The traghetto-artiste glided silently with each deliberate stroke down the river in Venice. Each forcola bore the highest craftsmanship of a remer, with the Doge’s hat proudly nodding on the prow. It's well-known that each gondola is a unique representation, custom-built for one's own weight and height. This one was no exception. It takes about two years to construct a vessel, with options ranging from mahogany, walnut, fir, cherry tree wood, elem, larch, oak, and 280 types of various woods to choose from.

As he took the lamplight and slightly bent his head to avoid the overhead fog, the squeri of Tramontin appeared not far enough. He was on a mission to pick up a couple—specifically, the diabolical, murderous husband of his former lover. His anticipation to depose of him was palpable ode to Salieri’s poison-revenge.

He sculled through Hell, guided by voice of Virgil beckoning his glance to some mystic scent or the perfumer of a cenobium Aediucal in a funeral urn, as if someone had been vesseled, entombed, to the fate of darkness for all eternity. The trading post, founded in AD 421, harbored secrets that went far beyond the mundane.

The 'songless gondolier,' known for his laments in ancient barcarolle, was not merely a ferryman but a deeply troubled individual. His journey under the Bridge of Sighs echoed a haunting melody, and the whispers of the Florentine baker and the painter running past the squire whose wink hinted at a deeper conspiracy. As the sandolo glided past the dockyards in strong silence, he strategized how to commit his next grotesque, volatile danse macabre.

In the quiet corners, Carmelite convents held the secrets of Bernardine monks, their contemplation interrupted by the campagnologist’s daily ritual.

A cabinetmaker's boxwood masterpiece, once part of a lavish condottiero's cassone, now rested in quiet repose. Quatrefoil paintings adorned the walls, depicting Old Testament scenes like Jonah and the Whale, while a curious were-rabbit figurine seemed to dart through the rabbit-warrens of Venetian folklore. A Giottian treatment of narrative scenes unfolded on a building facade, bringing to life the tales of an unknown Medici in a Phrygian cap.

The gondolier's mind raced at a supersonic pace, processing the intricacies of Venice with the rapidity of a shutter in overdrive.

From the Florentine baker returning from a Medici portico absorbed in some palace intrigue machination to the painter running from bakehouse mill to abbey church through of the thoroughfare of square trailing the squire to borrow a goldsmith leaf-plate to adorn a painting after numerous eggs were splattered for a fresco, as the careless Juliet drop her scarf before scurrying back to her balcony at the sound of a choir by a nunnery to the visit of a 'temple-haunting martlet' to figurines of saints which adorned windowsills by an invisible hagiographer, their expressions frozen in time as a minstrel picked up a weathered tambourine abandoned by an incognito street musician as two kids fenced on the ledge of the banks before losing balance and dragging the other by the ankle with him to the narrative scenes of Old Testament paintings and the glassmaker drawing the Venetian blind blowing away the whale-oil lamp before an occult Chinese diviner ushered him in to the alcove.

He scanned and took it all in.

As he was silently taking it in an entity tucked in a niche under the corbeled roof of a vaunted Brunelleschi archway cataloged his every move with a highly precise MK13 Mod 1 .300 Winchester Magnum and M110 flash suppressor.

With the final glide maestro D'Anzielli vanished under a tunnel, his fate sealed by the sniper's precision execution. A solitary tortoiseshell comb, lost by a lady in pursuit of fleeting beauty, floated gently in the water next to his corpse.

The Bureau's involvement left no dossier, only instructions leading to a silent unfolding of an alternate universe.