Page 16 of King Of Order

Yet, as I pulled away from the curb, I caught the black SUV inching forward in my rearview mirror. I tried to stay calm, taking deep breaths, but tension tightened its grip on me.

I drove the familiar route to my gallery, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I made each turn.

With every glance in the rearview mirror, the ebony car came closer, nosing in before hanging back when I tapped my brakes, making their tailing me obvious.

Taunting me, almost.

My pulse quickened.

Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything.

By the time I reached the Galleria Gisela, my nerves were frayed, on edge, and I was fuckin’ annoyed.

When I parked, the unidentified SUV shot past me and accelerated, engine throbbing and growling, tires screeching as it rounded a corner and disappeared.

Cazzo!

I parked and shot from my car, fumbling with my keys to unlock the door.

Once inside, I breathed a sigh of relief but still sensed eyes on me from outside, even as the black automobile disappeared.

I rushed to open the door, turned the lights on, unlocked the office, and set up for the day.

Attempting to ignore the lingering anxiety gnawing at me, focusing instead on my work.

A new series of canvases from a young artist was arriving that morning. I wanted to be ready to curate each piece and have them hung by opening time.

‘Buongiorno!’ Lucia, my assistant, chirped as she walked in. Her presence broke through my tension, bringing a welcome relief.

‘Buongiorno,’ I replied, trying to smile.

I didn’t mention the black car. What could I even say?

Lucia would only worry and fuss if I shared more. I required her to be focused, not distracted, as we tried to up our cash flow and make much-needed sales.

We unpacked the fresh paintings together, discussing each with enthusiasm that usually calmed my consciousness.

Lucia was vibrant as ever, her energy contagious, but even her chatter could not shake the unease in my mind.

It plagued me, played with me, sucking energy from my soul.

The gallery opened at 11 a.m., and a few of my wealthier clients dropped in, keen to purchase the latest pieces.

I greeted them with practiced ease, making small talk and guiding them through the recent deliveries and additions to our collection.

A man walked in.

I spotted him the moment he entered.

He wasn’t like my usual clientele—he didn’t have the air of our regular buyers.

I didn’t discriminate, for I’d had pop stars and hip hop rappers walk in my doors and buy my art, but something about him threw me.

I tagged him with more menace than most street thugs and a cold, dead expression that told me he’d be one not to mess with.

Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sable coat, with dreadlocks caught up in a bun, he gave me the shivers.

His styling and sensibility were Neapolitan, but his features and skin screamed Moorish.

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