Page 3 of Beautiful Evidence

Alessia is still at work when I let myself into her apartment. The lock takes seconds. I’ve broken into enough apartments to know the rhythm. Her place is as sterile as her file suggests, with clean countertops, shoes lined neatly by the door, and books stacked in precise thematic order.

I install the cameras quickly. One above the hallway mirror right outside her bedroom, another inside a bookshelf, lens hidden between two medical journals. Under her bedframe, I secure a motion-triggered mic. Her laptop is closed, her phone not here. She took it with her. It means I can't clone it.

I leave no trace.

By the time she returns, I’m back in the van with the feed live. She enters the apartment and flips on a light, then locks the door behind herself, turning both deadbolts. Her movements seem cagey, like she's tense or scared. She doesn’t glance at the mirror or check the bookshelf, but something shifts in her posture. Theadjustment is slight, but I notice the shake of her hand as she goes for a glass of wine.

She powers off her phone and carries her glass of wine into the bedroom.

She walks into the bedroom and sets the wine down on the nightstand, then unbuttons her shirt. Her blouse slips off her shoulders and down her arms. Beneath it, her skin is smooth and pale, untouched by the sun, all lean muscle and clean lines. There's no visible scarring, no piercings, no distractions—just the quiet shape of a woman who maintains her physique well.

She moves with grace and elegance, her posture upright even as she unhooks her bra and steps out of her slacks. Nothing about her is careless or showy. And yet, the way she pauses in front of the mirror for a split second—bare, backlit by the hallway light—holds something I can’t name.

I study the sharp line of her spine, the way she seems to float across the travertine. I’ve surveilled targets for weeks without blinking, but she moves differently from the men I'm typically watching. And her body is arousing, to say the least.

She goes to bed just before midnight, and I pull up the file on Gordo and scroll through the familiar chaos. His betrayal started months ago. He moved assets without permission, withheld payments, rerouted product through unapproved channels. Everyone thought he was getting sloppy. Maybe he was. But maybe he was planning something bigger.

The problem is, no one knows why he ghosted the family. If he left anything—any evidence, even unintentionally—it could break what’s left of our alliances. The Bianchis want someone toblame. The Costas want distance. And I’m the one stuck in the middle, watching her every move, waiting for a misstep.

So far, Alessia hasn't made any mistakes, and I tell myself it’s because she’s sharp. Because she’s her father's daughter. But something about the silence in her apartment gets under my skin. She should've been horrified to see Vescari come across her table. She should've been running for the hills by now. But she sleeps peacefully…

I switch off the feed and close the laptop. The image of her standing by the window lingers longer than I want to admit.

This woman is already under my skin and I've not even introduced myself yet.

3

ALESSIA

The air is thick with the warmth of baked bread and the bitterness of brewed coffee. I lean back in my chair and press the rim of the demitasse to my lips, letting the bitter taste linger before I realize the coffee's gone cold. I set it down on the chipped metal table, watching it rock slightly on the saucer beneath the striped umbrella. Around us, the hum of early afternoon conversation and the clink of cutlery echo across the cobbled patio, where café chairs scrape gently against stone and the sunlight filters through vine-covered trellises.

Chiara’s voice cuts through my murky haze. “So now Dr. Mancini thinks he’s getting the interim chief job. I mean, please. He’s been phoning it in since he got his divorce,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I nod, trying to follow along, but my brain's still in the morgue where it got the shock of a lifetime. The faint scent of formalin clings to my jacket like normal. It comes with the job. It's been over twenty-four hours since the autopsy, and I've washed my hands five times, but the image of the symbol carved into Matteo Vescari’s stomach keeps flashing behind my eyes.

“Earth to Alessia,” Chiara says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Sort of,” I say as I drag my gaze back to her. “Sorry. I’m just tired.” Lying to my best friend doesn't come easily, but it goes with the territory. She knows nothing of my upbringing or past life. It's better that way, safer for her.

She gives me a look—half concern, half annoyance—and pushes her sunglasses higher on her head. They pin her hair back, giving me a full view of her warm brown eyes that bore into me with curiosity. “You’ve been tired all day. It’s not like you to be this out of it,” she says.

I swirl the last drop of coffee in the cup, but the ceramic never leaves the plate beneath. “It’s nothing,” I reply quietly. What can I even say to her? My dad's a higher-up in the Italian Mafia and I left him behind, but he's come back to haunt me? That'd go over like a lead balloon.

“It’s not nothing. You’re twitchier than usual. And you didn’t even complain about the new tech,” she points out. It almost draws a chuckle, because I do complain about that tech a lot.

I smile faintly. “She’ll quit by next month. They always do,” I say.

Chiara grins. “Seriously, if something’s going on, you can tell me,” she adds. Her fingers wrap around the tea mug in front of her on its own ceramic plate, but there's no way I could open up even if I wanted to. I'm protecting her from things she knows nothing about, and she doesn't even know it.

Avoiding her scrutiny, I glance toward the street, letting my eyes drift across the crowd without focus—until they land on a man standing half-shielded behind a vendor’s cart stacked with oranges. He wears a dark coat and has dark hair. He's notpretending not to look at me. He's watching me directly, as if he's waiting for something.

I shift in my seat and tap my spoon on the saucer a few times impatiently. Chiara raises a brow at me and then furrows her forehead.

“Behind me. Across the street. Don’t make it obvious,” I say under my breath. Then I shift my gaze toward the front of the cafe where my waiter bustles about filling people's coffee cups. I'd like to wave my arm at him and draw his attention, but I don't want the man to realize we're about to leave. I don't want him to follow me.

She stretches like she's adjusting her back, casting a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone,” she says, frowning. Then she brings her arms back in front of her, but instead of folding them on the table like they were, she reaches for her purse.

I look again, but now he's gone, which makes my heart rate tick up a few notches. A man watching me is dangerous. A man who was watching me and who is now invisible is deadly.

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