Page 24 of Beautiful Evidence

There's no point in trying to deny that I'm procrastinating, but since my boss is leaning on me harder than normal for this one, I do have to do something. I can't just publish my findings. I'm not as much worried whether my father goes to prison as I am concerned about what Enzo may think of me. And if he's right and it starts some sort of meltdown of the criminal organizations in the city, wouldn't that be a good thing?

But then who would let my name slip? Because the Costa legacy is so far-reaching that for sure, someone would tie me to it. I've done nothing wrong, but simply by association, they would label me as dangerous. And given that I've hidden some things in this Vescari case already, I may face penalties anyway. I feel stuck.

That night, I stay late, long after the hallway lights have dimmed and the cleaning staff have moved on. I seal myself in my office and lay out the original blood samples, double-checking each slide as if I might've missed something the first time. The data is clean and my work is good, but the implications are murky. If I submit the full report as is, it could unravel the carefully curated narrative the Bianchis are pushing—the one Enzo wants buried (A.K.A. the truth). If I delay, I risk being flagged for obstruction.

Either way, someone will come for me.

I open a fresh analysis window on my terminal and begin drafting a revised report. I don’t fabricate evidence—but I do add enough ambiguity to justify a longer timeline because I have to think this through. I adjust the toxin markers, cite additional metabolite discrepancies, and insert a paragraph explaining the need for further confirmatory tests.

Each keystroke feels like a betrayal. I’m not sure if it’s to the truth, to my profession, or to myself. But I do it anyway. I have to. Buying time is the only strategy left that doesn’t end in immediate fallout.

When I finally hitSave, the digital timestamp glares back at me. My hands are trembling. I lock the file, encrypt it, and sit back in my chair, heart pounding in my throat.

Vincenzo’s words echo in my head. "You play both sides long enough, and someone will make you choose."

When exhaustion threatens to keep me holed up in the lab, I gather my things and leave the lab, walk the shadowed streets home, lock the door behind me, and turn off every light but the one in the kitchen. I sit on the edge of the sofa for a while, still in my work clothes, trying to convince myself that what I did tonight was necessary, but the guilt is cloying, swarming me like angry birds in that Hitchcock film.

When the buzzer sounds, I already know who it is. I don’t question the timing or ask why he's here. I rise slowly, cross the quiet apartment, and undo the chains and deadbolts.

I open the door and Vincenzo stands there in a dark coat, eyes scanning my face. One eyebrow is raised as he leans on the jamb and says, "Shift change. I gave Rory the night off. I'll be sitting here if you need me." It's kind of him to let me know. I appreciate it, but I feel reserved.

Maybe he thinks I’m breaking. Maybe he’s here to catch me in the middle of something damning. But when I meet his gaze, it doesn’t feel like surveillance. It feels like a moment where he's waiting to be invited in, like because I've let my guard down around him, I'll want him inside, when I would let his men just park their asses in the hallway.

He's not wrong.

I step back to let him in. “Couch is yours,” I say as I close the door behind him, and this time, I mean the couch, though I wouldn't mind being held, but things are already messy and complicated. If I end up swinging toward Dr. Bernardi and letting the case go to the investigators, I'd like a bit of cushion for my heart because Enzo won't be happy with me.

He nods once, shrugs off his coat, and drops it on the back of a kitchen chair. He doesn’t press me with questions or remind me how I'm supposed to be hiding evidence and throwing a case. I appreciate that more than I want to admit.

I go to my room without another word, peel off my work clothes, and slip under the covers. But I can’t sleep. My body is still humming from the choice I made tonight. I stare at the ceiling again, aware of every creak and shift in the silence of my apartment for more than an hour.

And I know… I didn’t leave the door open by mistake.

14

VINCENZO

Isit up slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. The apartment is dim, the haze of middle-night graying the windows. For a second, I think I imagined the crying. Then I hear it again—a broken breath, a tremor in the dark.

I stand without making a sound. The couch creaks under my weight, but nothing else stirs. Her bedroom door is cracked an inch, the light inside faint. I move toward it with slow, controlled steps, then I push it open with two fingers.

Alessia is curled into herself on the far side of the bed, knees drawn up, one arm shielding her face. The other is clenched in the sheets and her shoulders are shaking.

For a second, my mind runs through the worst-case scenarios. If someone hurt her, if someone got past me, I’ll never forgive myself. And Gordo? Gordo will make sure I never draw another breath. He may not have sent me here at all, but men are fiercely protective of their daughters and wives.

But there’s no blood. No signs of a break-in. Just Alessia, breaking apart under her covers over something that'stormenting her in her mind. I stand there watching for a moment, listening to her soft sobs and stuttered breaths, unaware that her eyes are open and she can see me.

She turns her head slightly when I shift my weight to lean on the door frame. "I’m fine," she says, voice raw and tight. She doesn’t lift her head or chase me away, but she pulls the blanket higher like it might shield her from my presence. "You don’t have to?—"

"Don’t lie," I say softly. My hand lingers on the doorframe, but I take a step into her room to close the distance between us. When she was terrified last week, I was the one she called for comfort, and tonight she cries alone. That fact doesn't escape me. But then, I'm not the sort of guy who offers a shoulder to cry on very often.

When I walk toward the bed, she doesn’t argue, doesn’t sit up or try to pull herself together to dissuade me. She lies there limp with her strength drained, and I perch on the edge of the mattress, knowing that I won't get back to sleep again tonight.

Several seconds pass in the silence, and then she lifts one hand toward me, palm open in the space between us. It's not just a gesture, it's an answer to the question I didn’t ask. I move before I think. I take off my jeans and slide in behind her. I don’t ask questions or press her to explain.

Curling around her, I breathe her in, and when her fingers find mine, I let her pull me closer. The mattress dips beneath my weight, and for a moment neither of us says anything. Her back is to me, but I feel every tremor that moves through her frame. She doesn’t resist. If anything, she presses closer.

I feel her breaths slow against my chest. Her hand finds the fabric of my T-shirt and grips it. There’s nothing I can say to fixwhatever woke her, though I have a good idea of what it is. She's in an impossible situation, being asked to take a side in a war that's not her own. I can't blame her for wrestling with it, and if it were up to me, I would destroy the entire world to set her free.

---