The Thread That Shouldn’t Exist

The bookseller hesitated, fingers brushing the brittle edge of the newspaper article Jessica had laid in front of him. She watched the tension in his posture, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. He knew something. And whatever it was, it was dangerous.

Jessica leaned in. “Bellanti was chasing a ghost. You said he found a body. Whose?”

The bookseller exhaled through his nose, as if weighing the cost of speaking. Finally, he looked at her, voice barely above a whisper.

“He thought it was Pier Paolo Pasolini.”

Jessica felt the words settle like cold metal in her gut. Pasolini.The radical. The artist. The critic. The corpse was found beaten to death on an empty beach in Ostia, 1975.

Official story? Murdered by a teenage hustler in a robbery gone wrong. Reality? Everyone knew that was bullshit. Pasolini had been investigating corruption at the highest levels of politics, finance, and power. He had enemies in the church, the mafia, and the intelligence services. And then, one night, he was brutally murdered.

Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Bellanti thought he found Pasolini? In San Remo?”

The bookseller shook his head. “Not him. But someone who knew the truth. Someone who vanished the same way Bellanti did.”

Jessica sat back, drumming her fingers lightly against the counter. This wasn’t a coincidence. Bellanti had been onto something big. Something that got him killed. And if Pasolini’s name was attached to it, then Jessica had just stepped into something that had been buried for almost fifty years.

The bookseller rubbed a hand over his face. “Look,” he murmured, “I don’t want trouble.”

Jessica studied him. He was scared. Whatever Bellanti had found, it had left an impression.

She softened her voice. “I don’t want to cause trouble for you. I just want to know what he was looking for.”

The bookseller hesitated. Slowly, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small envelope.

Jessica frowned as he slid it across to her.

Bellanti’s handwriting covered the front.

Per chiunque lo trovi. Non lasciate che finisca nel buio.

For whoever finds this. Don’t let it disappear into darkness.

Jessica’s throat tightened. She opened the envelope. Inside was a single scrap of paper, a hastily written, almost frantic handwritten note.

One word stood out immediately: “Salo.”

Jessica frowned. “Like… Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom?”

Pasolini’s final film. His most infamous work. A brutal, grotesque indictment of fascism and power. It had been banned, censored, and reviled.

Jessica scanned the note again.

Under the word “Salo,” Bellanti had scribbled a name. Orlando Sacchetti.

Jessica’s mind turned. She knew that name. Sacchetti had been a small-time actor. A background extra in Pasolini’s films. Nothing important. Nothing worth remembering. Except, he had vanished the week Pasolini was murdered. Disappeared from history. Official records never mentioned him again.

Jessica folded the note carefully, sliding it into her pocket.

She looked at the bookseller. “Bellanti was looking for Sacchetti?”

The man nodded. “And I think he found him.”

Jessica exhaled. Bellanti had chased a man who had been erased. Now she was about to do the same.

* * *

Jessica stepped out of the bookshop, the wind off the sea cool against her face.

Sacchetti had been a ghost for nearly five decades. If Bellanti had found him, and if that had gotten him killed, then Jessica needed to retrace his last steps. She reviewed in her head what she had already found. She had a name. She had a film. She had a journalist’s last words, warning her to keep looking.

The only question on her mind was who else was watching?