Meeting Mr. Scarpa Again (2)

2

Montana's POV

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The next morning, I tried to reach Ben's mother, but then I remembered she never had a phone. I decided to call Tuscan Town, the elderly aides. The call went straight to an automated message: This number is no longer in service.

Had they changed their call line? Oh, maybe they had moved, or changed staff. Still, that woman deserved to know her son was now dead.

I tried Ben’s sister. Then his uncle. Finally, Elena, his aunt, picked up on the third try.

“Aunty Ele—”

“We know my nephew is dead,” she said coldly. “You don’t need to call again.”

I clutched the phone tighter. “I just wanted to talk. About the funeral. And about—”

“A priest has already been contacted. Benedetto’s body will be sent home. His real home.” She made it sound like I’d never belonged, and didn't just count at all.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You’re not family,” she snapped. “You were his mistake, Montana. Everyone knew it. He was going to leave you anyway. He was already sending things up here in preparation. And now that he’s gone, we’ll handle the arrangements. You can stay in the house if you want—he put it in your name after all, but don’t think that makes you a Rossi. You're not anymore.”

The line went dead.

The lady didn't scream or cry like she was grieving. Just icy words thrown at me.

And for the first time since the news, the numbness cracked. I wasn’t just grieving a husband. I was being erased from his family as well.

And where was his mother in all this? Did she know? Did she even care?

Somehow, I composed myself and drove downtown to the station because according to the officers from yesterday, paperwork waited. Paperwork for money, his wedding ring, and permission for Ben's body to be transferred.

His family had already called the police station, trying to claim him. That was how fast they moved.

“That’s everything,” Officer Bridge said kindly. “A sizable deposit will be made. Mr. Scarpa confirmed he won’t be contesting any of it. He’s asked us to close the case and conduct no further investigation.”

He disappeared to finalize the process.

I looked down at my stomach. I was already pregnant. A week gone.

I hadn’t planned to keep it. Ben wouldn’t have let me. He never let me. But now he was gone so, of course things will have to be different.

I needed to sell the house. Sell everything. Ben’s business debt stood at over a million. I could work myself to the bone and never reach the surface of that amount. There was no family, no safety net. It was just me, an unborn child, and a mountain of silence.

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—his firm handshake, the intense eye contact and that half-smile at Ben, then his wife trailing just a few steps behind. It was at a gala a month ago.

Today, he wore all black. Suit, tie, grief. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days.

I stood. “It’s just Montana now.”

He gave a slow nod. “I hope you don't mind me asking the police to close the case.”

There was a pause between us. But it wasn't awkward, just hollow.

Our spouses had cheated, lied, and died. His wealth might have softened the blow, but pain had no respect for status or bank accounts. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want the case drawn out. Maybe he couldn’t bear to see more.

“I don’t suppose Benedetto left you a letter?” he asked.

“No. You?”

He nodded. “I found it too late. She wrote it on hotel stationery. I came home early that day because we had dinner plans with my brothers. The police called just as I walked into the house.”

“That’s… a cruel way to find out,” I murmured.

His eyes dropped to my stomach, lingering just a moment too long. Could he tell? It had only been a week.

“At least you still have something of him,” he said.

I didn’t respond even though I had a lot I could have asked. How do you know? Did Ben tell you? Or are you watching me now too, Mr. Scarpa?

Instead, I found myself saying, “I’m sorry you had to go through it all.”

Some things you don't just say to a man as Mr. Scarpa. I didn't know him at all, but I know he wasn't a man to be trifled with.

He placed a hand gently on my shoulder. The warmth startled me. One small moment of human contact. One moment that reminded me I wasn’t the only one swimming through wreckage.

Officer Bridge returned with the final folder, and I steeled myself.

There was still more to do, but I was running out of versions of myself to hold onto.