Page 2 of King Of Order

Breaking bread, eating pasta, drinking wine, laughing.

For a brief moment, I envisaged what that life would feel like—coming home to love and warmth like that instead of solitude.

The thought lingered, tugging at me as I passed house after house, each different but all somehow the same.

I sighed, brushing a loose strand of tawny hair out of my face. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as I rounded the final curve that brought me closer to my house.

My ivy-covered, renovated four-bedroom stone heritage residence was tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. It had a rambling front garden and glowing windows.

Although it was not a mansion, it was charming and mine—a place crafted with my hands, filled with art, furniture, books, and memories.

The villa sat over two floors connected by an internal and an external staircase.

The lush, cozy living areas and my primary enjoyed fantastic sea views of Marina Piccola, yet set in a reserved and peaceful position.

My street was accessible by foot from the Piazzetta, with neither steps nor climbs, making it ideal for my morning runs.

It also featured a furnished double-suite, two-bath guest quarter at the end of the garden, where I hosted friends.

I pulled into the short gravel driveway and turned off the engine. For a moment, I listened to the quiet ticking of the car cooling down, the muted chirping of crickets filling the night air.

Home.

I loved returning to my sanctuary, even on nights like this, when the day’s weight seemed heavier than usual, where I forgot my troubles and the freakin’ storm breaking around me, threatening to shatter and upend my world.

I shoved my sadness aside and imagined the soft feel of my bed, the warm glow of the fireplace, and maybe even a glass of red wine to cap off the long, exhausting day.

But as I reached into my bag to grab my keys, my hand closed on an empty inner pocket.

No keys.

A groan slipped from my lips, frustration bubbling up as I sifted through my tote, hoping they’d somehow fallen to the bottom.

Fotto! I’d left them back at the gallery.

Of course.

In my rush to escape, I must have forgotten them on my desk.

Most times, I kept both sets together, but my recent paranoia had made me pull them apart, worried an assailant would have entry to both my gallery and home with one set. So, I’d dividedthem to make them harder to access. It was either one or the other.

I also knew it was futile and ridiculous to believe I could keep my life’s unseen, darker elements away with two sets of separate keys.

Still, I’d given it my best shot. The problem was my efforts these days were one major energy suck.

After my long day, exhaustion hit, and the thought of driving back into the city at this hour almost brought me to tears.

After a series of curses and bangs on the steering column, I accepted my fate.

The tension in my neck tightened as I turned the car around, my hands gripping the leather of the classic turn wheel harder than necessary.

The streets lay deserted now, my journey back to the town center underpinned with an undercurrent of annoyance that colored everything darker.

Galleria Gisela loomed ahead, its elegant lit sign in front of the dark facade of the architectural building I’d procured with my mother’s inheritance.

I parked at an odd angle before it, nabbed my tote, and locked up with a furtive glance up and down the street before I dashed to the door.

My heels echoed against the wet pavement, evidence of an earlier rain shower.

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