2. Vincenzo
VINCENZO
T hey call it fallout, like there was ever going to be a clean end to the Vescari mess.
Matteo’s body surfaced less than twenty-four hours ago, and already the higher-ups are scrambling to control the narrative.
No one wants to admit the possibility that Gordo Costa made a move against the Bianchis, but the silence around his disappearance makes the betrayal feel real.
When people vanish without warning, it isn’t because they’re innocent.
Emilio sits behind his desk at the back of the trattoria, calmly stirring his espresso with a slow hand.
He doesn’t look at me right away but his terse anger is simmering under the surface.
It always impresses me how he can bottle that rage up and mask it with such intentional control. Men like him are dangerous as fuck.
"You know who his daughter is." His words are pointy, pricking my ears. Gordo Costa's daughter doesn't get a choice in the matter. Fortunately for us, she chose a great profession, and she's naive, thinking that changing her last name will hide her from us. Foolish woman…
I nod at him and he continues.
"She’s the one who cut Vescari open," Emilio says, voice low. "If there’s something in that body worth hiding, she’s already seen it."
"Then she’s in a position to screw us," I reply.
"Even if she doesn't realize what she's looking at.
" Thinking of how Gordo crossed his brother boils my blood.
Emilio is our Don, the man half of Italy reports to.
Gordo has now gone silent in the wake of this death, and we either cap the flow of blood and right his wrongs, or the whole fucking city will burn.
Emilio nods once with a stony gaze. "Watch her. Get ahead of this before it turns into another fire we can’t put out." He smiles faintly, still not meeting my eyes, and nods at nothing. "You know what to do."
I rise as he gestures his dismissal, the conversation already done in his mind. There’s nothing left to clarify. I give a short nod and head for the door, the job already taking shape in my head.
The file comes through encrypted less than an hour later to my email.
Dr. Alessia Leone, born Alessia Costa. She changed her name when she turned eighteen.
Earned her MD and PhD on government grants and sleepless nights.
She has no siblings, one living aunt, no children, and no partner.
Her best friend is listed as next of kin on her electronic identity card.
Everything about her whispers quiet, deliberate, and controlled—a woman who’s built her life around routine in a world that feeds on chaos.
Her apartment is in Trastevere, third floor walk-up, no elevator. She has a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, with a small balcony. Probably the type to lock up at night, not realizing men like me have ways of circumventing traditional security measures. She has no clue what's coming.
I read her file thrice. Then I build her cage.
We park the van half a block from her building, tucked behind a defunct florist’s shop. I bring in a two-man rotation team—men I trust to watch without interfering. They aren’t briefed on who she is, and I don’t offer explanations. They’re here to observe, not to speculate, and I keep it that way.
The listening devices go in first—her car is clean.
I wire a small mic beneath the steering column and leave the interior untouched.
Behind the dumpster near her building, I mount another, disguised to blend with the rusted bolts.
Corner of the alley gets one to monitor both angles of her comings and goings.
Alessia is still at work when I let myself into her apartment. The lock takes seconds. I’ve broken into enough apartments to know the rhythm. Her place is as sterile as her file suggests, with clean countertops, shoes lined neatly by the door, and books stacked in precise thematic order.
I install the cameras quickly. One above the hallway mirror right outside her bedroom, another inside a bookshelf, lens hidden between two medical journals.
Under her bedframe, I secure a motion-triggered mic.
Her laptop is closed, her phone not here.
She took it with her. It means I can't clone it.
I leave no trace.
By the time she returns, I’m back in the van with the feed live.
She enters the apartment and flips on a light, then locks the door behind herself, turning both deadbolts.
Her movements seem cagey, like she's tense or scared. She doesn’t glance at the mirror or check the bookshelf, but something shifts in her posture.
The adjustment is slight, but I notice the shake of her hand as she goes for a glass of wine.
She powers off her phone and carries her glass of wine into the bedroom.
She walks into the bedroom and sets the wine down on the nightstand, then unbuttons her shirt.
Her blouse slips off her shoulders and down her arms. Beneath it, her skin is smooth and pale, untouched by the sun, all lean muscle and clean lines.
There's no visible scarring, no piercings, no distractions—just the quiet shape of a woman who maintains her physique well.
She moves with grace and elegance, her posture upright even as she unhooks her bra and steps out of her slacks. Nothing about her is careless or showy. And yet, the way she pauses in front of the mirror for a split second—bare, backlit by the hallway light—holds something I can’t name.
I study the sharp line of her spine, the way she seems to float across the travertine. I’ve surveilled targets for weeks without blinking, but she moves differently from the men I'm typically watching. And her body is arousing, to say the least.
She goes to bed just before midnight, and I pull up the file on Gordo and scroll through the familiar chaos.
His betrayal started months ago. He moved assets without permission, withheld payments, rerouted product through unapproved channels.
Everyone thought he was getting sloppy. Maybe he was.
But maybe he was planning something bigger.
The problem is, no one knows why he ghosted the family.
If he left anything—any evidence, even unintentionally—it could break what’s left of our alliances.
The Bianchis want someone to blame. The Costas want distance.
And I’m the one stuck in the middle, watching her every move, waiting for a misstep.
So far, Alessia hasn't made any mistakes, and I tell myself it’s because she’s sharp.
Because she’s her father's daughter. But something about the silence in her apartment gets under my skin.
She should've been horrified to see Vescari come across her table.
She should've been running for the hills by now. But she sleeps peacefully…
I switch off the feed and close the laptop. The image of her standing by the window lingers longer than I want to admit.
This woman is already under my skin and I've not even introduced myself yet.