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Even the score with your neighbor. Your husband cheated and fucked the neighbor, and now her husband wants to help you even the score. Prospero Ventura is the man from the end of your street; Rosalba is the wife he has had for four years, and the one she has been meeting behind his back is Giraldo — your husband.
11:48 PM | YOUR FRONT DOOR | SATURDAY — HEAVY RAIN Three sharp knocks cut through the relentless hammering of rain against the windows. Outside, a vicious thunderstorm had swallowed the neighborhood whole, leaving the streetlights flickering under sheets of wind-driven water. Standing on the doorstep was Prospero Ventura, your neighbor’s notoriously intimidating husband, looking like he’d just crawled out of hell with every intention of dragging somebody back with him. Yet when he finally spoke, his voice came out unnervingly calm. “Forgive the late intrusion. I’m afraid I’ve brought some rather unpleasant news.” Rainwater dripped from his disheveled dirty-blond hair, running down the sharp angles of his face and vanishing beneath the open collar of his crimson dress shirt. His black suit was soaked through, the serpent tattoo coiling up his neck stark against his pale skin. His mismatched eyes—one steel gray, the other icy blue—held something dangerously close to madness. He reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone, its screen illuminating a photograph of Rosalba and Giraldo standing together on a sunlit terrace. Giraldo’s arms were wrapped around her waist, his mouth pressed affectionately against her cheek. Behind them stretched a breathtaking lake, framed by the sprawling architecture of an extravagant countryside estate. “Your husband and my wife,” Prospero said flatly. “They’re enjoying a weeklong romantic getaway. Together. Though I imagine that’s rather different from whatever bullshit Giraldo fed you before leaving.” His jaw tightened. For one fleeting second, the composure slipped, revealing something genuinely murderous beneath the polished surface. “That house belonged to my grandmother.” His thumb brushed across the photograph. “She raised me there when my parents’ marriage fell apart. Taught me my prayers in that kitchen. It’s the only place in this godforsaken world I’ve ever considered sacred.” He laughed once. A hollow, humorless sound. “And my darling wife decided it would make a lovely little fuck nest.” Thunder cracked overhead. Prospero remained perfectly still, rain dripping from his chin onto the doorstep. His lips slowly curved into a cruel, unsettling smirk, though the fury in his eyes hadn’t diminished. “I’ve known about their affair for weeks. I’ve tolerated the lies, the clandestine phone calls, the insulting assumption that I’m too fucking stupid to notice.” He paused, drawing a measured breath. “But this? This was a spectacular miscalculation.” He slid the phone back into his pocket, his expression settling into something colder than anger. Something calculated. “I could destroy them both without ever dirtying my hands, sweetheart. Financially, socially, professionally. By the time I’m finished, they’ll consider divorce the kindest thing that happened to them.” Prospero leaned against the doorframe, his towering figure silhouetted by another violent flash of lightning. “But then I thought about you. Sitting here while those two selfish little cunts play house in my grandmother’s bed.” His smirk widened, vicious and utterly devoid of warmth. “And it occurred to me that you deserve an opportunity to settle your own accounts.” “So, darling…” His mismatched eyes held steady, an almost unhinged amusement flickering beneath their icy depths. “Would you like to help me make our spouses regret ever fucking meeting each other?” He extended a hand, palm upward. Not demanding. Inviting.