Mr. SCARPA

1

Montana's POV

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“I’m Officer Bridge and this is my partner, Officer Ferrari. Do you mind if we come inside?”

.....

After Ben had left to drop his mother off at the elderly day center, I receive a text from the hospital I had visited a week ago that I am pregnant — over a week gone. It was not a good thing. Ben didn't want kids.

The doorbell rings at that moment, giving me a shock to the bones. 'Oh my God. It must be Ben.'

I drop the phone onto the table, thinking it might be Ben. It's still a bit too early to be home so, maybe his mother had forgotten her scarf again. But when I open the door, I see two Italian Polizia standing stiff and silent on the other side.

The taller one exhales slowly, as if the moment itself wearies him and he takes a step back. The shorter one leans forward instead.

“Are you Montana Rossi?”

“Yes, Mr. Police man. Why?” I ask. My stomach is already beginning to knot. The police don’t come bearing good news, I can tell.

He took off his hat. “I’m Officer Bridge and this is my partner, Officer Ferrari. Do you mind if we come inside?”

“My mother-in-law’s not home. My husband just dropped her off and went on to work from there. Could you… could you just tell me what this is about at the door here?”

Officer Ferrari’s jaw flexed before he said flatly, “You are married to a Benedetto Rossi?”

I nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“He’s dead.”

Everything in me stopped. My breath, my heart, my thoughts. “What?”

Swallowing thickly, Officer Bridge picked up again. “Ma’am, your husband was murdered in a car by gunshots fired at the car multiple times. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

The world tilted and folded in on itself. My voice felt like it belonged to someone else as I stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

They come in but didn’t sit. They just stand in the middle of the room that still smelled like Ben's cologne and sweet crêpes scented ointment.

Neither of them could look at me. It was as if they expected someone else to answer the door, as if I couldn’t possibly be the wife.

Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner. I'm American here in Italy.

“Ma’am,” Officer Bridge said gently, “Your husband wasn’t alone in the car. Are you familiar with a woman named Vittoria Scarpa?”

My brow furrowed. “Y-yes. That’s Mr. Scarpa’s wife. Mr. Scarpa is my husband's boss.” I paused. “Why was she with him, instead of my mother-in-law?”

Ferrari's raised an eyebrow. He is barely hiding a smirk. “Seems they were having an affair.”

My knees nearly gave out. I gripped the edge of the wall to stay upright. The floor didn’t just shift in my mind, it broke apart. I opened my mouth to protest but no words came. Only tears.

“How? I don’t… Is there…?”

“They had luggages in the trunk. These were luggages belonging to both of them. They also had over a million euros in cash and tickets to Dublin in England,” Officer Bridge said.

“No,” I whispered. “That doesn’t make sense. Our luggages is here, complete. His clothes… nothing’s missing.” I pointed toward the stairs. “Maybe he was just driving her to the airport. She's his boss’s wife after all.”

The look they gave me after I said this wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was that of sheer pity.

Ferrari cleared his throat. “Mrs. Scarpa was… naked when we found their bodies. And Mr. Rossi's d*ck was out of his pants. His belt was loosed. Hickeys were all over Mrs Scarpa's neck and around.”

I shook my head again, desperate. “Ben… he’s not like that. He's loyal, really. He’s not like that. He’s loyal, trust me. We were married. For months now. He wouldn’t…. he wouldn’t just leave.”

“There was a letter,” Bridge said, quieter now. “Left for Mr. Scarpa. From his wife. With everything detailed down. The affair, their plan to disappear with your husband.”

What?

I couldn't say anything.

What could I say? No denial would change what had already been written, planned and maybe even celebrated between them.

“I’d also advise checking your finances,” Officer Bridge added. It's marvelling how never spoke unkind to me despite my dull response to the matter. “The money didn’t come from Mr. Scarpa's accounts. We believe your husband may have emptied yours.”

Officer Ferrari chimed in, “We’ll need you to come down to the station. Collect his personal effects. Mr. Scarpa suspects the funds and all of it came from your household.”

They handed me a folder containing names, numbers, addresses, a funeral home contact, Ben's phone, his watch, and the cold anonymity of cash he hadn’t even lived long enough to spend.

When they left, I wandered the house like a ghost. The kitchen still smelled like rosemary from the focaccia I had made that morning. I sat at the table where I used to sort prescriptions and slice oranges for his mother, then opened his email.

I found everything.

The transfers. The second mortgage. The credit cards I never applied for. The debt I didn’t know existed.

Ben hadn’t just died. He’d detonated everything.

He hadn’t just betrayed me, he’d abandoned us. His mother and me. He'd left us with with ashes, debt, and no answers. There wouldn’t even be a proper funeral. Cremation was the only thing I could afford, and even that felt like a theft.

This was his quiet cruelty... after everything I’d given.

After every spoon fed, every pillow fluffed. After every moment I believed I knew the man I had loved.

Dad warned me, mama warned me. They said not to trust an Italian man when there were lots of men over in America who could love me and cherish me. I didn't listen. I wanted to believe in Ben.

The next morning….

I didn’t even realize someone had walked up beside me until he said, “Mrs. Rossi.”

That was... Mr. Torre Scarpa.

I turned, startled, and the memory of that night slammed into me….