Page 41 of Beautiful Evidence

Ihaven’t heard from Enzo in hours. This supposed "safe house" doesn't feel safe at all. Every bump in the night terrifies me. I’ve gone through half a bottle of wine waiting, pacing the tile floor, checking my phone every five minutes even though I know he’d call if he could. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my gut.

When the lock finally clicks, I fly to the door and wrench it open before he can and I find him standing there, leaning on the doorframe with a haggard look on his face.

He’s bleeding.

There’s a deep gash above his brow, and blood streaks down his arm where the fabric of his sleeve has been shredded. One hand is still gripped around the handle of his gun. But his eyes lock onto mine like I’m a sight for sore eyes.

"It’s not as bad as it looks," he grumbles as he steps forward, but his knees buckle slightly. He's weak from blood loss, which I can plainly see, and I'm just glad the blood is on his sleeve and not his chest.

I slam the door shut behind him and catch him under the arm before he can fall. His jaw is tight. His skin is pale. The lock clicks as I twist it shut with one hand, and then I steer him toward the worn-out sofa.

My hands tremble, and my voice comes out tight with fear even as I try to hold it together. "Sit down. Let me take care of you." I lower him onto the couch, already grabbing the hem of his jacket.

"First aid kit is under the kitchen sink, I think." Enzo's words are breathy. I can tell he's in a lot of pain, but like most men of his caliber, he will never admit it.

He sinks into the cushions with a grunt and lets me peel the jacket from his shoulders. Blood slicks the side of his face and has soaked through his shirt so badly I can't see where the wound is. Rushing away, I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and return, dropping to my knees beside him.

"What happened?" I asked, trying not to let my hands shake too badly.

I grip the scissors from the kit and cut away his shredded sleeve to expose the wound properly, needing to see how deep it is. My mind flashes back to memories of my mother on her knees next to my father on nights like this. The bleeding isn’t gushing, but it’s steady enough to worry me. I press clean gauze to it and grab a sterile packet to prep the disinfectant.

"I got shot. What the fuck does it look like?" I can see on his face how much he's hurting, so I bite back my other questions, but I can't keep the grimace of fear off my face.

The wound runs straight through his bicep, which is very swollen, but the wound is clean enough to stitch if I can getthe bleeding under control. I saturate a pad with antiseptic and press it firmly against the open skin. Enzo hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away.

I clean around the edges first, then work inward, wiping away the grime and dried blood with slow, deliberate passes. My fingers are steady, but my chest is tight with panic. I don't know who did this and I am afraid to ask, because I don't want to know how much worse this thing has gotten.

"My God," I mutter, more out of fear than shock. The gunshot is through and through, and it appears he hasn't nicked an artery. It will heal, but he could've died. Just six inches to the left…

When I've cleaned the arm thoroughly, I cover it with a square of gauze and wrap it up, then I toss the soaked pads into the waste bin and reach for another strip of gauze to deal with his face. He stays quiet, jaw clenched, trusting me to handle it. And he doesn’t flinch while I clean the cut above his eye, though his breath catches when I accidentally lean on his arm.

He watches me the whole time. I can feel how heavy his mood is, like he’s memorizing every move.

"You should’ve called me." My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, frustration crackling through the worry. He doesn't belong to me, but part of me wishes he did, that this wasn't some ginormous fuck-up that forced our worlds to collide.

"Didn’t want to drag this shit through the phone." Enzo exhales hard and pushes my hand away, but I scowl at him and he relaxes to let me finish.

I tape the gauze in place and sit back on my heels and let my hands linger on his knees. "Talk to me, Enzo. Please."

He leans his head against the backrest of the couch. The shadows sharpen the angles of his face, and his voice drops low. "The investigation isn’t our only problem now. The Bianchis want their connection to Matteo erased because they know if it comes out he's connected to them, we all go down." He lifts his arm, as if to reach for his face, then immediately winces and puts it back down, draped over his lap. I lace my fingers through his and wait.

My mouth goes dry. "So they want me dead?" I ask, confused. Don't they know if I disappear, Greco will just ramrod her way into my files and everything I know, they will know? Not to mention the fact that with my autopsy not finalized, they'll just put a different tech on it and everything will come out anyway?

His mouth opens like he might answer, but nothing comes. I search his face, and what I see there is worse than anything he could say out loud. It’s not just exhaustion. He's convinced they'll hurt us both. I feel it hit low in my stomach, settling over me in a cold wave of terror.

"Emilio’s only letting me keep you breathing because it protects the Costa name," he adds. "If you cooperate with the magistrate, you’re alone. You'll have every crime family in Rome coming for you."

I stare at him, chest tight, then push up from the floor and walk to the window. It’s pitch black outside, the yard barely lit by the porch lamp. The glass is cold against my fingertips as I brace one hand against the pane and stare out. "So, what’s the plan?"

He exhales hard through his nose, shifting to sit up straighter. "I’ll steal the evidence bag and swap the DNA. I’ve got access to pig’s blood. Enough to corrupt what they pulled from under Matteo’s nails. If the sample’s tainted, it won’t hold up in court."

"And the report?" I ask, still facing the window, though I already know what he’s going to say. I can see his reflection in the window and watch him scrub a hand over his face.

"You're the only one who can do this, Alessia. You have to skew the findings or you're done." His voice is calm but firm, like he’s already made the decision for both of us.

I turn slowly, arms folded. "And if I don’t?" The idea of deliberately lying to the government, of falsifying evidence—it makes me sick in the stomach. I've officially stooped to the level of my father. I am a criminal, and there is no backing out now.

I turn to look at him as he says, "Then I can’t protect you." The honesty in his tone slices through the last tether I have holding me to a life of normalcy.

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