Page 35 of Beautiful Evidence

It’s past three in the morning, and I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve circled the apartment. The wine I poured an hour ago sits untouched on the counter and completely forgotten. Every light in the place is on, every blind is pulled closed, and every door is locked again. I check them compulsively, as if something might've changed in the last five minutes. It feels like paranoia is the inevitable result of living too long under this pressure.

Rory is stationed outside, which should comfort me, but it doesn’t. The only thing I can think about is the fact that Enzo isn’t here. The apartment feels hollow without him. Without Enzo, there’s no conversation, no footsteps, no reassuring signs of life. It feels unnatural, not peaceful. I keep listening for something—anything—to fill it. But that alone is making me go mad with fear. Every tiny creak of the building makes me jump.

After what I overheard between my father and Enzo—my father demanding that they meet alone, his voice full of threats—I’m starting to understand what fear really feels like. It isn’t just the kind that keeps you up at night. It’s the kind that builds anest inside your chest and lays eggs. It multiplies and spreads and turns every sound into a threat and every shadow into a monster.

Unable to sleep or even sit still without distraction, I log into my laptop just to distract myself, clicking through tabs I've left open. Then I check my email, not expecting anything urgent, just clicking mindlessly to keep my hands busy. My inbox is mostly clutter—promotions, updates, and spam messages. But one subject line stands out.

Compliance Required.

My stomach tightens instantly, a reflex I can't control, and I reach for the mouse to click on it and force myself to focus.

The message contains a single line of text.

Subpoena Update—Immediate Attention Required.

There is a PDF attachment, which I double-click on, and my stomach drops as the document opens. It’s the same subpoena I received before, but this one is redacted, probably to avoid confidential information being stolen electronically. It lists the date of my court appearance.

The hearing is in three days. That means three days to cough up the report or decide to bury the facts. Beneath the court date, another image begins to load. My breath catches as I watch it render. The screen fills with surveillance stills. There are images of me and there are images of Vincenzo.

My mouth goes dry.

One image is from the alley near the lab, where I confronted him after he followed me. Another is from the pharmacy. A third was taken outside Rosa’s apartment. Each is timestamped. Each oneis invasive. They’ve been watching me for longer than I realized. And they haven’t only been watching—they’ve been cataloging. This isn’t random. It’s strategic.

This is why Dr. Bernardi is pushing me so hard, because he's seen this shit. Someone knows the Costa family is leaning on me and they're going to force me to incriminate either myself or them. It's a horrible spot to be in considering whichever way I lean, I'm fucked.

I scroll through the images with trembling hands. At the bottom of the document, there is another note.

Failure to appear or submit an unaltered report may result in arrest and criminal prosecution.

My pulse stutters as I reread it. It's signed by Dr. Luca Bernardi, but it has Detective Sergeant Elena Greco's name on it too.

A chill ripples through me and settles in the base of my neck. My limbs feel heavy. My throat is tight. The implications are clear. There is no way out of this for me.

My first instinct is to slam the laptop shut. Instead, I grab my phone and scroll to Dr. Bernardi's number. It’s three in the morning—he’s probably asleep—but I don’t care. I hitDialbefore I can think better of it. My breath catches as it begins to ring.

There’s a pause, confirming that I’ve woken him from a dead sleep, and he answers on the third ring, voice rough around the edges. "Leone?" His tone is level, but there’s sleep behind it, and something clipped underneath that makes me stiffen.

"What the fuck is going on?" I hiss. Standing, I pace toward the window before stopping short and drawing back the curtainan inch. My eyes dart across the street as I try to steady my breathing. I can see Rory’s outline near the car. He's not in the building where he's supposed to be, but that's okay as long as no one gets in here.

"I see you got my little reminder," Dr. Bernardi says simply. He’s clearly groggy, his voice still catching on the edges of sleep, and I can picture him fumbling for his glasses in the dark. I’ve pulled him out of bed, jolted him from whatever thin layer of rest he managed to get tonight, and his calm tone isn't even slightly clipped, which makes it all the more disturbing. That, more than anything, makes my skin crawl.

"They sent me pictures of myself. Pictures, Luca. Who am I even working for? Why are you threatening me when I work for you?" My hand trembles as I let the curtain fall back into place. My skin prickles.

He exhales slowly. "You knew this was coming. DS Greco is moving forward, with or without you. She’s confident you’ve manipulated your reports—and honestly, I think she’s right. You were never going to play this straight." I can practically hear the shrug in his tone. It makes my blood boil. "Once a criminal, always a criminal."

"You don’t get to act like this," I snap. My fingers dig into the base of the window frame as I grit my teeth. "I might share his DNA, but I'm not a criminal. I've done nothing wrong."

"Then be smart about it," Dr. Bernardi says, his voice still rough with sleep. "Figure out which side you're really on and act like it." His tone drops a register, as if he thinks saying it softer makes it more palatable, but his words hit me like a slap.

I don’t answer him. I press the phone tighter to my ear, jaw locked. Every instinct I have is screaming to react, to push back, to yell or hang up. But none of that will help me. This isn’t about what's right or wrong anymore. It’s about staying ahead of whatever trap they’ve set. I need to be realistic, even if that means letting go of principles that separate me from the type of man my father is. No one’s going to step in and fix this for me. I have to make the right call on my own.

His voice softens just slightly. "You have options. If you comply, the arrest warrant won’t be filed. But if you don’t…" He trails off, leaving the rest for my imagination to fill in. I don’t need him to finish.

He doesn’t say anything else. The line goes quiet, and the conversation is over now. If I don’t do exactly what they want, they will steamroll me right along with my entire family. No one’s going to intervene. I’m on my own.

I hang up without saying goodbye and toss the phone onto the couch, finally slamming the laptop closed. My heart is pounding hard enough to make me nauseous. My head spins. If Enzo were here, he would tell me that the choice is mine. He'd say that he will back me and that somehow, some way—even if it means using Costa resources and paying people to look the other way—he will get me out of this.

So I grab my phone again and type the message with shaking thumbs, the pressure behind my eyes threatening to boil over. My fingers move quickly out of desperation. I don’t care what time it is. I just need to know he’s okay—and I need to see him before I talk myself out of this.

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