The Door That Shouldn’t Open

Jessica stood in the rain, staring at the door that had just slammed shut in her face. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The old man’s words still hung in the air.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

She had heard that before in dark alleys, in empty offices where files had been burned before she could reach them, and in the careful pauses of men who knew more than they would ever admit. It always meant the same thing. She was close.

Jessica exhaled, wiping a few stray raindrops from her jacket. She had two choices. She could walk away and pretend she had never found this place, never followed Bellanti’s trail to a man the world had erased. Or she could knock again. She knocked again.

The sound echoed through the building. The only answer was silence.

Jessica waited, her breath curling in the cold air. She knocked a third time, firmer. Still nothing. She clenched her jaw. Fine.

She took a step back, scanning the building. The windows were old, framed in wood that had begun to rot from too many winters by the sea. A small metal staircase on the side led up to a narrow balcony. Jessica glanced over her shoulder. The street was empty. She stepped out of view and moved toward the stairs.

* * *

She reached the second floor, testing the rusted railing before pulling herself over. The balcony door was locked, but the frame was brittle with age.

Jessica pressed her fingers against the wood. Pushed. It gave, and she slipped inside.

The apartment was small, dark, and frozen in time. Dust clung to the bookshelves, the air thick with the scent of old paper and damp wood. Heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the daylight.

And then, a shuffle of movement. Jessica turned. The old man stood in the doorway, a knife in his hand. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles white against the handle.

Jessica didn’t move. “I just want to talk,” she said. The man didn’t lower the knife. But he didn’t raise it either.

Jessica took that as a good sign.

She stepped forward slowly, keeping her hands where he could see them, “You knew Marco Bellanti,” she said.

The man flinched, like the name itself was a wound. Jessica pressed on. “He was here before he died. Looking for Orlando Sacchetti.”

The man’s grip on the knife tightened.

Jessica inhaled. “And I think you know why.”

For a long moment, silence. Then, finally—the knife lowered. The man exhaled, his shoulders slumping, as if he had been holding himself together for far too long. He turned away, moving toward a small wooden table near the window. He pulled out a chair, sank into it heavily.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said again. This time, there was no anger. Only exhaustion.

Jessica sat across from him. “Then why did you let me in?”

The man looked at her. “Because you won’t stop until you know.”

Jessica met his gaze. “No, I won’t.”

The man rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “Orlando Sacchetti is dead.”

Jessica didn’t blink. Of course he was. She had followed enough ghosts to know that men like Sacchetti didn’t grow old. They were either erased or buried.

“How?” she asked.

The man hesitated. Then “He was murdered the same night as Pasolini.”

Jessica’s pulse quickened. “Why?”

The man swallowed. “Because he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.”

Jessica leaned forward. “What did he see?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed his chair back and walked toward the bookshelf. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled down a small, leather-bound notebook.

He set it in front of Jessica.

“He wrote everything down,” the man said quietly. “Bellanti found this. And now you have.”

Jessica stared at the notebook. The last words of a man who had disappeared before the world even realized he was missing.

She picked it up carefully, flipping to the first page. And then— Her breath caught. Because the very first line wasn’t a name. It wasn’t a date. It was a sentence.

Scrawled in ink, desperate and uneven.

“They didn’t just kill him. They silenced him.”

Jessica exhaled, flipping further. The final entry was unfinished. One last note. One last word.

“Salo.”

Jessica’s stomach twisted. Pasolini’s final film. The one that had sealed his fate. She looked back up at the old man.

“You’re telling me Pasolini wasn’t murdered because of politics.”

The man shook his head.

Jessica set the notebook down carefully. She knew what came next. She was going to Rome.