Page 27 of Beautiful Evidence

I can't use recycled data or archived controls. I need to know for certain, not just clinically, but with everything in me. So, I load the fresh sample into the analyzer and begin configuring the comparison parameters.

This test isn’t just a step in the process—it’s a decision. I'm running my blood against the unknown profile pulled from under Matteo’s nails. I already know what it’ll show, but the certainty of seeing it confirmed on the screen forces me to face it. Knowing in theory is one thing. Watching it unfold in real time is something else entirely.

I need the truth to stare back at me so I can’t look away. So it will force me to finally make my choice—the one Enzo is pushing for.

The screen flickers, then begins processing. Each pass tightens something in my chest. Watching the confirmation crawl line by line onto the screen feels different.

The final line appears on the screen.Match Probability 99.9%.The comparison is statistically conclusive. The sample from beneath Matteo Vescari's fingernails shares a near-identical mitochondrial profile with my own, narrowing the source to a direct paternal relative. That leaves only one possibility. Not a cousin. Not a distant uncle. My father.

The screen doesn’t spell out his name, but it doesn’t have to. The probability leaves no room for doubt. It hits me like a gut punch and I feel like I will throw up.

My hand falls away from the console. I brace against the edge of the desk, willing myself to breathe through it.

I thought I understood what the data meant. I told myself I was prepared. But now that it’s confirmed, the reality feels like a collapse inside my chest. The certainty cuts deeper than suspicion ever could. I stare at the readout and feel everything shift. I don’t know how to move forward with this truth lodged so firmly inside me, but I know I can’t pretend I never saw it.

The data confirms direct contact at the time of Matteo’s death. The DNA wasn’t deposited days before or transferred by casual proximity. It was introduced during the critical window, when he was killed, and from a source so genetically close, there’s no plausible alternative.

Vescari clawed my father's body somewhere, and his blood got lodged under the dead man's fingernails. It means if I saw my father, there would be no mistaking the scratches, probably onhis arms, neck, or face. I shake my head and stare blankly at the screen.

If I submit this, the 416-bis investigation has what it needs to file the charges. This finding ties my father directly to the murder. And if it ties my father, it ties Emilio and Enzo and the whole damn organization. It's a smoking bullet, and I'm the only one who knows about it.

I sit back in my chair feeling lightheaded. My hand hovers over the upload key, then falls to my side.

Instead, I quickly store the results on a local drive. I encrypt the file, store it on a local drive, and isolate it from the main system. It remains invisible unless someone knows exactly where to look. I can’t bring myself to destroy the evidence, but I can’t very well send it in.

A few seconds later, an email from Dr. Bernardi lights up my inbox. The message is polite on the surface, couched in professionalism, but there’s tension beneath every line. It’s a reminder to comply with the task force by the end of the week, phrased like a courtesy but meant as pressure.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, then close the program without saving anything more. I push back from the desk, heart racing, and pull out my phone. My hands are unsteady as I scroll to Enzo’s contact and hitDial. He picks up before the second ring.

“Alessia? Is everything okay?" His voice is instantly comforting, but I'm not foolish enough to say much over the phone.

"Uh, I'm ready to go home. I'd like it if you could come to the back door…" My voice cracks as I speak, and at the same time, I stand and collect my purse and coat. He can't park on theproperty, but the back door of the lab opens to an alley where he can meet me in a few strides instead of the thirty-meter block.

"Yeah, of course. You sound rattled."

"Enzo… It was him." I can't say much more than that, but based on how he hangs up the phone, I know he understands that I won't.

My eyes flick around nervously as I keep a lookout for Dr. Bernardi on my way toward the back. I don't need another lecture about being prompt with my report, and if he came at me now, I would probably crack open like a peanut shell.

Enzo is already waiting at the curb, engine idling, as I slip out the rear exit and cross the short stretch of pavement. I open the passenger door and climb in without a word. He puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb like we’re just leaving for dinner, not spiriting away from a lie I've been thinking of telling.

For a few blocks, I don’t speak. I keep my eyes on the windshield, hands clenched in my lap. Finally, I say, “The mitochondrial match came back at 99.9 percent. It’s my father.”

Enzo keeps one hand on the wheel as he reaches to rest the other on my knee. It's a bold move since we're not truly a couple, but I don't mind. It comforts me. “Have you made up your mind?” he asks, flicking glances at me.

“I’m freaking out. I want to do the right thing.” I cover my face to hide my shame, but there's no hiding from him.

He glances at me again, then back at the road, and his grip on my knee tightens. “Right for who?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think straight.” I'm shaking my head, willing this entire situation to go away so I can go back to being normal again.

His voice is quiet, but firm. “If the Costas go down, they’ll drag you with them. You’re not far enough removed. And if they fall, the Bianchis won’t be far behind. I’ll be in prison. I won’t be able to protect you from any of them.”

I stare out the window, the city lights smearing across the glass as we pass them. My throat tightens, but I force myself to breathe slowly, to keep from unraveling in front of him. I can’t answer him yet. Every possible outcome feels like a trap. Every choice leads to someone bleeding, maybe even dying. And all of it circles back to me.

I press my fingers to my temples, willing the world to slow down.

16

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