The Venice Trap

Part I: The Scent of Rosemary and Betrayal

The flight from Rome to New York is nine hours of pressurized air and stale coffee, but I spent the entire duration in a state of suspended animation. My mind was still back in the cobblestone alleys of Trastevere, where I had spent the last two weeks securing a merger for my architectural firm. I was exhausted, smelling of recycled cabin air and expensive duty-free perfume, longing for nothing more than my California King mattress and the familiar silence of my suburban Connecticut home.

I unlocked the front door at 2:00 AM. The house should have been asleep.

My husband, Richard, had texted me three hours ago: “Can’t wait to see you, babe. Leaving the light on. So tired from the gym. Love you.”

I dropped my leather valise in the foyer. The house was quiet, but it wasn’t silent. There’s a difference. Silence is empty; quiet is heavy. It holds breath.

I walked into the living room. A half-empty bottle of my favorite vintage Barolo sat on the coffee table. Two glasses. One had a smudge of lipstick on the rim. A shade of crimson I never wore.

I stood there, the jet lag vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the bottle. I simply took off my heels, placing them side by side on the rug, and walked up the stairs. The plush carpet swallowed my footsteps.

As I reached the landing, I heard it. The sounds. The soft, rhythmic creaking of the bed frame I had picked out for our fifth anniversary. The stifled giggles. The low, husky groans of the man I had vowed to love in sickness and in health.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. A sliver of amber light from the hallway cut across the floor, but the room itself was dim.

I pushed the door open.

They didn’t hear me. They were too engrossed in their tangle of limbs and sheets. The woman was on top, her back to me, her dark hair cascading down. Richard’s hands were on her hips, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

I stood in the doorway for a full minute, watching. I felt a strange detachment, like I was an art critic observing a particularly vulgar painting. The pain was there, deep in my chest, but it was frozen under layers of shock and calculation.

Then, I reached out and flipped the light switch.

Part II: The Switch

The sudden flood of LED brightness was violent.

The woman shrieked, scrambling off Richard and pulling the duvet up to her chin. Richard bolted upright, his eyes wide, blinking rapidly against the glare.

“Elena!” he gasped, his face draining of color. “Oh my god. You… you’re back early.”

“I’m back on time, Richard,” I said, my voice terrifyingly even. “The flight landed twenty minutes early. Tailwind.”

The woman peeked out from the covers. I recognized her. It was worse than a stranger. It was Maya. My personal assistant. The twenty-four-year-old girl I had hired straight out of NYU, the one I had mentored, the one who watered my plants while I was away.

“Ms. Vance…” Maya whimpered. “I… I can explain.”

“Don’t,” I said, holding up a hand.

I walked into the room. I didn’t look at their nakedness. I walked to the vanity table, picked up a chair, and placed it at the foot of the bed.

I sat down, crossing my legs. I looked at them.

“Elena, please,” Richard stammered, reaching for his boxers on the floor. “Let’s go downstairs. Let’s talk about this. I know how this looks, but—”

“Sit down, Richard,” I commanded.

He froze. There was something in my tone—a frequency of authority he had never heard in our ten years of marriage—that made him obey. He sat back against the headboard, pulling the sheet up.

“You look comfortable,” I observed.

“Elena, stop,” he pleaded. “Yell at me. Hit me. Do something. This… this calmness is scaring me.”

“It should,” I said.

I reached into my purse. They both flinched, expecting a gun.

Instead, I pulled out my phone.

“You know,” I began conversationally, “while I was in Rome, I had a lot of time to think. About us. About the accounts. About the strange withdrawals from the joint savings.”

Richard swallowed hard. “I can explain the money. It was an investment.”

“It was jewelry,” I corrected. “For Maya. Cartier, specifically. I got the alert on my watch while I was in the Vatican Museum. Irony is a funny thing.”

Maya looked down, shame flushing her cheeks.

“But that’s not why I’m calm,” I continued. “I’m calm because of who I met in Italy.”

“Who?” Richard asked, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Your brother, Stefano.”

Richard went white. “Stefano? You… you saw him?”

“We had dinner. Lovely man. He told me a very interesting story about why you left Italy ten years ago. About the money you owe to the wrong kind of people in Naples. The reason you changed your name when you came to America.”

Richard was trembling now. “Elena… that’s… that’s ancient history. I paid them.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said softly. “You ran. And they have been looking for you. Stefano said the interest has compounded quite a bit. They aren’t looking for money anymore. They are looking for blood.”

Maya looked at Richard, terrified. “Richard? What is she talking about?”

“Shut up, Maya,” he hissed. Then to me, “Elena, you can’t tell them. They’ll kill me.”

“I know,” I said.

I tapped the screen of my phone.

“That’s why I did what I did just now.”

“What did you do?” Richard whispered.

I turned the phone screen toward them. It showed a live tracking app. A small blue dot was blinking right on our house.

“I called them,” I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. In that moment, the lie was so powerful it became truth. “I told Stefano’s contacts that I found you. I sent them your location. I told them the back door is unlocked.”

Richard’s eyes bulged. “You… you called the Camorra? On your husband?”

“On my ex-husband,” I corrected. “And on the woman who is currently trespassing in my bed.”

I stood up and checked my watch.

“They have a local associate. He’s about ten minutes away. I suggest you run. Both of you.”

Part III: The Flight

Panic is a primal thing. It strips away dignity.

Richard didn’t question me. He didn’t ask for proof. The guilt of his past and the shock of the moment made him believe the nightmare instantly.

He scrambled out of bed, tripping over the sheets, naked and pathetic.

“Maya, move!” he screamed, grabbing his pants. “We have to go! Now!”

“But my clothes!” Maya cried, clutching the duvet.

“Forget the clothes!” Richard yelled, hopping on one leg as he pulled on his trousers. “They’ll kill us, you idiot! Move!”

I stood by the window, watching them. It was a farce. A tragedy turned into a comedy. Richard grabbed his wallet and keys. Maya wrapped herself in the bedsheet, grabbing her shoes.

“Elena, you’re insane!” Richard shouted as he ran into the hallway. “You’re a monster!”

“I’m a businesswoman, Richard,” I called after him. “I cut my losses.”

I heard them thundering down the stairs. The front door slammed open, then shut. The roar of Richard’s car engine pierced the night, followed by the screech of tires as he peeled out of the driveway, speeding away into the darkness as if the devil himself were chasing them.

I waited until the taillights disappeared.

Then, I walked over to the nightstand. I picked up the glass of wine Richard had left there.

I took a sip. It was a good vintage.

I picked up my phone again. I dialed a number.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice trembling perfectly, summoning the tears I had held back. “My name is Elena Vance. I just returned from a business trip to find my husband and his mistress in my bed. I… I snapped. I told them a lie about hitmen coming to kill them to get them out of the house.”

“Ma’am, are you in danger?”

“No,” I said. “But my husband… he’s driving recklessly. He’s in a panic. He’s drunk. He had a bottle of wine before he left. He’s driving a black BMW, license plate 4-X-Y-Z-2. He’s heading south on Route 9. Please… before he hurts someone.”

“We’ll dispatch a unit immediately.”

Part IV: The Morning After

I didn’t sleep in the master bedroom. I stripped the sheets—the ones Maya had wrapped herself in—and threw them in the trash. I slept in the guest room.

The next morning, the sun was shining. I made myself an espresso.

My phone rang. It was an officer from the local precinct.

“Mrs. Vance?”

“Yes?”

“We have your husband in custody. We pulled him over doing ninety in a thirty-five zone. He blew a 0.15 on the breathalyzer. He was also… raving. Something about Italian mobsters and a hitman?”

“Oh dear,” I sighed. “He has… episodes. Delusions of grandeur. It’s why I’ve been trying to get him help.”

“Well, he’s in the drunk tank now. The young woman with him… she was wearing a bedsheet? She’s being held for questioning regarding public indecency, but we’ll likely release her.”

“Thank you, Officer. I’ll call his lawyer.”

I hung up.

I didn’t call his lawyer.

I walked to the wall safe behind the painting in the study. I opened it. Inside was the file I had actually brought back from Italy.

It wasn’t a contact for the mafia. Richard didn’t owe money to the mob. That was a story he told at parties to sound dangerous and mysterious. I just used his own vanity against him.

The file contained the deed to the house, which was solely in my name, and the prenuptial agreement which had a very strict “infidelity clause.”

I sat at the desk and drafted a text to Maya.

“You’re fired. Your severance package is the bedsheet. Keep it.”

Then I poured the rest of my espresso.

The house was quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was light. It was mine.

I had turned on the light, and the cockroaches had scattered. Now, all I had to do was call the exterminator to change the locks.

The End