Prejudice and Poisons
Copyright© 2026 by Paul Darkblue
Chapter 2
Thriller Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Emma Rizzi, commissario in the Italian Police force is grappling with a difficult investigation. Meanwhile, her personal life and her loved ones are threatened by the return of a woman from her husband's past.
Caution: This Thriller Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Heterosexual Fiction Crime Swinging Hispanic Female Anal Sex
Investigations - week two
The following week, the first results came in from our discreet inquiries into the two families.
One of the officers had found a witness: an elderly, retired woman living directly opposite the Belli family’s house, who spent several hours of her day looking out of her window.
She reported that every other month something strange occurred. On Saturday mornings, the husband, Dario Belli, would leave the house in his car with a small bag. A few minutes later, a woman whose description matched Stefania Nicchi would arrive at the Belli house. On Sunday evening, Stefania Nicchi would leave, and a few minutes later, Dario Belli would return home.
Some further discreet digging confirmed the story. On those weekends, Dario had been spotted spending the entire time at the Nicchi family’s house.
We couldn’t explain this strange home swap, but given that Serena and Stefania were best friends, whatever was going on was likely explainable and, above all, consensual.
By chance, a second clue came from Marco. All the victims’ clothes and personal belongings had been packed and stored the moment they were admitted to the ICU at the hospital. After the two men died, everything was seized and kept in our forensic lab for analysis before being released to the families.
Marco knocked on my office door on Thursday: “Hello Emma, I’ve got something to show you. Are you busy?”
“Come in, Marco. Lisa and I were just trying to make sense of some strange things we found out about those two families, you remember, the two victims who died of food poisoning.” I waved him in.
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Marco replied, handing me an evidence bag with a receipt sealed inside.
“What’s this, Marco?” I asked.
“We found this inside Emanuele Nicchi’s wallet. It’s a receipt for drinks he paid for at Club Armonia a week before the dinner that caused the food poisoning.” Marco looked at me, winking.
“What’s so strange about this receipt?” I asked.
Lisa answered before Marco could speak: “Chief, Club Armonia is a well-known nightclub near Arezzo, and it’s notorious for being a swingers club!”
“I don’t want to know how you know about a swingers club, Deputy!” I replied, laughing.
“Shut up, chief, not all of us are perverts, and I’m not the one who had sex with her boyfriend here in the office,” Lisa replied with a wink, reminding me of the time she nearly caught Marco and me having a quickie in my office near the start of our relationship. “It’s just that Club Armonia is famous around here. Every year they host a wild New Year’s Eve party where, alongside dinner and dancing, there are all-night stripteases and live sex shows featuring famous porn stars. Maybe you’ve never noticed, but you can see their billboards all along the roads every December.”
“So, are we saying the two couples might have been interested in swinging or other sexual games? Or was it just an Emanuele Nicchi thing? Was he cheating on his wife? That would certainly raise suspicion about his death, but what does it have to do with Dario Belli’s death?” I voiced my thoughts aloud.
“Maybe we should ask the wives,” Lisa suggested.
“It’s too early, deputy; we need to gather more information. We don’t even know if or how these details are connected to the victims’ deaths. If the two women are completely unaware, it could add the sting of betrayal to the grief of losing their husbands. We should start with a visit to this nightclub; let’s see if anyone there knows these people.” I began planning our next step.
“Deputy, call the club, ask for the manager, and arrange a time for us to visit,” I instructed Lisa.
Before Marco left for his office, he leaned in and whispered, “I just heard from my sister. The meeting is set for Saturday before lunch at her house.” A cold shiver ran down my spine once again.
An hour later, Lisa had arranged a meeting with the club manager for the following afternoon, Friday.
On Friday, I arrived at Club Armonia after about an hour’s drive, accompanied by an officer from my team. The club was in the suburbs of the beautiful city of Arezzo, in the heart of Toscana. It sat on a secluded road, with a car park at the back hidden from prying eyes. It was a sprawling, single-storey building. I had checked beforehand and discovered that the venue had previously been a commercial discotheque. A blue sign reading ’Club Armonia’ hung above the building, currently unlit as it was still daylight, featuring the silhouette of a dancer beside the lettering.
Inside, it was a large open space, shrouded in dim twilight. A couple of low stages, each with a pole in the centre, now occupied what used to be the discotheque’s dance floor. Couches and tables surrounded them, with the bar situated at the back. To the right of the bar, a thick red velvet curtain obscured a door, above which a sign reading ’Private rooms – members only’ flickered softly. At that hour of the afternoon, the place was quiet and completely deserted.
The club manager was a woman in her early fifties, tall and curvy, with long black hair and brown eyes. She wore a sharp business outfit: a dark blue pencil skirt paired with a tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt. High heels and flawless makeup gave her the polished aura of a successful executive.
After brief introductions, she offered a cool smile and asked, “I’m Angela Ferri, the club’s manager and co-owner. What can I do for you, officers?”
“Ms. Ferri, thank you for seeing us at such short notice. We’re investigating the death of a man in Perugia who had a receipt for drinks purchased here in his wallet. Do you recognise him?” I asked, showing her a photograph of Emanuele Nicchi.
“Commissario,” her fake smile vanished instantly. “I’m not at liberty to share information regarding our club’s clients. Do you have a search warrant?”
“No, Ms. Ferri, not yet. We were hoping for some off-the-record cooperation. A formal warrant becomes public record, and I’m not sure that level of publicity would benefit your ... business line.” I attempted to leverage the situation.
“I’m sorry, Commissario, but absolute privacy is our core promise. Our clients rely on our complete discretion. Come back with a warrant if you can find a judge willing to sign one. Good luck with that.” She stonewalled me with a smirk, dropping a subtle hint that a few local judges might well be on her VIP guest list.
My visit to the club had been a complete dead end. We needed another angle to extract information from that place. On the drive back, I brainstormed a new strategy to get what we required.
Commissario Emma Rizzi – March 1st, Saturday
Eventually, Saturday arrived. Marco and I had reached Rimini early in the morning and arrived at his sister Paola’s house. We spent time catching up on our lives, sitting in the living room having an aperitivo when the doorbell rang. Paola opened the door, and Isabel entered the room.
We rose from the sofa. I think she had been about to throw herself into Marco’s arms, but she froze when she saw me.
For a few seconds, no one said a word. Isabel and I were staring at each other. It’s a woman thing when two of us share the same room or space: with a few swift glances, we size up the competition and mark our territory.
Truth be told, Isabel was stunning, far more than I could have imagined. Smooth, olive skin; long, dark hair; deep, radiant brown eyes; and full, heart-shaped lips. With a slender, toned body, at thirty-eight, she showed no signs of ageing; I could easily have taken her for twenty-five. Under the winter coat, she was wearing denim hot pants that left her legs on full display, covered only by nude pantyhose, along with a crop top. She clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. Definitely a bit of slutty outfit, in my opinion, for a family reunion.
Despite not being bad-looking myself, I felt like the ugly duckling when I faced her. I was wearing long cotton trousers and a plain cardigan, nothing sexy at all.
Marco broke the silence with a cold voice: “Hello, Isabel, it’s been a long time ... meet my wife, Emma,” he said, stressing the word ’wife’; then he added, “Emma, this is my ex-wife, Isabel,” once again stressing the word ’ex-wife’.
Isabel managed a reply: “Hello Marco, I’m glad to see you’re doing well ... and nice to meet you, Emma.”
She looked at us, standing close together hand in hand, before suddenly collapsing into a chair and bursting into desperate tears.
None of us knew what to say to her. We just stood there watching as she tried to catch her breath.
After a while, she stood up from the chair and headed towards the door, still sobbing and saying: “I should go now. I’m sorry to have bothered both of you. I’ve already hurt my family once; I won’t do it again.”
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