Page 8 of Beautiful Evidence

He waits, watching me like a hawk circling a cornered rabbit. "You're not even trying to cover your tracks," he says, voice low and edged with contempt. "You think just because you used your old access card that no one would notice?"

I gather another paper from the printer and keep my tone level. "What do I have to cover up? Besides, if I wanted to cover something, do you think I'd be doing it here?" I flick a gaze up at his sardonic grin and steady my breathing. He won't rattle me if I keep myself grounded. He has no proof of anything, and besides, it's not like he knows who I really am.

He scoffs. "You always did think you were smarter than everyone else. But this is sloppy, even for you." The way he casually crosses his arms and narrows his eyes feels more interrogatory than friendly, but I turn back to my work and try not to get bothered by him.

"I'm prepping for a lecture," I tell him again, but I feel my ears burning hotter than Venus. My heart is thudding so loudly I can feel it in my teeth, but I keep my expression smooth.

He leans forward, resting one hand on the desk, invading my space with his presence. "You’re lying to me, Alessia, and I'm going to find out what it is you're hiding."

"Maybe I’m just tired," I say, returning my eyes to the blank screen and clicking through meaningless files. "We can’t all be fueled by spite and suspicion, Dr. Bernardi." If he can't see the blood pulsing through the veins in my forehead, I'd be surprised.

He lets out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. "Just remember—if you get caught doing something illegal, I’m not covering for you." His voice starts to fade as he walks away, and I pinch the bridge of my nose as his back is turned.

"Noted," I say quietly, eyes still on the screen, breath held until he's finally far enough away that I can turn the monitor back on.

He wanders out the door to the other workstation, still feigning disinterest, but I can feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck.

The profile completes, and my pulse stalls. There’s a ninety-three percent match to my familial DNA strand. It's one not associated with Matteo and not listed in any criminal registry. But I know this marker. I’ve seen it before—buried in my ownbloodwork, years ago, back when I was naïve enough to think a person could scrub their past clean.

It’s Gordo’s.

My hands curl around the edge of the table as my eyes pore over more of the results. There is no mistaking at all what this means and it's the proof my mind didn't want to see. I'm so glad I ran this test here and not at work because at least here, there is no link to the samples that can be traced back to me.

My father was there at the scene. Or someone who shares his mitochondrial DNA was—Uncle Emilio, maybe? But he doesn't tend to get his hands dirty anymore, ever since he was named Don.

I strip off the gloves and shut the machine down with a series of practiced keystrokes, my mind already three steps ahead. This changes everything, and it explains too much. The man following me around, the strange image sent to me with my father in the same place at the same time as me even though I didn't see him. And most of all, it explains why I felt like someone was in my penthouse apartment.

After I clean up the Mass-Spec and destroy the samples, I exit the lab and head out the side door into the cool evening air, cradling the results folder beneath one arm. My bag is heavy against my shoulder as I cut across the campus courtyard and out onto the main road. The farther I get from the university, the faster I walk, which gets my pulse high with activity, but the anxiety doesn't help, either.

I glance over my shoulder just once as I reach the edge of campus—and that’s when I see the same man from the café. He called himself Vinny. He’s several paces behind, head angledslightly like he’s just out for a walk, but he’s not fooling me. He’s following me. I realize it only now, with a jolt of delayed dread, and suspect he’s been trailing me since I left the building. Maybe since I left work to come here.

I keep moving faster now, cutting across the street, then down a narrower sidewalk lined with trees and old stone walls. He matches my pace from a distance, never closing the gap but never falling behind, either. It terrifies me because he's not even trying to be covert about it. His boldness is all the more reason to be afraid of him.

I cross at a light, duck down an alley, and pause in front of a pharmacy window to check my reflection in the glass. He’s still trailing me, just far enough back to make plausible deniability his shield. But I’m done pretending I don’t notice.

I stop walking, turning on my heel to face him before he has the chance to pretend this was all coincidence. The streetlight catches in his eyes as he slows, as if considering whether to pretend he wasn’t following me or to admit it outright. He hesitates, just for a breath, then shifts his weight forward and crosses the remaining distance between us.

"Alessia…" My name on his lips is both bone-chilling and alluring. HIs Venetian accent is softer than my Roman one, and the way it curls over his tongue softens me around the edges even when I want to be hard and cold.

Still, knowing who he is makes something inside me bristle. "Are you following me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Yes," he says simply, holding my gaze. "I told you. There are matters that concern you and I'm here… to watch."

"You were in my apartment, weren't you?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest, my voice calm even though my skin prickles. "You went through my things. That's why you're not bothering to hide now."

"Would you believe me if I told you the truth?" he replies, a faint smirk touching his mouth. The light is fading fast, but even in the dusky calm settling over Rome I notice the strong line of his jaw, the curiosity in his eyes.

"Try me," I say coolly, refusing to back down. I cross my arms over my chest, partly to hide the fact that I'm feeling a little flustered. He's good-looking, but he's scary. I know my father would never send someone to watch me who would actually harm me, but letting myself fall for his charm will only come back to bite me later.

He moves closer with unhurried steps. "Your father sent me. He wants eyes on you," he says, and I notice a glint in his eyes, no doubt some sort of perverted thought he's having about me. Men like him are all the same.

My jaw tightens. "Of course he did," I mutter, lifting my chin. I didn't need Vinny's confession to know what my father is up to. I'm going to be forced to bury the truth and jeopardize my career. I knew I should've moved to Paris.

"You’re not safe." The tone he uses is edged with warning, though I don’t believe he actually cares one fucking lick about me or my safety. He's hired to do a job, and so long as his job is done, he will be paid.

"From whom?" I scoff, matching his steps by moving forward. He thinks he can corner me and make me feel intimidated by him, but I'm not going to cower.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he studies me with those dark, unreadable eyes like he’s cataloguing the slope of my spine and the tilt of my head. His tongue draws over his lower lip. His eyes blink slowly. Then he says, "You need to stop digging, Alessia."

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