Page 18 of Beautiful Evidence

"No," I say, holding her gaze without blinking. "I’m trying to keep you alive." My hand rises to cup her cheek, and she averts her eyes.

"Why would they kill me?" Her bottom lip quivers as she asks the question, but I know she already knows the truth. Rats in this business aren't welcome. She's not in the business, but she knows the stakes, and that makes her cat bait.

"Alessia, trust me. I want them to back off, but the only way is if you don't tell them what you know. And we either have to change evidence or we have to burn the body." I'm in this line of work,so it comes naturally to me. But she's not. She's innocent of it all, having run away before she knew too much.

"Please leave," she says firmly, and I sigh and back away.

My time will be better spent keeping her safe from any Bianchi interest for right now. They will want the truth, but they won't want the 416-bis case opened, either. Dragging Vescari's name into this will mean the downfall of multiple Roman families, and if she doesn't play ball, she will strike out fast.

I leave her alone to process what I've said, and I don't know what she'll do. So far, her life has been left alone because Gordo put a bounty on anyone who came near her. Now, who knows?

The drive across town is quiet except for the hum of the engine and the occasional buzz of a message I ignore. My route takes me through Trastevere’s back streets, narrow alleys and shuttered storefronts passing like a reel I’ve seen too many times. I pull up a block away from the last safe house we stopped keeping tabs on—a place even Emilio doesn't mention anymore. If Gordo kept Vescari stashed somewhere off the record, this is the most likely spot.

The house off Via Portuense is one of the family's quiet spots—unmarked, rarely used. There are no cameras on it at all and no major security. It does have a keypad lock and the kind of insulation in the walls that makes for a quieter atmosphere inside—not to block out city noise, but to keep the torture sounds inside. If Gordo was gonna do something, this would be the place.

Inside, the place smells like bleach, but the floor tells a different story. There are scuff marks across the floor and a smear of something dark near the drain in the kitchen sink that could beblood. I check the vent slats, under the sink, the seams of the windows, and find nothing. My eyes scan every surface, every corner, every shelf and cupboard. It feels like it could take hours to fully tear this place apart, but my eyes catch on something.

The socket near the back room is loose, so I walk over and pry it open with a key. Inside, I find a folded piece of paper and a burner phone with its SIM out, tucked behind exposed wires. Carefully, I pry them out while using my key fob to hold the live wires to the side. Whoever hid this shit in here wasn't messing around. I think they were hoping that someone would come looking and get a shock.

I shove both the SIM and the paper into my jacket pocket without thinking twice. If there is a call history on that SIM, I'll be able to lift it off, maybe other things too. If Gordo is smart, though, he won't have left this much proof anywhere. Still, if there's a chance it was Vescari who put this here, we can use whatever is on this to help convince Alessia to do the right thing.

Gordo bringing Vescari back to one of Emilio's safehouses wasn't just stupid, it was reckless—the first fuckup in a line of massive fuckery. If we don’t bury this fast, it’ll be the crack that brings the whole goddamn house down.

I head back to the car with the SIM burning a hole in my pocket. I want to dig into this and find any other loose end out there so I can tie them up and hang Bernardi's 416-bis investigation by its skinny neck and put this nightmare behind us.

11

ALESSIA

Three days pass, filled with tension and silence, each one tightening the noose around my nerves as I wait for the next shoe to drop. Enzo or one of his men follows me to and from work, to the shops, to the stylist for my haircut. I want to say I feel safe, but I don't.

Even work isn’t normal. Nothing feels right anymore. The rhythm of the lab has gone slack, and everyone knows it. People speak in half-sentences around me, hushed tones, and evasive eyes. Dr. Bernardi hovers more than normal, and the morgue feels colder than usual. I’m starting to wonder if it’s me or if everyone knows that I'm purposefully stalling this autopsy report to give myself time to decide what's the right thing to do.

It’s dusk by the time I leave work for that night. The sky is a soft bruise, and the street lamps flicker on in patches. I start walking my normal route, but Enzo doesn't pop out to follow me. Two men are here this time, chatting with each other. And I feel safe until I’ve crossed Via del Corso and sense them getting closer. That prickling sensation between my shoulder blades creeps into my blood and makes my heart beat oddly.

I glance back. I don't recognize these men at all. They’re not talking or checking their phones the way Enzo's men do. They're watching me. It makes me shudder, but I try to relax. He put his number into my phone, but if I take time to stop and search for his contact now, those men will definitely catch up to me.

I pivot right, then cut across the next intersection. They follow, getting closer by the second, and I get the feeling that they've done something to one of Enzo's men who was supposed to be here to protect me. This is what he means. Not protection from Bernardi or my father. Whoever these assholes are, these are the ones Enzo thinks may do me harm.

I try again—left this time, through a shuttered alley, out toward the south end of the piazza. I stop briefly at a corner stand, pretending to check my bag. They stop too. They’re still there, eyes locked on me like I’m already boxed in.

My pulse kicks into overdrive. I have no weapon, no badge, and no one I trust enough to call. Rome is a huge, scary place and there are several dark places I have to walk through before I get home. My mind races with the idea that these are the men who tried getting into my apartment, broke my window.

I slip between the bakery and the old bookstore, letting the alleyway narrow behind me. My feet echo in the narrow space, damp stone reflecting back a weak draft. I cut behind the back of a boarded-up building and come out by the closed cinema. When I look again, they’re gone.

They’re gone, disappeared into the corners of Rome like they were never there at all.

I brace one hand against the wall, drag in a breath. I want to think I lost them. I want to force myself to believe it.

But I don’t believe it for a second.

It’s a two-minute walk to my Aunt Rosa’s place, and I take it fast. I duck through side streets and back entrances, ignoring the sting in my calves and the burn in my lungs. By the time I reach the alley behind her apartment, I feel half-mad and half-frozen and my legs and lower back hurt from practically running in heels.

I knock twice and pause and hear men's voices coming up the sidewalk. It's hurried steps, too, and ragged breathing. They know they lost me and now they're searching and thankfully, I'm here.

The security chain slides against the metal frame, and the door opens. Rosa’s eyes widen when she sees me. My heart is pounding and tears are brimming in my eyes. I'm so relieved to find her home. I've never just shown up without calling. My mother's sister has cut all ties with the Costas since Mama died, and we've barely spoken too.

"Alessia?" Her eyes scan the street behind me before she opens all the way.

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