights up every dark corner of my soul. I remember our last meeting, hidden behind a colonnade of Palazzo Carignano. We held each other tightly, aware that that moment was fragile, that the world would not allow us to live our love in the light of day. God, how I wish I could caress his face, feel the warmth of his hands, and wake up every morning by his side.

The house is already bustling. The noise of servants at work and the chatter of the household staff fill the air. Francesco, my personal valet, enters my room discreetly. "Sir, your mother is already awake and in good spirits."

"We both know the reason, dear Francesco," I reply, putting on my clothes. Francesco nods with a restrained smile, aware that Amalia's departure has brought an unusual serenity to the Countess.

As I walk through the corridors, I reach the sitting room where my mother is discussing matters with Elisabetta, her personal maid. I enter without announcing my presence and find her seated, her face lit up by an expression of satisfaction. Her happiness is evident: Amalia has left, and her plans are proceeding smoothly.

"Good morning, Mother," I say as I approach.

"Good morning, Alessandro," she replies, her smile intact. "Finally, your sister is away from Turin. Finally, we can breathe."

"Breathe?" I retort, my tone betraying my irritation. "And you think I don't need to breathe, Mother? Perhaps your disdain for my pendant allows you to ignore me as well."

The Countess's smile dims. "That pendant represents unnatural recklessness. I cannot allow it to destroy our family. Your father, though fragile, would be annihilated by shame. And if the King discovered it, it would be your end."

"And yet I live, Mother," I respond calmly, but I can feel the blood boiling within me. "Unlike you, I know what it means to love."

The Countess stiffens. "Alessandro, do not confuse love with madness. I love this family. Everything I do is to protect it."

"Finally, your sister is at Hall Park," she says with a tone of relief, setting her porcelain cup down on its saucer. "Things will be simpler now."

I raise my gaze to her, not hiding my annoyance. "For you, perhaps. For Amalia, I don't believe so."

She looks at me, impassive. "You don't understand, Alessandro. She is not like you. She needs to be guided, directed. Otherwise, she will end up destroying everything we have built."

"In what sense, Mother?" I ask, already knowing where she intends to go.

"That Pietro," she says, with a grimace of disdain. "Do you know how they met? She was strolling in the Valentino Park, with that maid of hers who behaves more like a confidante than a servant. Amalia dropped a glove, an apparently innocent gesture. But I can recognise a scheme when I see one. That boy, that baker, was sitting there on a bench. She played her part with impeccable grace."

I grit my teeth, feeling the anger rising within me. "And so? What do you hope to gain by following her? Do you want to destroy her too, like you do with everything you cannot control?"

The Countess leans slightly forward, her cold gaze fixed on mine. "I do not need to destroy anyone. Amalia has already destroyed herself by choosing that boy. I am simply trying to save what remains of our family."

"Save?" I retort, my voice louder than intended. "You do not care to save anyone. You only care to maintain the facade. To you, we are merely pawns on a chessboard."

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. "And you, Alessandro, what do you think you will do? Protect her? How do you think you can do that when you can't even protect yourself?"

I rise abruptly, my heart pounding. "Amalia is not your property. And Pietro... Pietro is a man, a better man than many who frequent this house."

"Again," she says, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "And you, Alessandro, what do you think you will do? Protect her? How do you think you can do that when you can't even protect yourself?"

Her gaze suddenly sharpens, turning cruel. "By the way, how is Michael?" she asks with a cold smile. "Is he still so devoted to you? Or has he already found someone else to satisfy his... inclinations?" She pauses for a moment, then adds, in a tone that cuts like a knife: "Tell me, Alessandro, when you're alone, does he ever look at you as if you are a disgrace he doesn't know how to leave?"

The blood runs cold in my veins, and for a moment, I cannot speak. The malice of her words strikes me like a slap. I spring up, my heart racing. "Amalia is not your property. And Pietro... Pietro is a man, a better man than many who frequent this house. And Michael is my world; you will never understand that."

The Countess smiles, a cold and joyless smile. "We shall see, Alessandro. We shall see who has the last word."

Before I can respond, a servant enters to announce a summons from the King to the hunting lodge. I stand and make my way to the exit. "Mother, I will return soon," I say with a formal nod.

---

At the Hunting Lodge

The King's lodge is a majestic place, surrounded by silent woods and fields that stretch beyond my sight. These grounds immerse me in the rugged beauty of my life and the depth of an incessant and wonderful feeling.

He, Michael, sculpted by grand hunting excursions. In body, mind, and soul.

He was the result of every challenge faced in the misty forests, the wind scratching his skin as he pursued his prey, muscles forged by days and nights spent in the wildest nature. Hunting had made him what he was.

His body was tempered by the silent waiting in the woods, by the calculated movements before letting an arrow fly or pulling the trigger. Every fibre of his muscles told tales of endurance, control, the perfection of the balance between man and predator.

But it was in his mind that the true essence of hunting revealed itself. Michael did not just hunt with his hands; he hunted with his eyes. An instinct sharp as a blade, a gaze that studied the target with ruthless precision. He knew when to wait, when to act, when to strike. He was born for competition, for dominance, for the subtle game between patience and assault.

And in all this, there was a wild beauty. A charm expressed in his measured gestures, in the way the light slid along the sculpted lines of his face as he moved, in the natural elegance of one who knew that instinct was his deadliest weapon.

Michael was not merely a hunter. He was the hunt itself.

---

*When I arrive, the aide-de-camp greets me with a cordial smile and leads me into the main hall. The King, with his thick moustache and genial expression, awaits me by the lit fireplace.

"Count Alessandro, welcome," he says warmly. "I hope your family is well."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. My father is at sea in Liguria, trying to regain his strength. And my sister has gone to London. Is the Queen aware?"

The King smiles, but his tone becomes serious. "The Queen is slightly displeased not to have received news directly. But now we have other matters to discuss."

He explains the situation in Crimea, the delicate position of the Sardinian Kingdom, and the diplomatic necessities. Then he entrusts me with a letter to deliver personally to Queen Victoria. "You are the right man for this task, Alessandro. And do not forget that your connection to my family makes you even more valuable."

The King leans closer, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. His gaze betrays a shadow of regret.

"Alessandro, I know all about your sister and the young baker. I understand your feelings, but I must be honest: the contract with the marquis has already been signed and endorsed by the Crown."

My throat tightens. "Your Majesty, there must be a way. Amalia cannot live an unhappy existence for political reasons."

The King slowly shakes his head, his tone stern but not lacking compassion. "I cannot help you in this, Alessandro. The marquis is a crucial piece in our relations with France. The Marquessate of Orange is a vital enclave for our interests, a bulwark we cannot afford to lose."

I run a hand across my face, trying to hide my frustration. "And my sister's happiness? Does it hold no value for you?"

The King sighs, almost wearied. "It is not a question of value, but necessity. This is the price of power and responsibility, Alessandro. I understand your pain, but I cannot sacrifice the Kingdom for the feelings of a single individual, no matter how dear to me they may be."

The King looks at me for a long moment, his gaze seeming to penetrate me. Then, with a smile that mixes weariness and understanding, he speaks in a low, confidential tone.

"Alessandro, after this mission in England, I could free you, if you wish, from the constraints of the Crown and society. You need not live constrained in a world that does not accept you for who you are."

His hand rests once more on my shoulder, this time with a more intimate gesture, almost fraternal. "But heed the advice of a friend, not just a King: use your social position to protect yourself. Your nobility can be a shield, a way to hide your romantic passions with the Englishman. The world is not ready, Alessandro, but you can carve out a space for yourself to live as you wish."

I remain silent, struck by his sincerity. I feel the coolness of the silk of the scarf around my neck, like a bond stretching between us. I did not expect this gesture, nor these words. I look at my hands, intertwining my fingers as I search for an answer.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. Not only for your assistance, but for your friendship. I promise I will do my best to honour this trust."

The King nods, his smile becoming slightly more pronounced. "I know you will, Alessandro. You are a complicated man, but even complicated souls find their way. And, in any case, I will be here if you need me."

---

A memory crosses my mind: Vittorio and I, as children, running through the corridors of the palace, laughing without a care. It was a time of carefree joy, before the weight of our roles separated us. Now, that friendship seems still alive, though trapped within the conventions of court.

As I leave the lodge, scarf around my neck, I feel a mix of responsibility and hope. I murmur to myself: "Michael, I will do all this for us too."