Ethan deftly wielded the small knife; crimson droplets spilling from its finely honed blade, trickling down the underside of his wrist.

He dropped the strawberry slices into his cereal. “Fragola, strawberry!” he practiced his Italian aloud, washing the juice from his hands.

 Ethan had moved to Rome three weeks ago, an impulsive tactic used as both an escape from a heartbreak, and a panacea for his twenty-something malaise.

He had eagerly enrolled in the American’s Abroad Fine Arts Program. Explore the world of Art, Learn a new language, Meet new friends, the flyer happily decreed. He had the entire summer and la dolce vita certainly beat bartending. With some hurried paperwork and a low interest credit card, Ethan was off to dabble in the esoteric world of the “artiste.”

The romance of the plan soon soured when Ethan was greeted by the eternal city with a significant language barrier, cramped cell-like apartment, and daily fourteen block commute to campus. But he wanted adventure, a new leash on life, a personal renaissance, so when in Rome….

Ethan soon adapted to his new environment with Darwinesque agility; navigating the complex city streets with relative ease, competently ordering a dish of gnocchi, even enduring the antiquated plumbing. A cold shower had never actually killed anyone.

 “Boun Giorno”, the waiter at his favorite haunt welcomed him, setting the tables overlooking Piazza Novena.

“See you and beauuuutiful woman yesterday… your girlfriend?”

 Ethan wished he was with a beautiful woman, even a semi-beautiful one.

“No, wasn’t me…” he pouted, wiping away an imaginary tear.

“Yes… black dress…bellissimo” The waiter etched a voluptuous female form in the air with his hands. Ethan chuckled and shrugged, ordering a cappuccino “to go”: an alien concept in the birthplace of the three-hour meal.

 With time to kill before class, Ethan wandered the piazza, drinking in the midday sun; the cool wet rush from Bernini’s fountains misting its statues in a frosty haze. He stopped before the languid marble gods entwined with dolphins and cherubs. 300 years ago, he waxed philosophical, someone could have stared at this very view.

“You like picture?” a voice queried behind him. Ethan paused, admiring the artist’s work and remembered promising his mother a portrait.

 “And not one of those ridiculous caricature’s with the giant heads…” she chided, “something I could display in the den” Ethan chuckled at the thought of a beautifully rendered charcoal sketch adorning her paneled wall in Peoria.

“Ok” Ethan agreed, checking his watch.

 “Mia madre” he explained lest the artist should think him an egomaniac.

 The man selected a small black stick from a suede pouch as Ethan relaxed in a folding chair. He watched the artist’s skilled hand dance across the paper to the scratching charcoal, once finished, proudly turning it into view.

Ethan started at the sight. It was him, quite accurately portrayed, but beside him, an exquisite raven-haired woman dressed in black.

“Chi?”  Ethan asked, bewildered. The man nodded and winked as Ethan fumbled for euros in his pocket. Was it a joke? Did the waiter set him up?  Not wanting to play “rude” tourist, Ethan said “grazie” and walked on, perplexed. Italians! Maybe he could cut it in half and give his likeness to his mother. He was keeping the girl.

The room went black as the slide machine wearily clicked to life. With a flash, the famous smirk of the Mona Lisa appeared on screen, the projector illuminating particles of dust hovering in the air.

“You better know this one” professor North snorted, his glasses two luminous disks. The class emitted the obligatory giggle.

“And now to some lesser known pieces.” A click produced a small portrait of a striking young woman with ebony hair.

 Ethan jolted in his seat, rescuing his coffee from an untimely demise. Classmates glared, as he rebalanced his cup safely on his desk.

 “Sorry” he mouthed.

The resemblance was uncanny; same quizzical eyes, same mane of onyx hair. Discreetly, he unrolled his portrait, studying it intently in the darkness. It was her. No question. Dumbfounded, he rehashed the morning’s peculiararities in his head.

The professor’s voice droned on.

“La Vedova Nera, The Black Widow, 1665, artist unknown. A wedding portrait of Maria Fiore. Rather scandalous!” He lured the class to attention. “Forced into an arranged marriage to an aristocrat, Maria convinced her young lover to release her from her misery. The obliging paramour agreed, savagely stabbing Maria’s husband to death in his sleep”. The class murmured with delight. “Legend says Maria still walks the streets of Rome, and when a young man catches her eye, seduces him into doing unspeakable things.”

“Women haven’t changed much…” a student chuckled, readying himself for the punch from the blonde in the next seat.

Another click and a newspaper photo appeared: the awkward professor shaking hands with a well-heeled couple, the portrait in the background.

 “Here I am with the owner of the painting who has generously willed it, upon his death, to the museum with which I am affiliated.” He waited for adulations, and when none came continued, “Signor Rossi joked that he had spent the estimated several million euros on the work due to its striking resemblance to his young wife”

Ethan compared the bored woman in gigantic sunglasses to the two portraits, recognizing an eerie resemblance.

The lights burst on. Ethan rose, rubbing his eyes against the sudden glare. Should he show the professor his unusual portrait? North was an expert, undoubtedly. Aside from his connection to the museum, he had written several successful books; impressive credentials which he managed to insert into almost every conversation. Still something about the man was unsettling.

Instead Ethan logged on to the computer in the library, printing up as much as possible about Vedova Nera and toted that, along with three impossibly heavy volumes on Italian art, fourteen blocks back to his temporary home.

The matronly owner of the pension greeted him.

“Signora” he responded absently. Pension Ghilberti had been the woman’s childhood home before hard times forced her to open it’s mahogany doors to any stranger willing to pay.

“Pretty girl here for visit, she just left”

“Which way?”  Ethan was breathless as Signora motioned left. Dropping his books, he sped frantically into the street, seconds before a woman in black disappeared around the corner tobacco shop. Ethan broke into a controlled run, dodging cars, following her amongst the crowds heading home for siesta.

 “Signorina” he called out futilely. He lost sight of her in Piazza del Fiore, the former site of medieval executions, now weekend flower market. Frantically, he surveyed the myriad of streets and alleyways, jutting out from its center like legs of a very large spider. She was gone.

“Vino?” Signora offered on his return, noticing his anxiety. He gratefully drank her homemade vintage, its unrefined texture rough but welcome in the back of his throat.

It was two a.m. before Ethan succumbed to sleep; his dreams troubled by haunting voices, “help, please!” He floated through the back streets of Rome, the black haired girl elusive, calling his name. Just out of reach. “Please, for me!” Bernini’s statues rising from their marble posts called ”Follow her” Then a man’s scream.

Suddenly a commotion echoed from the lobby floor. Not the typical caffeine induced commotion of morning hustle-bustle. These sounds were methodical, the voices deliberate, footsteps determined. 

Within seconds, five Italian policemen burst through Ethan’s narrow doorway grabbing the disoriented student. In the frenzy of their foreign tongue, Ethan tried desperately to understand a word, a phrase, anything. They violently handcuffed him, motioning towards the stairs, seizing the portrait from his desk.

Ethan was lead, trance-like, down the corridor as timid faces peered from half-open doors, retreating to their rooms with gasps and sharp snaps of locking doors. His legs now lifeless struggled under his weight.

A suited man in the lobby informed Ethan in accented English that he was being arrested…for murder!  The air was suddenly sucked from his lungs. The world became an eerie spinning carousel: Signora, the armed men, the floral wallpaper swirled about until all went dark.

Ethan was carried to an awaiting van; Signora instructed to lock his room until forensics arrived. Obediently she climbed the stairs, securing Ethan’s door; but not before removing a small tape recorder from beneath his bed.

 Aching and groggy, Ethan awoke in a small windowless room. His wrists cuffed to the arm of a sturdy wooden chair, a glass of water in front of him.

“I’m Daniel Simmons from the American Embassy,” a man announced, flashing an identification card. “We need to talk.”

 Ethan tried helplessly to explain the recent events to the dubious embassy attaché’.

“ I know it makes no sense,” he pleaded.

“So you know nothing of this” Simmons slapped a newspaper on the table. Ethan gasped, he didn’t read Italian but immediately recognized the man on the front page. It was Rossi, the word OMICIDIO! underneath. Murder!

“Someone placed you at the scene…you’re girlfriend…”

“I don’t have…” he started “I want a lawyer. What the hell is happening”?

“According to the paper” Simmons translated aloud, “Rossi was found stabbed to death in his bedroom early this morning. The prominent art collector…furious about an alleged affair, was filing for divorce. This photo shows his wife and suspected lover.”

My God, it was Ethan, seated with a dark haired beauty, having their portrait done.

“You’ll be transferred to a facility for international detainees,” Simmons stated flatly. “A lawyer will be provided.” Ethan felt as if he were underwater. Sights and sounds took on distorted forms, warped in his murky sea of thought. Could he have done this? The blood? The scratch? No!

Ethan was given a fresh T-shirt and jeans; his blood-soaked clothing, stowed in plastic bags, labeled as evidence.

He was discreetly escorted to a black unmarked sedan, surprisingly, only one policeman supervising him.

 “For your protection, as little fanfare as possible. You’ve made powerful enemies.”

Ethan helplessly watched the city of Rome flicker past him from the tinted window; the forum, the fountains, the stifling traffic. They arrived unexpectedly at Leonardo da Vinci airport. The policeman mumbled into a radio and got out, leaving Ethan alone slowly dissolving in his own confusion.

Unbeknownst to Ethan, that morning six envelopes brimming with Euros were being delivered throughout Rome:

One to a once-wealthy pensione owner,

One to an elderly painter with an ailing wife,

One to a waiter with a penchant for high priced prostitutes,

One to a raven-haired model with a past,

One to a corrupt policeman.

Officer Moreno opened the car door and nimbly unlocked Ethan’s cuffs.

Envelope six went to Ethan

It contained stacks of euros, a U.S. passport with a new “identity”, strict instructions and a first-class ticket home.

A stupefied Ethan stepped cautiously out of the car.

“Grazie” a voice purred suddenly behind him. He turned abruptly. It was the dark-haired woman. He froze as their eyes locked, motionless as she reached forward and kissed him gently, her onyx hair brushing his cheek. In an instant she slipped into the idling sedan and was gone. He headed for “departures.”

“You are now free to move about the…” a canned voice announced as Ethan reclined with a vodka.

“Good thing we’re out of here” a fellow passenger nudged Ethan as Rome disappeared beneath them, “just heard some crazed murderer escaped”

 Ethan smiled and reclined in his first-class seat, counting his euros. He was going to enjoy his new life.