Page 42 of Beautiful Evidence

For a moment, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. Because I know what this means. I’ll lose my job, the only thing I ever earned on my own. I’ll never see Chiara again—can’t call her, can’t explain. And my aunt, I’ll vanish from her life without a word. I think of everything I worked for, all the years I tried to claw my way out of the Costa shadow, and now I’m right back under it. Worse, I’m complicit. I’m exactly what I swore I’d never become.

I walk to the couch and sit down slowly, hands resting in my lap. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, but doesn't speak. I think of Chiara, of the last message I never answered. I think of the keys to my lab still in my coat pocket and how none of it matters now. The weight in my chest is crushing, and no one can lift it, not even me. Enzo looks at me like he’s bracing for me to fall apart, and I look at him, trying to figure out when I stopped resisting him and started falling in love.

"If it all falls apart," he says, quieter now, "I have Gordo’s key. Access to funds, a way out. A house no one’s touched since the seventies. It’s off every map… And I'll go with you."

I study him. His shoulders slope forward from exhaustion. Blood crusts at his collar and stains the edges of his shirt. He looks wrecked—skin drawn, eyes dark—but he’s upright. He hasn’t given up on me, despite how hard I've fought him at times.

I slide off the couch, kneel in front of him, and rest my head against his chest. His shirt smells like sweat and gunpowder. I burrow my face into it and wrap my arms around him. "Ouch," he grunts, but I don't back away because now that I'm on his side of this war, he's the only thing I can count on.

His hand slides into my hair and he tangles his fingers in it. The touch is soft and grounding.

"If we survive this," I whisper, voice rough, "You're not allowed to leave me. Do you hear me?" Pulling back, I look him directly in the eye. "I don't think I can go back to my old life."

He lowers his head until his lips brush mine and he says, "I don’t think either of us can."

I don’t argue. I just stay there, breathing him in, knowing that whatever happens next—whatever it costs—this is the moment everything changes.

26

VINCENZO

The time for talking is over. We’ve stalled the magistrate, rerouted the threats, and bought Alessia enough space to breathe. But breathing is merely survival in this world—not really living. If there’s any chance to clear her from the fallout and shield the Costa name from collapse, it starts here. The lab is where it begins. Matteo’s body is the linchpin. The DNA under his fingernails is the risk. I don’t care how crude it looks or how close it cuts. I’m going to make it impossible for anyone to prove what happened in that room.

“Van’s moving,” Diego says over comms, his voice steady in my ear. “Ten seconds.”

I check my watch. It’s 2:17. The van turns the corner at the end of the service road and rolls toward the rear loading dock with its lights low. Just like we planned it. I shift my weight behind the dumpster, eyes locked on the driver, while Nico positions himself above the dock scaffolding and Rory waits by the exit. We’re in position to make our move as soon as the van stops. This job doesn’t call for muscle. It calls for precision.

“Positions,” I say into the mic, my eyes scanning the dock. The van brakes quietly. Two fake orderlies in scrubs—ours—hop out and look around, one pulling out a clipboard while the other taps on his tablet. And we walk straight up to the van like we've done this a hundred times.

“You really got three of Emilio’s guys on the manifest?” Nico asks under his breath as we approach. It cost us a hefty sum, but I made it happen.

“Pulled them from his private crew,” I say. “Swapped two into the night shift rotation last week and bribed the route supervisor for the third. He thinks he’s doing a delivery to state storage. He has no idea who’s in the bag.”

Nico gives a low whistle. “You’re getting good at this,compare."

“Too good,” I mutter, stepping up just behind the van as our fake orderlies open the back doors for us.

I climb into the van before anyone else, nostrils flaring at the sharp smell of bleach and disinfectant. The dome light inside flickers overhead as I step up beside the stretcher. Matteo’s corpse is zipped up in a sterile body bag, the tag hanging limply from the zipper pull. His body looks worse in the dim light, slack and gray, like he's a floater who's done bloating. There’s no time to dwell on it.

I unzip the bag halfway and snap on latex gloves as Nico passes me the tools. Vescari's fingernails are caked with dried blood and grime. Lab swabs won’t miss that. So I take the brush and scrub the nail beds hard, foam and peroxide mixing into pink suds as I go over each finger. I don’t take shortcuts. One missed spot could take us all down. My gloves are soaked when I finish, but I don’t slow down.

“Syringe,” I mutter, reaching my hand out. I glance up the alley and see it empty. This time of day is a risk, but we weren't able to convince them to transfer the corpse at a different time.

Nico hands it over. I draw the pig’s blood and inject it into the soft tissue under each nail. The trick isn’t volume—it’s contamination. If the lab gets one good sample, we’re screwed. But if every swab’s dirty, every result is garbage. The blood seeps out slowly around the nail beds as I work. It’s crude, but it’s effective.

“Three minutes,” Diego says. “Driver’s ready to roll.”

I finish the last injection and wipe the fingertips dry. Matteo’s hand flops back onto the stretcher, lifeless and ruined. Before I zip the bag, I grab the blade from my pocket and lift the sheet just enough to see the carved symbol on his stomach. It's deep—clearly deliberate—and anyone who recognizes it will know exactly who left it there. I drive the tip of the knife into the mark and drag hard across it several times, turning the shape into a shredded mess of tissue. It's not enough to hide what was there completely, but it will stop anyone from being sure.

Then I zip the body bag shut, tag it with the altered numbers, and nod at Diego before handing Nico the syringe and knife. The driver climbs in. Our guy signs off with the forged timestamp and nods like nothing happened. The van pulls away from where we stand watching, with Matteo’s body in the back and no one the wiser.

I stay where I am for a moment, watching the taillights vanish into the curve of the street. It should feel like relief. But all I can think about is whether she’ll be able to do her part. She’s not like us. She didn’t grow up inside this world. She was on the periphery, and barely at that. What I just did—what she’ll haveto do next—isn’t something you come back from. If she freezes, if she hesitates, it’ll all unravel.

“You think she’s ready?”

I turn to see Rory beside me, hands stuffed in his jacket, watching the van disappear. He doesn’t sound skeptical. Just curious.

“She doesn’t get to be ready,” I say, eyes still on the curve where the van disappeared. “None of us do.”

---