3. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he air is thick with the warmth of baked bread and the bitterness of brewed coffee.
I lean back in my chair and press the rim of the demitasse to my lips, letting the bitter taste linger before I realize the coffee's gone cold.
I set it down on the chipped metal table, watching it rock slightly on the saucer beneath the striped umbrella.
Around us, the hum of early afternoon conversation and the clink of cutlery echo across the cobbled patio, where café chairs scrape gently against stone and the sunlight filters through vine-covered trellises.
Chiara’s voice cuts through my murky haze. “So now Dr. Mancini thinks he’s getting the interim chief job. I mean, please. He’s been phoning it in since he got his divorce,” she says, rolling her eyes.
I nod, trying to follow along, but my brain's still in the morgue where it got the shock of a lifetime.
The faint scent of formalin clings to my jacket like normal.
It comes with the job. It's been over twenty-four hours since the autopsy, and I've washed my hands five times, but the image of the symbol carved into Matteo Vescari’s stomach keeps flashing behind my eyes.
“Earth to Alessia,” Chiara says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Sort of,” I say as I drag my gaze back to her. “Sorry. I’m just tired.” Lying to my best friend doesn't come easily, but it goes with the territory. She knows nothing of my upbringing or past life. It's better that way, safer for her.
She gives me a look—half concern, half annoyance—and pushes her sunglasses higher on her head. They pin her hair back, giving me a full view of her warm brown eyes that bore into me with curiosity. “You’ve been tired all day. It’s not like you to be this out of it,” she says.
I swirl the last drop of coffee in the cup, but the ceramic never leaves the plate beneath. “It’s nothing,” I reply quietly. What can I even say to her? My dad's a higher-up in the Italian Mafia and I left him behind, but he's come back to haunt me? That'd go over like a lead balloon.
“It’s not nothing. You’re twitchier than usual. And you didn’t even complain about the new tech,” she points out. It almost draws a chuckle, because I do complain about that tech a lot.
I smile faintly. “She’ll quit by next month. They always do,” I say.
Chiara grins. “Seriously, if something’s going on, you can tell me,” she adds. Her fingers wrap around the tea mug in front of her on its own ceramic plate, but there's no way I could open up even if I wanted to. I'm protecting her from things she knows nothing about, and she doesn't even know it.
Avoiding her scrutiny, I glance toward the street, letting my eyes drift across the crowd without focus—until they land on a man standing half-shielded behind a vendor’s cart stacked with oranges.
He wears a dark coat and has dark hair. He's not pretending not to look at me.
He's watching me directly, as if he's waiting for something.
I shift in my seat and tap my spoon on the saucer a few times impatiently. Chiara raises a brow at me and then furrows her forehead.
“Behind me. Across the street. Don’t make it obvious,” I say under my breath.
Then I shift my gaze toward the front of the cafe where my waiter bustles about filling people's coffee cups.
I'd like to wave my arm at him and draw his attention, but I don't want the man to realize we're about to leave. I don't want him to follow me.
She stretches like she's adjusting her back, casting a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone,” she says, frowning. Then she brings her arms back in front of her, but instead of folding them on the table like they were, she reaches for her purse.
I look again, but now he's gone, which makes my heart rate tick up a few notches. A man watching me is dangerous. A man who was watching me and who is now invisible is deadly.
Chiara frowns. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” she asks. And this time, as she opens her purse and pulls out her clutch, she turns obviously and stares in that general direction. So much for nonchalance.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say as I lift my cup again, raising it to wave at the waiter. He sees me and nods.
“Creeper?” she asks, turning back and pulling a few bills from her pocketbook. She drops them on the table and sets the corner of her saucer on them so they don't blow away in the breeze.
“Maybe,” I reply, keeping my tone casual, though my neck prickles. “Maybe he was just checking you out." My words are meant to be playful, put her at ease, but my voice cracks, belying my anxious tension.
“You’re jumpy,” she observes, and her shoulders bob. "You sure everything's okay?"
I shrug. “I’m just tired,” I repeat, but I know I'm not really selling it.
The truth is I am tired. Exhausted, actually.
I've spent the better part of my adult life hiding from the men my father calls his family.
I broke ties with anything that resembles blood relation when I figured out who they are.
What they do… and how deep their reach still goes.
The thought makes my skin crawl, but I try to shake it off.
Then I scan the sidewalk two more times before I stand up to leave, tucking my clutch under my arm.
Chiara pulls out her phone and checks the time. “I’ve got rounds in twenty. Walk with me?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say.
I leave a few coins under my cup, knowing her bills will cover both of our lunches, and head up the block beside her.
I keep my chin high, but I’m scanning every surface we pass—windowpanes, polished car doors, anything that might reflect movement.
The man’s gone, erased like chalk in the rain, but the sense of being watched still coils in my gut.
The dread still crawls heavily up my back, whispering that what I saw wasn’t a trick of the light.
“Hey,” Chiara says, nudging me gently with her elbow. “Are we still on for Via del Corso this weekend? I need new shoes, and I’m not buying anything unless you approve.”
I smile faintly, grateful for the normalcy. “Of course. Saturday afternoon?”
She nods. “Text me. We’ll grab gelato, but only after you find me the perfect dress for the fundraiser."
At the next corner, Chiara peels off toward the hospital. “Call me if you want to vent about weird men lurking in fruit stands,” she says over her shoulder with a laugh, and suddenly, I breathe lighter, like maybe I was just hallucinating. The formalin maybe got to me.
I smile. “Thanks,” I reply.
Against my better judgment, I head back toward the café, unsure why I feel the need.
Maybe I want to check again. Maybe I want to prove to myself that I didn't make it up.
The sidewalk's crowded now with delivery vans, tourists, and a group of nuns laughing with plastic gelato cups in hand.
Everything feels normal, loud, and safe.
He's there. Not across the street this time, shadowed by carts or tucked into a crowd.
He stands in plain view, two steps from the table I left behind.
His posture is too relaxed, like he's waiting for an old friend.
And his hands are buried in his coat pockets, which scares me. He could have a weapon.
His gaze locks onto the café door as if he’s been rooted to the spot, waiting. When he catches sight of me, he smiles—a quiet, unreadable curve of the mouth that carries a chill. It’s not friendly. It’s not curious. It’s the smile of someone sinister who has been made and doesn't care.
My feet slow without permission, my breath thinning as I take him in, instinct screaming beneath my skin, though I find myself holding my breath instead of calling for help.
He doesn't move until I'm within reach. Then he steps forward just slightly. He's not close enough to touch, but he's close enough that I register his presence.
"Alessia, right?" he says, his tone smooth and confident. He’s tall, lean, and unsettlingly composed, with short black hair that doesn’t move in the breeze and inky black eyes that crawl with intimidation.
A thin line of stubble shadows his jaw, but it’s the tattoos that catch my eye—just visible beneath his coat sleeves and in the dip in his neck just where his collarbones meet.
He looks like the type of man who knows where every monster lives, who’s done terrible things with clean hands.
My heart jerks. “Do I know you?” I ask, my voice guarded.
“Vinny,” he replies and offers a hand, but he doesn't look surprised that I don't take it. “Your name came up in conversation. I figured I’d introduce myself.”
“What conversation?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his. All around us, the café pulses with life—glasses clink, silverware scrapes, a couple at the next table dissolves into laughter—but I don't let myself break focus.
“Friends in common,” he says with a shrug, like this is a casual run-in and not a carefully calculated approach. “I work in private security. Mostly risk assessments and internal investigations.”
I say nothing and let the silence stretch. The noise around us feels far away, like it’s happening behind glass or with a mute in place. People are moving, but my eyes stay locked on the snake in front of me coiled to strike.
He gestures toward the table. “May I?” he asks.
“No," I tell him tartly. I'm ready to walk away now and pray he doesn't follow.
He smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Fair,” he says.
I study him. He looks to be in his early thirties with a lean build and a tailored coat. I see no visible weapon, but his stance suggests training. His eyes are sharp for someone who just happens to work in security.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“To meet you. Make sure you’re okay,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I reply, keeping my expression unreadable.
Make sure I'm okay? Is that some fucked up way of saying my father is checking on me?
Because that's what this is, right? My father sent me that stiff, and now he's sending his soldiers to follow up and make sure I'm obeying.
It's sickening. I move to walk past him, but he gently takes my wrist and I snap my hand away.
“Some people aren’t happy about your involvement in recent cases. I thought I’d check in,” he says calmly, but there is something eerily terrifying about the way he looks at me, like I'm the next victim.
I tense. “You’re not with the police,” I say, "so stay the fuck away from me."
“No,” he replies simply, "I'm not polizia ."
“Then why would you care?” I ask. Now my chest is heaving with adrenaline, preparing me to fight. I don't have my mace, no weapon to fight him off. Even if I did, he's twice my size and trained to kill and I am just a fucking medical examiner.
He leans back slightly. “Because a friend cares,” he growls so quietly, I'm sure it's the devil himself projecting the words into my brain.
I stare at him. “You’re very pushy for a man who wants to reassure me,” I say.
He laughs quietly. “You’re smart. You don’t need the details spelled out, do you?"
I say nothing in response, but I let my eyes turn away from him and stare at the back of the bus where the nuns are boarding with cups of espresso and smiles now.
He pats the back of my shoulder then says, “Take care of yourself, Alessia. Things are moving fast."
Then he's gone, walking away, sliding his hands into his pockets with ease again.
I wait a full minute before I exhale. Then I turn and walk the long way back to the lab, checking over my shoulder every few minutes.
By the time I get back, I'm trembling. The fluorescent lights feel harsher than usual, and every metallic clink echoes through my body, making me jerk.
I finish my remaining reports in a daze, barely registering the paperwork or the murmured conversations of passing staff.
My coat's on and I'm out the door before anyone can stop me, heart still racing from something I can't rationalize away.
That was not a hallucination. That was a message I heard loud and clear.
When I reach my building, dusk is pressing down over Rome. I pause before unlocking the door. Everything looks normal. The same old potted rosemary is still dying on the windowsill. The mail slot's half-jammed with flyers and bills. Nothing appears out of place at first glance.
But the moment I step inside, I know something's wrong. The air feels disturbed. It doesn't feel like someone broke in, but it feels like someone passed through recently.
My apartment is clean because that's how I keep it, maybe unconsciously so I'll know if something looks out of place.
Years of terror taught me that. But I check the bedroom and closet.
Nothing's missing. Nothing appears to be stolen.
I crouch and look underneath the bed. The dust patterns are disturbed and have clearly shifted.
Someone has reached under at some point.
I don’t call the police because there’s nothing they can do—not when nothing’s missing, nothing’s broken, and nothing technically happened. There’s no evidence, no forced entry, not even a hair out of place.
But I know what I felt the second I walked in. I know what it means when the air tastes wrong, when objects sit too perfectly, when silence rings louder than it should. Whoever he is, he was here. And every breath I take now is colder because of it.
"Vinny" was a message, cold and direct, and I don't know what it's supposed to mean. But I know it's not good.
I lock every bolt on the door and pull the curtains tightly shut. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let my hands begin to shake.