Page 25 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

That illusion shattered the second I stepped into the hallway.

The carpet smelled like wet dog and old takeout, and the flickering overhead light gave everything a horror movie glow. As I passed unit 3B, the door suddenly flew open and a woman in a frayed bathrobe appeared, glaring at me like I’d just insulted her ancestors.

“Can you keep it down?” she snapped before I even opened my mouth. “Some of us work nights.”

I blinked. “I haven’t said anything.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. You’renew, and new meansloud. You gonna be stomping around at 2 a.m. with your music and your Alpha attitude?”

I stared. “I was just coming to see the apartment.”

“Oh.” Her tone didn’t soften. “Well. Tell Jerry the toilet in 2C still backs up. And don’t touch the mailbox. It’s mine now.”

She slammed the door before I could respond.

Yeah. Definitely not the one.

The third place—well, that was where things got interesting. That’s where I metRicky.

Omega. Realtor. Dressed like a Calvin Klein ad gone rogue—skin-tight turtleneck, perfectly styled platinum hair, and a portfolio clutched to his chest like it contained state secrets. His cologne hit before his voice did: spicy, sweet, and one hundred percent intentional.

He slid out of his cherry red compact car with a wink and a, “You must be Sebastian. The Sebastian.”

I didn’t even know what that meant.

The apartment was fine. Actually, not bad. A little on the smaller side, but clean, with updated appliances and windows that faced something that wasn’t a brick wall. The price was just within reach. But Ricky…

He hovered like glitter in the air. Laughing too loud at everything I said. Standing too close as I measured the counter height. “Do you cook shirtless?” he asked casually, as if we were discussing local taxes. “I bet you do. With oil glistening on those arms.”

I blinked. “I use an apron.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” he purred, writing something in his notebook with way more wrist flair than necessary.

Every time I turned around, he was watching me, biting his lip like we were about to film something not suitable for network TV.

By the time we wrapped up, I was genuinely uncertain if I was applying for an apartment or being cast in his fantasy. Still, I kept the flyer. Because the place was solid. And because rent didn’t give a damn about dignity.

The sun was still high when I left the last apartment viewing—my back sore, my wallet sweating at the thought of security deposits, and my brain trying very hard to erase Ricky the Realtor’s lingering cologne from my sinuses.

I didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet.

Too clean. Too quiet. Too much free food that felt likeanother silent debt.

So I stopped at a street cart near the corner of Oak and Fourth, one of those battered silver trailers with a faded menu board and a grumpy old Beta grilling skewers like he was punishing the meat for misbehaving. I ordered a gyro and fries, tossed the guy a couple extra bucks, and kept walking until I found a park bench tucked under an old oak tree.

The bread was dry, the meat a little salty, and the tzatziki tasted more like plain yogurt. But it wasmine. Paid with my own money. Eaten with no white tablecloth, no crystal glasses, no silver spoons.

The August heat was still clinging to the air, golden and soft in the late afternoon. A couple of kids were running around the playground in the distance, their laughter echoing faintly over the trees. Cicadas hummed lazily in the background. It should’ve been peaceful.

But the quiet always found a way to open old doors.

The image came fast and hard.

The moment theCarabinieriburst through the glass doors of the art gallery in Florence—broad daylight, tourists everywhere, champagne flutes still clinking in the hands of the rich and bored. An exhibition opening, of all things.

Men in uniform. Bulletproof vests. Weapons holstered at their sides. Eyes like stone.

The buzz of conversation in the gallery collapsed in an instant, silenced as if someone had hit mute on the evening. Laughter faded. Music stopped. A champagne flute clinked against marble and didn’t break—but the sound rang louder than it should’ve.

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