Page 10 of Beautiful Evidence

"She hasn’t told him. But he’s sniffing around." I glance toward the surveillance footage, watching her turn over in bed. Her leg stretches out across the top of the covers, revealing the curve of her bare hip. My eyes are glued in an instant.

"Shut him up." The words come flat, automatic, like he’s ordering a drink, not a body.

I hesitate before I answer, because this is a touchy time. It’s not a question of willingness—I’ll do it if needed—but the timing has to be precise or it’ll backfire.

"If he goes quiet now, it’ll raise more flags than it kills. Let me handle it." I rest my fingertips on the desk, keeping my voice level even though I already know Emilio hates delays. My eyes drift over Alessia's form and I imagine what she looks like beneath that sheet.

He leaves another pause, like he's thinking about what I'm saying, then he says, "You have one day." His voice cuts off clean, and silence follows. The line goes dead, leaving behind a myriad of things for me to think about.

I know how important it is to put a lid on the pot so the authorities don't tie Gordo back to the victim because if they do, the Bianchis won't stop until they've destroyed every single one of Emilio's men, including me. But I can't just take out the man responsible for helping head the investigation. It's dumb at best, deadly at worst.

My eyes stay on her body, memorizing every shift under the sheets. But I tear myself away and scroll back throughthe mirrored files again, scanning the DNA strands and mitochondrial markers with mechanical focus, as if repetition might settle the unease in my chest.

Once I’ve confirmed the data again, I switch feeds. This time, I queue up the earlier footage from the night—the clip where she came home and changed. I watch as she unbuttons her blouse and peels it off, folding it with unconscious precision before reaching for the hem of her skirt. The camera catches everything—how methodical she is, how unaware. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she knows I’m there, and this is her way of holding power without saying a word.

I rewind the clip to the beginning and watch the entire sequence play out again—her movements smooth, her posture unhurried, her hands steady. I scrub through the feed frame by frame, pausing on the moment she steps out of her skirt, the moment she bends to pick up her folded clothes, the moment the muscles in her back shift beneath her skin. I should be analyzing the footage for threats, for risk. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’m not.

I shift in my seat to get more comfortable. The tension in my groin is making it harder to ignore the way my body reacts. Her back is bare as she moves through the room, and there’s nothing practiced or artificial about it. She doesn’t pose or perform. She just undresses and relaxes because she believes she's alone and safe. She’s stunning without trying, and I feel it everywhere. I press play again, letting the footage run without interruption, and this time, I don’t bother pretending it’s for surveillance.

7

ALESSIA

The lab is quieter at night and there's less of a chance of running into Dr. Bernardi. The exam room is dim, the corridor outside sterile and empty, and the usual clatter of gurneys and low voices has gone still for the evening. There are no colleagues hovering with questions I don’t want to answer. I keep my breath measured as I run the toxicology panel for the third time, eyes fixed on the monitor while the machine cycles through its process.

I lean over the workstation, scanning the readout as the results render line by line. The screen blinks to life, and I see the same readout again—trace quantities of a sedative compound I haven’t seen in years. I keep telling myself something is off, but I keep getting the same results.

"That can't be right," I murmur, narrowing my eyes. I press my fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding myself as the data continues to blink on the screen. I've rerun the sample three times now, and I can't believe what I'm seeing.

I cross-reference it with the old database I keep buried on my NAS. The compound matches the entry in my archived files.It’s listed under several aliases but always flagged for restricted use. I remember it showing up once in a case review Bernardi supervised—it wasn’t mine, and I was never briefed on its origin. I don’t know who manufactures it or how it circulates, only that it’s extremely uncommon and not something anyone uses lightly.

My father banned it years ago, said it left a trail. It was one of the last vile conversations I overheard from him before I ghosted the entire family and went my own way. I should not be seeing what I'm seeing, and I should not be put in this position. I told him to pretend I was dead, and instead, he is haunting my waking hours.

If Matteo had it in his system, someone broke protocol—or maybe it was him. Maybe my father gave the order and changed his mind, or someone else in his inner circle acted without his knowledge. The uncertainty twists in my gut as I try to reconcile what I know of him with what I’m seeing in front of me.

I pace the length of the lab, arms folded tightly. The light casts a sterile wash across the counters and floor that makes everything feel cold and sterile, but I feel dirty. My skin itches with unease.

I grab my phone and scroll to Chiara’s name. It rings thrice before she picks up, and I feel better as soon as I hear her voice.

"You’re up late," she answers, her voice light. I hear her shuffle something in the background—probably the stack of books she keeps by her bed.

I settle onto a stool at the counter with a huff. "I found something. In the tox panel on this autopsy I'm doing…" I grab a pen and start scribbling on the margin of a file folder alreadyfilled with notes. It gives my hands something to do while I'm nervous.

There’s a pause, and when she speaks again, her tone softens. "What do you need from me?" Chiara’s voice flattens, but I hear her shifting, likely sitting upright now.

"If I send you something, can you help me identify it? Or really… confirm that I'm correct?" I pin the phone tighter to my ear with my shoulder and glance down at the printed tox reports, the numbers swimming slightly as my thoughts race. Rubbing the back of my neck, I feel the faint stiffness from how long I’ve been hunched over my work. "It's a sedative."

"What kind of sedative?" Chiara’s voice sharpens slightly, and I know she's more awake. I feel bad for disrupting her sleep.

"M99. It’s not on the market. It’s controlled use, and I think it links back to some organized crime." I lean back, tasting the sour words as I speak them, because the deeper truth behind them is one I don’t want to face. One I don't really want her to know about me. Chiara knows nothing about my connection to the Costas and I'd like to keep it that way.

"That sounds serious," Chiara says slowly. I can hear the shift in her tone—still cautious, but more grounded now. "You know I’ll help however I can. But promise me you’ll be careful. That shit is used by some pretty sketchy people. Whoever the stiff is, it could be dangerous."

"I will," I say, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. "I just… I can’t let this go. Something about it is eating away at me."

"I’m not asking you to let it go," she says gently. "Just don’t do it alone. If you’re seeing something, talk to someone who canactually help you—not just me. Isn't Dr. Bernardi good at this stuff?"

"There’s no one else I trust," I admit, and I bristle at her suggestion. Bernardi would be the first person I would go to, except the way he already thinks I'm hiding stuff creeps me out. And if he knows I have a personal connection to the victim, all my work will be thrown out. Someone else will be put on this case, and that Mafia badass who keeps following me will get up close and personal really quickly.

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