Page 4 of Beautiful Evidence

Chiara frowns. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” she asks. And this time, as she opens her purse and pulls out her clutch, she turns obviously and stares in that general direction. So much for nonchalance.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say as I lift my cup again, raising it to wave at the waiter. He sees me and nods.

“Creeper?” she asks, turning back and pulling a few bills from her pocketbook. She drops them on the table and sets the corner of her saucer on them so they don't blow away in the breeze.

“Maybe,” I reply, keeping my tone casual, though my neck prickles. “Maybe he was just checking you out." My words are meant to be playful, put her at ease, but my voice cracks, belying my anxious tension.

“You’re jumpy,” she observes, and her shoulders bob. "You sure everything's okay?"

I shrug. “I’m just tired,” I repeat, but I know I'm not really selling it. The truth is I am tired. Exhausted, actually. I've spent the better part of my adult life hiding from the men my father calls his family. I broke ties with anything that resembles blood relation when I figured out who they are. What they do… and how deep their reach still goes.

The thought makes my skin crawl, but I try to shake it off.

Then I scan the sidewalk two more times before I stand up to leave, tucking my clutch under my arm.

Chiara pulls out her phone and checks the time. “I’ve got rounds in twenty. Walk with me?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

I leave a few coins under my cup, knowing her bills will cover both of our lunches, and head up the block beside her. I keep my chin high, but I’m scanning every surface we pass—windowpanes, polished car doors, anything that might reflect movement. The man’s gone, erased like chalk in the rain, but the sense of being watched still coils in my gut. The dread still crawls heavily up my back, whispering that what I saw wasn’t a trick of the light.

“Hey,” Chiara says, nudging me gently with her elbow. “Are we still on for Via del Corso this weekend? I need new shoes, and I’m not buying anything unless you approve.”

I smile faintly, grateful for the normalcy. “Of course. Saturday afternoon?”

She nods. “Text me. We’ll grab gelato, but only after you find me the perfect dress for the fundraiser."

At the next corner, Chiara peels off toward the hospital. “Call me if you want to vent about weird men lurking in fruit stands,” she says over her shoulder with a laugh, and suddenly, I breathe lighter, like maybe I was just hallucinating. The formalin maybe got to me.

I smile. “Thanks,” I reply.

Against my better judgment, I head back toward the café, unsure why I feel the need. Maybe I want to check again. Maybe I want to prove to myself that I didn't make it up. The sidewalk's crowded now with delivery vans, tourists, and a group of nuns laughing with plastic gelato cups in hand. Everything feels normal, loud, and safe.

He's there. Not across the street this time, shadowed by carts or tucked into a crowd. He stands in plain view, two steps from the table I left behind. His posture is too relaxed, like he's waiting for an old friend. And his hands are buried in his coat pockets, which scares me. He could have a weapon.

His gaze locks onto the café door as if he’s been rooted to the spot, waiting. When he catches sight of me, he smiles—a quiet, unreadable curve of the mouth that carries a chill. It’s not friendly. It’s not curious. It’s the smile of someone sinister who has been made and doesn't care.

My feet slow without permission, my breath thinning as I take him in, instinct screaming beneath my skin, though I find myself holding my breath instead of calling for help.

He doesn't move until I'm within reach. Then he steps forward just slightly. He's not close enough to touch, but he's close enough that I register his presence.

"Alessia, right?" he says, his tone smooth and confident. He’s tall, lean, and unsettlingly composed, with short black hair that doesn’t move in the breeze and inky black eyes that crawl with intimidation. A thin line of stubble shadows his jaw, but it’s the tattoos that catch my eye—just visible beneath his coat sleeves and in the dip in his neck just where his collarbones meet.

He looks like the type of man who knows where every monster lives, who’s done terrible things with clean hands.

My heart jerks. “Do I know you?” I ask, my voice guarded.

“Vinny,” he replies and offers a hand, but he doesn't look surprised that I don't take it. “Your name came up in conversation. I figured I’d introduce myself.”

“What conversation?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his. All around us, the café pulses with life—glasses clink, silverware scrapes, a couple at the next table dissolves into laughter—but I don't let myself break focus.

“Friends in common,” he says with a shrug, like this is a casual run-in and not a carefully calculated approach. “I work in private security. Mostly risk assessments and internal investigations.”

I say nothing and let the silence stretch. The noise around us feels far away, like it’s happening behind glass or with a mute inplace. People are moving, but my eyes stay locked on the snake in front of me coiled to strike.

He gestures toward the table. “May I?” he asks.

“No," I tell him tartly. I'm ready to walk away now and pray he doesn't follow.

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