Page 30 of Beautiful Evidence
My throat is dry. I stare into my glass as the adrenaline courses through me, making me shake. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I’ve seen enough to know who you are, Alessia, and I have proof.” He lets the words hang between us, heavy with implication. I squeeze my clutch to my stomach, scrambling for a justification that might deflect his aim. But there’s nothing clean to reach for.
Everything I’ve done to protect myself—changing my name, transferring cities, building a clean record—suddenly looks like deliberate misdirection. A façade, a cover story laid too neatly. In this context, it makes me look like I was planted where I am just to cover for my father's illegal activities.
He leans in farther. "If Greco finds out a Costa is working in the medical examiner’s office, your badge will be revoked before you can type up a resignation."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The horror of it crashes down in pieces. If he’s right—and I know he is—then I’m not just at risk. I’m compromised. Bernardi sees it now. I’m a name he can use, a story he can sell. My bloodline makes me exploitable, my position makes me valuable, and the combination gives him everything he needs to control me. He knows it.
And now, so do I.
He studies my silence like it’s the confirmation he wanted. “If you want to keep your job, your freedom, even your apartment, then you’ll stop pretending you’re some impartial little scientist. You’re a Costa, whether you like it or not.” He leans forward, voice dropping.
My pulse is everywhere. I swallow hard and sit straighter, but I don’t say anything.
“You should think very carefully about what you’re holding onto, Alessia. And who you’re holding it for.”
No longer able to sit there without breaking down, I slide out of the booth slowly, tossing enough euro notes on the table to cover my drink. As I'm walking, my hands are shaking so much I can't button my jacket.
“Don’t wait too long to choose a side,” he calls after me. “No one’s neutral forever.”
Outside, the air is cooler than it should be for late spring, and it cuts through the fabric of my blouse as I walk. The chill should help, but my body is already trembling from everything that happened inside the bar so badly that I have to lean against the lamppost just to steady myself. A Vespa zips past. Someone whistles from across the street. Rome is still alive, still lit, still bustling because life moves on.
But for me it has crawled to a stop.
I walk the rest of the way home, barely registering the buzz of traffic or the chatter from nearby cafés. One of Vincenzo's men follows at a respectful distance, never speaking, never drawing attention. He's a shadow to prove I'm not alone, though I feel like I am.
By the time I reach my building, my nerves are shredded. I scan the street again out of habit, then climb the stairs slowly, my hand still shaking as I grip the rail. The door to my apartment is ajar and it makes me pause.
The lock is untouched, not broken or bent—just left open. My stomach flips. But when I push the door open the rest of the way, I find Vincenzo on my couch, elbows on his knees, a drink in hand. He doesn’t look up right away, just says, "I let myself in. Hope you don't mind."
I don’t respond to him verbally. I shut the door softly, drop my bag, and cross the room without saying a word. I climb onto his lap, straddling him, knees pressed into the cushions on either side. My whole body is trembling as I drape myself over his chest and cling to his neck.
His hands come to my hips instinctively, steadying me. "Alessia," he says, voice low. "What happened?"
I shake my head, trying to form the words, but tears start, and when they do it feels like hell's floodgates have been opened.
Enzo waits patiently, smoothing my hair down my back, soothing me with coos and shushing me when appropriate. And when I've gotten enough of the emotion out to be able to articulate myself clearly, I speak.
"Bernardi knows," I whisper finally. "He knows I’m a Costa."
Vincenzo’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl slightly against my waist as his eyes search my face, but he doesn’t speak.
"He has proof," I add. "And he threatened everything. My license. My job. My apartment. Said he'd hand me over toGreco." I hiccup and sniffle, and he shakes his head in anger as he glares.
I watch his face contort as he realizes the new risk to me, the disaster unfolding before his very eyes.
"You're not going to deal with this alone," he says finally. "You hear me? Not one second of this on your own."
I nod, but the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen. Because I know the next question will come, and I don’t know how I’ll answer it. What am I going to do now?
18
VINCENZO
The sun hasn’t fully risen when I pull onto Via del Colosseo, but the city is already moving. Delivery trucks rumble past shops not quite open yet this morning. Someone sprays down a sidewalk with a garden hose, mist curling off the cobblestones. I sit behind the wheel of my car with the engine off, parked where I have a clear line of sight on the piazza. I sip burnt espresso from a paper cup and wait.
The man appears just after six thirty, dressed in a dark suit with conservative shoes and no tie—clothing that suggests a northern tailor unfamiliar with the pace and temperament of Rome. His steps are measured like he's counting the seconds between movements. He doesn’t have the aimless energy of a tourist or the detached presence of a local officer. He isn’t one of ours, either, and that makes him dangerous.
