Page 29 of Beautiful Evidence

"You lost?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

He doesn’t answer but he shifts his hand toward the console, maybe going for a badge or maybe a weapon, but I don't back down because if they're camping out here, they have a reason. I need to know that reason.

"If you’re watching her, you'd better make sure someone’s watching you." The hem of my jacket flaps in the breeze and I grab it, holding it open so he can see what I mean. The guy is too old for this job, past his prime, and judging by the fear in his eyes, I'd say he understands who I am.

He mutters something about doing his job, then jerks the car into gear. The tires bark against the pavement as he pulls away so fast he almost runs my toes over.

I race to my car and swing onto the street behind him. He guns it through the intersection and I follow, tires squealing as I take the corner hard. He cuts across two lanes of traffic and dives into a roundabout without signaling, forcing a scooter to veer wide and just miss him. I don’t lose ground. My focus narrows.

He accelerates down a wide avenue lined with row houses and throws another sharp left, nearly clipping a garbage bin. I stay on his bumper. Horns blare behind us as I cut through the same turn, pushing the car harder than I should. He heads toward the edge of the district, where streetlights grow sparse and the pavement’s more pothole than road.

I see him glance back through the rearview mirror. He doesn’t know the city like I do. He’s panicking now, swerving toward a narrow underpass near the train yard. I follow him in and the world closes down—concrete on both sides, flashing lights overhead, the high-pitched whine of my tires echoing.

He breaks out onto an access road and takes a hard right. But there’s a truck backing into a loading dock, blocking most of the lane. I veer wide, trying to keep sight of him as he disappears between two shipping containers at the far end of the lot. And my car smashes into two trash bins out for collection night and I'm forced to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the truck.

By the time I make the turn, he’s gone.

I ease off the gas and coast to a stop. He’s out of sight, but he won’t forget the message. The Costas are still in this game and we're not backing down without a fight.

17

ALESSIA

The hotel bar is all polished wood and Italian leather, with low amber light that casts everything in the same forgiving glow. I nurse a Negroni and try not to look anxious, but the back of my dress is damp where it sticks to the velvet booth, and I cross my legs slowly, careful not to flash too much skin.

Luca Bernardi is already three drinks in when he arrives. He doesn’t sit right away. He stands at the edge of the table like he’s waiting for an invitation, as if this is some dinner date instead of the power play it is. He demanded that we meet off the record, away from work, said he didn’t want certain things overheard on government servers or passed through departmental gossip. I didn’t argue, because if he knows something, I need to know what.

“Alessia,” he says, voice slurring at the edges. "If you’re sitting on anything—evidence, reports, even loose threads—it’s time to decide how this ends." His fingers dust over the table's smooth surface as he eyes me menacingly. I'm not coughing up whatI know, and he'll never find my evidence, either—not unless I want him to. But for that I'd need assurances.

“You’re late,” I reply, swirling the ice in my glass. “But I guess that’s in character.” My nonchalance is totally faked. My heart is a jackhammer against my ribs.

He smirks and slides into the seat across from me as he unbuttons his jacket and smooths his tie across his chest. He has no drink in hand, but a dark, smug smirk is on his face. As if that's supposed to intimidate me. He has no clue I've been fucking the devil. Dr. Bernardi doesn't scare me at all right now.

“They’re close to making the case,” he says like it’s a casual update. "We could be days away." I can smell the stench of whiskey on his breath, which means he was either in the men's room when I got here, having drunk a lot before that point, or he was elsewhere getting sloshed before he arrived.

My throat tightens. “The Vescari case?”

He nods, gesturing for another drink. "Not just him. Gordo Costa’s name is coming up more and more." He narrows his eyes at me darkly and his smirk deepens. "And you know what happens once his name's on paper. It pulls everyone in his orbit under the microscope."

I keep my face neutral, but my heart is galloping. The implication hits hard and fast. He doesn’t say my name specifically, but he doesn’t have to. I hid evidence. I altered timelines. Even if I course-correct now, I’m tainted.

And why did he name my father directly? It could have been a slip or a warning. But if Luca has figured out who I am—if he knows that Gordo Costa isn’t just a name in a file but the manwho raised me—then it’s over. My professional cover, my name, my carefully built life—all of it collapses.

He doesn’t know what I know. He hasn’t seen the DNA match. But if he starts connecting dots and decides to use my bloodline against me, he won’t need a warrant to get what he wants. He’ll just lean in and remind me who I belong to.

“The task force is already building their indictment list," he says as the bartender approaches. "It won't just be bosses. It'll be lieutenants, fixers, medical professionals. Anyone who knew and didn’t act." His attention turns to the slender, twiggy man with tattoos up and down his arms as he gives a drink order, but my spine stiffens.

I glance at the mirrored wall behind him and see my reflection waver, distorted slightly by the bevel in the glass. My skin looks pale and clammy. My eyes are sunken and dark circles ring them. It could be the lighting, but my guess is it's just the anxiety-sickness taking me over.

He leans in. “You think you’ll get immunity if you share now?”

“I haven’t made any discoveries,” I say carefully, because that's the narrative I've set up. That is what I told them. I needed more time for more testing, but it feels like time is up.

“Sure you haven’t.” He grins, teeth slightly bared. “That’s why you’re here, right? Because you like the suspense and the back and forth. Or maybe it’s because you know exactly how close we are. Maybe you’re trying to decide whether you want to go down with your father or hand us something that lets you walk away.”

A sudden chill makes me shiver as I process the implications of what he just said. “You think Gordo Costa is my father?” The words come out hollow because I feel gutted.

He tilts his head. “You changed your name—moved across the country. You expect me to believe you did that for the view?” The bartender brings a glass tumbler with a few fingers of whiskey in it and sets it in front of him, which serves as a slight distraction from the way I'm feeling cornered.

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