Page 6 of Beautiful Evidence

She moves comfortably, though she does glance over her shoulder every so often. It's almost so precise, I can calculate it and duck behind something every time. The way her chin dips and her eyes slide sideways tells me she’s not sure what she feels, only that it's uncomfortable. Her instincts are good, but they’re not good enough.

She reaches the bend where the alley narrows between two shuttered shops. I move quickly, slipping through a side path and circling around the block, cutting her off as she turns the corner. When she steps into the dim gap between buildings, I’m already there, standing still and waiting.

She startles hard, her bag swinging slightly as her hand dives into it. She sucks in a sharp breath, the sound cutting through the stillness between us like a blade, her body frozen mid-motion as if bracing for impact.

"Alessia," I say, keeping my voice low and even as I lift both hands in the universal signal to stop.

She narrows her eyes and tightens her grip on her bag. "What the hell are you doing?" she clips in shock. I can see her pulse thundering in her neck, eyes wide with fright.

"I’m not here to hurt you," I reply, holding steady.

"You’re following me," she counters, and her stance hardens as she braces herself.

"I’m watching you. There’s a difference," I say, lowering my hands slowly. I don't want to spook her and make her run because I don't feel like sweating right now.

Her eyes narrow further. “You think that’s supposed to make me feel better?” She pulls the strap of her bag up higher on her shoulder and glares at me with eyes of fire.

"I need you to not dig around," I say, my voice firm, measured.

She shifts her weight, planting her feet. I've seen grown men not able to defend themselves in a fight, and here is this dainty Italian beauty standing like she's going to square off with me. Someone taught her well. "Digging around what?" she demands, defiant.

"Matteo Vescari," I tell her, watching for her reaction. She pauses, her fingers tightening on the leather strap. Her eyes are pensive and tight, studying me. She knows why she has to stop digging, which means there's something about Vescari's body that scared her and tipped her off.

"Who sent you?" she bites, and her eyes flick around nervously.

"Does it matter?" Keeping my expression unreadable, I let my shoulders relax and watch her expression change.

"It does to me," she snaps, jaw clenched. She's got brass. I like that. Costa never told me how feisty his offspring is.

I step closer slowly, and she doesn’t back away, but every muscle in her body tenses like she might. "You’re in over your head," I tell her. "These things don’t get resolved in labs or on report forms. You know that, Bella."

"If you think you can intimidate me—" she begins, voice rising.

"I don’t," I cut in because I'm not here to intimidate. Emilio sent me to observe and persuade. She can't stamp the Costa name on anything that will point back to us, and she can't stir shit up with the Bianchis, either.

The wind picks up slightly, lifting her hair across her cheek. Without thinking—or maybe with intent—I reach out and brush the strand aside with my pinky. My knuckles graze her jaw as I tuck the hair behind her ear, and she audibly growls.

Her eyes lock on mine with rage and for a moment, neither of us moves. Then her hand snaps up and connects with my face, open-palmed and fast. The sound is sharp in the empty alley and my reaction is faster. I reach for her, almost wrapping my hand around her neck, and then stop myself and pull back.

"Touch me again and I will report you," she hisses as she pushes past me, her shoulder slamming into mine.

I snort and chuckle as I rub my jaw and smirk at her. "Understood," I say, turning to watch her ass sway as she walks up the alley away from me without another word. This job might not be boring, after all.

It’s past midnight when I make it back to the compound. The villa looks quiet, but that never means it’s empty. Men on night rotation nod as I pass. The office lights are still on. Emilio doesn’t keep banker’s hours when blood might be spilled.

I knock once before pushing the door open.

He sits behind the desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the chain around his neck. A half-empty tumbler of amaro rests near his hand.

"Well?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he leans forward. Then he turns back to his counting, stacks of cash from the latest fence—some slab of artwork his son took care of.

"She’s cautious," I say, stepping inside. I walk across the hand-woven rug to stand by his desk and slide my hands into my pockets. "Solitary… She's not communicating with anyone we know. She goes home alone, spends hours at work. She made a pharmacy stop today, but nothing unusual."

Emilio leans back slightly and lets his hand drum on the desk. "And Gordo?" he asks, eyes narrowing. If Emilio's brother shows his fucking face around here, it will be the last time. The bastard has shaken the wrong tree.

"No sign," I say, shaking my head.

"Still…" Emilio picks up his glass and downs his drink, then slams it down.

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