Page 7 of Beautiful Evidence

"Still," I confirm, but it's a bitter word to spit out. Gordo stirred the pot that was simmering and now the city is a cesspit of boiling sin.

He exhales through his nose with a sharp breath and says, "Did you make contact?"

I nod once and meet his stare without flinching. "Briefly," I answer, "and I warned her not to dig. I'm not sure she's going to listen, though." Alessia Costa might've changed her name and gotten a new profession, but she's not stupid. She knows how we work, and if she knows what's good for her, she will obey.

"She spook easily?" he presses, tilting his glass and eyeing the last dribble in the bottom.

"She’s not naive, if that’s what you mean," I reply. "She knew someone was following her. She just didn’t know who." I lean on the leather armchair across from his desk and look up at the portrait of his father hung above the mantel across the room.Now that was a man who knew how to lead a family. Emilio had big shoes to fill, and his son will carry on that legacy.

Emilio picks up his glass, swirls it once, then downs the few drops left. "You let her walk away." There is warning in the cadence of his voice, but I know it's just the way he is. I'm not letting this one slip away from me.

"It wasn’t the time," I say, holding his gaze. "If I clip her wings right now the whole city will erupt. Bianchi wants justice for Vescari and the polizia will be watching. A dead criminal with gang-related suspicion doesn't just show up at a morgue undetected. They're watching. I made a choice."

"It won’t always be your choice, Vincenzo. If she makes noise?—"

"I’ll handle it," I interrupt with a clipped tone, carefully weighing what I say. He's not an easy man to work for but he doesn't want yes men. He wants intelligent soldiers trained to think for themselves and make decisions on the fly.

He watches me a moment longer, then nods. "Until then, stay close. Keep her calm. We don’t need her running. We need her quiet." His final word is laced with cloaked meaning.

"Understood, sir." I leave the room without waiting to be dismissed. Outside, the evening has taken on a chill. Somewhere across the courtyard, someone is laughing too loudly. But my mind isn’t here.

It’s back in that alley, where everything shifted.

It’s fixed on the way she looked at me—like I was a stranger she almost recognized, like she already knew I’d come back.

And I can't wait to go back.

5

ALESSIA

The lab carries the sharp bite of ethanol and the weight of old memories I’d rather not have to think about anymore. A chemical sharpness clings to the air that is familiar and oddly comforting. I’ve spent enough nights here to know which microscope flickers when powered on and which drawer sticks from disuse. This place is mine in ways no other space has ever been. It's clean, methodical, and obedient, completely unlike everything else in my life.

And maybe that's why I like it, because it's the only place that up until the last week has been mine, with no trace of my father's black fingers reaching out to touch me.

I seal the cooler and carry it through the side door of the lab, nodding to the lone janitor buffing the hallway tiles. He doesn’t look up, which is good. I don’t want questions about where I'm going or what I'm doing. Knowing my father is behind this is bad enough.

The private forensics lab at the university—where I used to assist during my residency—is dimly lit when I enter. My access still works—a miracle or an oversight, I’m not sure which. I place thetubes into the centrifuge and set the timer. Soon, it begins to hum as it spins the blood samples I pulled from Matteo’s femoral artery. I’ve already typed his DNA against Interpol and national databases. There were no surprises there, but the partial profile I couldn’t classify is what brought me here tonight.

I settle in, snapping on my gloves. The machine beeps its readiness. I breathe in the stillness and let it steady me. Then I start running the test again, this time feeding in mitochondrial sequences and cross-checking them against legacy records that the government databases won’t touch. Results start to populate on the screen. If my strange mystery stalker is any indication, the Mob is into something they don't want made public, and doing anything on a government database will draw them to me like flies to shit.

The university feels safer, or at least that’s what I let myself believe—right up until I hear a voice that makes my skin crawl.

"Still hiding bodies in your spare time, Leone?" Luca's voice scalpels through the silence, startling me. I never heard his footsteps approaching.

I don’t need to turn to place it. "Dr. Bernardi," I say, not missing a beat as I adjust the monitor and let my hand on the mouse move smoothly as if he didn't just make me pee a little. "I assumed you'd be out charming tenure committees." My former teacher turned state medical examiner is my current boss, who apparently still has ties back to this lab too.

Luca steps into the fluorescent light, smirking as he crosses his arms. The wicked light draws dark shadows on his face, making him look morbid. "They charm easily. You, on the other hand…" he says casually. He looks up at the screen and then down at the cooler skeptically.

"I’m not here to be charmed," I reply, flicking off a switch without looking at him. He already knows what I'm doing. I'm sure of it. But he doesn't know whose blood I'm using or why.

He walks a slow arc around me. "No. You're here after hours, rerunning forensic markers on a corpse already cleared for cremation." I shudder at the idea that he's placing accusations without proof, but if he wanted the proof he could order me to cough it up. "That makes me wonder—what are you really looking for?" His voice lowers as he slouches heavily on the opposite counter, inspecting me for lies.

"Old coursework," I say tightly, locking my gaze on the screen. "Thought I might reference some of the mitochondrial cases for the lecture I'm prepping."

He laughs softly, shaking his head. "That's what they call it now?" he says, lips curling. "Coursework…"

I don’t respond, but I keep my face neutral as I gather the printouts and pull up a blank screen, pretending to cross-reference files while willing my heartbeat to slow.

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