Page 23 of Beautiful Evidence

"Yes," she moans through gritted teeth, her nails digging into my back. "I want you to make me come, Enzo. Please!"

"That's better." I chuckle darkly before slamming into her one last time, hitting that magic spot so deep inside her that I canfeel her orgasm ripple through her body. Her pussy clenches around my dick as her hips rise off the countertop and she screams in pleasure. The sensation sends me over the edge too, and with a low growl, I empty myself into her, my entire body shaking with pleasure.

She shakes and convulses, milking me, and I groan and let the fullness of my release drain every ounce of tension from my body. We’re panting, chests heaving from effort, and she clings to me, kissing my chest softly.

Her lips find mine in a sensual exploration as I pull out and let my cum drain from her body. She whimpers when I pull away, but I help her off the counter and make sure she’s steady on her feet—weak in the knees—before I finally pull away for good.

Afterward, she opens the bottle and pours herself a drink, then slips her robe back on as she offers me one. Her hands don’t shake, but there’s tension in the way she holds the glass, like the adrenaline hasn’t quite left her system.

"No, thank you… I still have some work to get done tonight." I pick up my clothing, but my mind is already going toward what I have to do next. She's safe here, and I need to post a man at her door now and follow up on why Leo let this shit happen.

I dress quickly, rolling up my sleeves and checking my phone as I slide it back into my jacket pocket. She doesn’t try to stop me this time, and I don’t explain why I can't stay. There’s nothing tender about the silence—only understanding, though I see the hesitancy in her expression.

"What if they come back?"

"They're not coming back tonight. I'll send Rory up and he'll keep watch. You have your weapon… Use it no matter who walksthrough. My men won't come in unless you ask them." With my clothing back in place, I press a kiss to her forehead and linger for a second. "You're safe, Bella." She's gotten under my skin. She's not just a mark now or someone I protect. She's mine, and every part of my being knows it.

I kiss her one last time and sneak out before she can give me those sad eyes. By the time I make it back to the compound, the gate’s locked and the courtyard’s quiet. The dogs don't even bark. No one is on the perimeter. I walk up the front steps, already on alert, and that’s when I see a flat envelope. The envelope has no label, no return address, and no identifying marks.

My name is printed cleanly in block letters across the front, centered like it was done with care. It hasn’t been tossed or slid under the door—it’s been placed there intentionally. Meant to be found by me and no one else.

Glancing around to see if I can see the person who left it, I pick it up and take it upstairs, locking the door behind me before I open it. Inside is a flash drive. It’s the kind you find at a kiosk or convenience store, plain and cheap—meant to be used once and discarded. Clearly disposable, clearly meant for this moment only. I boot up the laptop I don’t keep connected to any network and plug it in.

The file opens without my prompting it, and I stare at the first frame as it comes into focus. It’s video footage. Alessia appears on screen.

She’s in the lab, running bloodwork, loading samples, scribbling something on a clipboard. The angle is wide, like it was taken from the mounted surveillance unit that's standard there. Which means someone has hacked into the government servers.Someone else is watching her—closely, carefully, and without her knowing.

This isn’t just surveillance. It’s a message—to me, not her, which means they want me to know they're on to my part in this game we're playing.

I watch until the footage loops, then remove the drive and set it on the desk. I don’t crush it because I want to know who sent it, how they got access, and how long they’ve been this close to her without my knowing.

She called me tonight because she was scared. She asked me to stay because I make her feel safe. But what she doesn't understand is I'm not God and I can't stop the storm that's coming. The Bianchis know what is happening now, and they're not going to quit until they're certain they are secure.

This isn’t just a warning.

It’s a threat.

13

ALESSIA

Iwake alone. The room is quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of morning traffic outside. Soft, golden light filters through the curtains. I lie still, staring at the ceiling, wishing Enzo were here. I'm not scared, but waking to someone in bed with me sounds pleasant and appealing. I've been alone for so long. Maybe I've just lowered my standards too far…

My thoughts drift to yesterday, to the footsteps behind me. The way my skin prickled. I tried really hard to convince myself it was nothing, but when Enzo left his friend Rory outside my door, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Even Enzo thinks there is an additional threat, and that turns my stomach.

I push myself out of bed and force myself to shower and get ready, but by the time I get to work, my nerves are stretched thin. The lab’s usual chill does nothing to ground me the way a temperature drop can do to the nervous system. I log in, sterilize my instruments, and begin the routine. It’s easier when my hands are moving—when the science takes over.

There's a new body on the slab, a teenager—car accident victim—so I dig into what seems normal. But routine shatters fast when Dr. Bernardi corners me over the exam table, waving a folder like it’s a death sentence.

“The 416-bis investigators pulled your toxicology report,” he says. His voice is too loud, too self-satisfied. “They flagged it as incomplete. Why isn't it finished?"

He tosses the printout onto the counter and my stomach flips. It’s the preliminary report I ran on Matteo Vescari’s blood panel, and I know it's clean. I didn't destroy evidence. I just didn't submit everything yet because I'm not sure what to do. I know what the right thing to do is, but Enzo makes it so difficult to know the right thing for my family.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask, refocusing on the exposed chest cavity of this victim. Her parents want to know exactly what caused the death, as if saying "traumatic physical injury due to blunt-force trauma at a high rate of speed" isn't enough.

“Say you’re going to get ahead of it,” Luca replies. “Because right now, it looks like you’re either sloppy or dragging your feet. Why isn't this finished?"

I wait until he walks off—the smug bastard—before I exhale.

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