Page 26 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I was standing next to a sculpture of a wolf mid-leap—Freedom, of all things—when I heard my name.

“Sebastian Laurente?”

I turned.

Two Carabinieri stood just feet away, dark uniforms pressed, faces unreadable. One of them stepped forward, voice clear and firm.

“Lei è in arresto per frode finanziaria. Metta le mani dove posso vederle.”

They said it in Italian, for everyone to hear. And gods, everyonedid.

Heads turned. Necks craned. One woman actually gasped. I saw a man from some Monaco hedge fund quietly step back into the shadows like proximity might get him cuffed too. Another woman raised her phone, not even trying to hide the camera.

I didn’t resist. There was no point. They’d chosen the stage on purpose. I knew that now.

The gallery. The crowd. The art. The symbolism. All of it orchestrated for maximum exposure.

So there I stood, in my tailored suit, under the white gallery lights, while the metal cuffs closed tight around my wrists.

Freedom, indeed.

But what I remember most… were thefaces.

My so-called friends, the same ones who invited me to yachts and Monaco weekends and midnight parties at Lake Como, looking at me like I was a stranger.

Some turned away, pretending they didn’t know me. Others stared openly, phones half-raised to record the spectacle.

Not one of them spoke up.

Not one.

The authorities had been afraid I’d pull a Diego Ricci—run for Dubai, vanish behind a wall of private security and golden visas. So they made it public. Messy. Unavoidable.

I chewed slowly now, staring down at my sandwich, no longer tasting it.

The trial had followed me everywhere after that. Newspapers. Blogs. Financial tabloids.Laurente heir implicatedin crypto fraud.My name next to headlines about pyramid schemes and lost pensions, even though the real poison had been Diego. The slick, charming Alpha who vanished with millions and left the rest of us to carry the weight.

I wasn’t innocent. I’d been naive. Complicit. I signed documents I didn’t read. Pushed opportunities I didn’t question. Trusted the wrong man.

And I paid for it.

I looked up at the wide blue sky stretching over Blue Springs and let out a long breath.

I’d rather eat dry street food alone on a park bench than ever live that life again.

Because for the first time in a long time, the future was blurry—but it wasmine. And I wasn’t running. Not anymore.

CHAPTER 7

Ada

I spent the entire week turning four freshly painted walls into a home, one obsessive decision at a time.

Mila kept telling me to hire movers, cleaners—anyone who could shoulder the grunt work while I focused on menus and payroll—but I couldn’t stand the idea of strangers dragging their scents through my new space. An omega thing, maybe. Fresh paint and newly waxed floors felt sacred, blank of memory, ready to hold only what I chose to keep.

First came the books. Two battered banker’s boxes, overflowing and dangerously mixed: romance dog-eared beside culinary theory, grief memoirs hugging glossy coffee-table art. Sorting them became an all-day meditation.

Title or color?

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