5. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he lab carries the sharp bite of ethanol and the weight of old memories I’d rather not have to think about anymore.
A chemical sharpness clings to the air that is familiar and oddly comforting.
I’ve spent enough nights here to know which microscope flickers when powered on and which drawer sticks from disuse.
This place is mine in ways no other space has ever been.
It's clean, methodical, and obedient, completely unlike everything else in my life.
And maybe that's why I like it, because it's the only place that up until the last week has been mine, with no trace of my father's black fingers reaching out to touch me.
I seal the cooler and carry it through the side door of the lab, nodding to the lone janitor buffing the hallway tiles. He doesn’t look up, which is good. I don’t want questions about where I'm going or what I'm doing. Knowing my father is behind this is bad enough.
The private forensics lab at the university—where I used to assist during my residency—is dimly lit when I enter.
My access still works—a miracle or an oversight, I’m not sure which.
I place the tubes into the centrifuge and set the timer.
Soon, it begins to hum as it spins the blood samples I pulled from Matteo’s femoral artery.
I’ve already typed his DNA against Interpol and national databases.
There were no surprises there, but the partial profile I couldn’t classify is what brought me here tonight.
I settle in, snapping on my gloves. The machine beeps its readiness.
I breathe in the stillness and let it steady me.
Then I start running the test again, this time feeding in mitochondrial sequences and cross-checking them against legacy records that the government databases won’t touch.
Results start to populate on the screen.
If my strange mystery stalker is any indication, the Mob is into something they don't want made public, and doing anything on a government database will draw them to me like flies to shit.
The university feels safer, or at least that’s what I let myself believe—right up until I hear a voice that makes my skin crawl.
"Still hiding bodies in your spare time, Leone?" Luca's voice scalpels through the silence, startling me. I never heard his footsteps approaching.
I don’t need to turn to place it. "Dr. Bernardi," I say, not missing a beat as I adjust the monitor and let my hand on the mouse move smoothly as if he didn't just make me pee a little.
"I assumed you'd be out charming tenure committees.
" My former teacher turned state medical examiner is my current boss, who apparently still has ties back to this lab too.
Luca steps into the fluorescent light, smirking as he crosses his arms. The wicked light draws dark shadows on his face, making him look morbid. "They charm easily. You, on the other hand…" he says casually. He looks up at the screen and then down at the cooler skeptically.
"I’m not here to be charmed," I reply, flicking off a switch without looking at him. He already knows what I'm doing. I'm sure of it. But he doesn't know whose blood I'm using or why.
He walks a slow arc around me. "No. You're here after hours, rerunning forensic markers on a corpse already cleared for cremation.
" I shudder at the idea that he's placing accusations without proof, but if he wanted the proof he could order me to cough it up.
"That makes me wonder—what are you really looking for?
" His voice lowers as he slouches heavily on the opposite counter, inspecting me for lies.
"Old coursework," I say tightly, locking my gaze on the screen. "Thought I might reference some of the mitochondrial cases for the lecture I'm prepping."
He laughs softly, shaking his head. "That's what they call it now?" he says, lips curling. "Coursework…"
I don’t respond, but I keep my face neutral as I gather the printouts and pull up a blank screen, pretending to cross-reference files while willing my heartbeat to slow.
He waits, watching me like a hawk circling a cornered rabbit. "You're not even trying to cover your tracks," he says, voice low and edged with contempt. "You think just because you used your old access card that no one would notice?"
I gather another paper from the printer and keep my tone level.
"What do I have to cover up? Besides, if I wanted to cover something, do you think I'd be doing it here?
" I flick a gaze up at his sardonic grin and steady my breathing.
He won't rattle me if I keep myself grounded.
He has no proof of anything, and besides, it's not like he knows who I really am.
He scoffs. "You always did think you were smarter than everyone else. But this is sloppy, even for you." The way he casually crosses his arms and narrows his eyes feels more interrogatory than friendly, but I turn back to my work and try not to get bothered by him.
"I'm prepping for a lecture," I tell him again, but I feel my ears burning hotter than Venus. My heart is thudding so loudly I can feel it in my teeth, but I keep my expression smooth.
He leans forward, resting one hand on the desk, invading my space with his presence. "You’re lying to me, Alessia, and I'm going to find out what it is you're hiding."
"Maybe I’m just tired," I say, returning my eyes to the blank screen and clicking through meaningless files. "We can’t all be fueled by spite and suspicion, Dr. Bernardi." If he can't see the blood pulsing through the veins in my forehead, I'd be surprised.
He lets out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. "Just remember—if you get caught doing something illegal, I’m not covering for you." His voice starts to fade as he walks away, and I pinch the bridge of my nose as his back is turned.
"Noted," I say quietly, eyes still on the screen, breath held until he's finally far enough away that I can turn the monitor back on.
He wanders out the door to the other workstation, still feigning disinterest, but I can feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck.
The profile completes, and my pulse stalls.
There’s a ninety-three percent match to my familial DNA strand.
It's one not associated with Matteo and not listed in any criminal registry. But I know this marker. I’ve seen it before—buried in my own bloodwork, years ago, back when I was na?ve enough to think a person could scrub their past clean.
It’s Gordo’s.
My hands curl around the edge of the table as my eyes pore over more of the results.
There is no mistaking at all what this means and it's the proof my mind didn't want to see.
I'm so glad I ran this test here and not at work because at least here, there is no link to the samples that can be traced back to me.
My father was there at the scene. Or someone who shares his mitochondrial DNA was—Uncle Emilio, maybe? But he doesn't tend to get his hands dirty anymore, ever since he was named Don.
I strip off the gloves and shut the machine down with a series of practiced keystrokes, my mind already three steps ahead.
This changes everything, and it explains too much.
The man following me around, the strange image sent to me with my father in the same place at the same time as me even though I didn't see him.
And most of all, it explains why I felt like someone was in my penthouse apartment.
After I clean up the Mass-Spec and destroy the samples, I exit the lab and head out the side door into the cool evening air, cradling the results folder beneath one arm.
My bag is heavy against my shoulder as I cut across the campus courtyard and out onto the main road.
The farther I get from the university, the faster I walk, which gets my pulse high with activity, but the anxiety doesn't help, either.
I glance over my shoulder just once as I reach the edge of campus—and that’s when I see the same man from the café.
He called himself Vinny. He’s several paces behind, head angled slightly like he’s just out for a walk, but he’s not fooling me.
He’s following me. I realize it only now, with a jolt of delayed dread, and suspect he’s been trailing me since I left the building. Maybe since I left work to come here.
I keep moving faster now, cutting across the street, then down a narrower sidewalk lined with trees and old stone walls.
He matches my pace from a distance, never closing the gap but never falling behind, either.
It terrifies me because he's not even trying to be covert about it.
His boldness is all the more reason to be afraid of him.
I cross at a light, duck down an alley, and pause in front of a pharmacy window to check my reflection in the glass. He’s still trailing me, just far enough back to make plausible deniability his shield. But I’m done pretending I don’t notice.
I stop walking, turning on my heel to face him before he has the chance to pretend this was all coincidence.
The streetlight catches in his eyes as he slows, as if considering whether to pretend he wasn’t following me or to admit it outright.
He hesitates, just for a breath, then shifts his weight forward and crosses the remaining distance between us.
"Alessia…" My name on his lips is both bone-chilling and alluring. HIs Venetian accent is softer than my Roman one, and the way it curls over his tongue softens me around the edges even when I want to be hard and cold.
Still, knowing who he is makes something inside me bristle. "Are you following me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
"Yes," he says simply, holding my gaze. "I told you. There are matters that concern you and I'm here… to watch."
"You were in my apartment, weren't you?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest, my voice calm even though my skin prickles. "You went through my things. That's why you're not bothering to hide now."
"Would you believe me if I told you the truth?" he replies, a faint smirk touching his mouth. The light is fading fast, but even in the dusky calm settling over Rome I notice the strong line of his jaw, the curiosity in his eyes.
"Try me," I say coolly, refusing to back down.
I cross my arms over my chest, partly to hide the fact that I'm feeling a little flustered.
He's good-looking, but he's scary. I know my father would never send someone to watch me who would actually harm me, but letting myself fall for his charm will only come back to bite me later.
He moves closer with unhurried steps. "Your father sent me. He wants eyes on you," he says, and I notice a glint in his eyes, no doubt some sort of perverted thought he's having about me. Men like him are all the same.
My jaw tightens. "Of course he did," I mutter, lifting my chin. I didn't need Vinny's confession to know what my father is up to. I'm going to be forced to bury the truth and jeopardize my career. I knew I should've moved to Paris.
"You’re not safe." The tone he uses is edged with warning, though I don’t believe he actually cares one fucking lick about me or my safety. He's hired to do a job, and so long as his job is done, he will be paid.
"From whom?" I scoff, matching his steps by moving forward. He thinks he can corner me and make me feel intimidated by him, but I'm not going to cower.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he studies me with those dark, unreadable eyes like he’s cataloguing the slope of my spine and the tilt of my head. His tongue draws over his lower lip. His eyes blink slowly. Then he says, "You need to stop digging, Alessia."
"Is that a threat?" I snip before I scoff again and snort out a laugh. "Because I'm sure by now, you know who my father really is and what he's capable of doing." I stare directly into his eyes and his words slice down my spine in a cold chill.
"No. It’s a warning."
"I don’t respond well to warnings," I say coldly. Though inside, my stomach is roiling now. If he's warning me, maybe he isn't working with my father. I can't name all the criminal families in Rome, but I know the Costas aren't the only ones.
He steps closer, and his fingers lift and graze the side of my jaw like he's moving a hair or smoothing my tears away.
It's a soft, gentle touch that warms me down to my chest, then creeps into my belly and settles it.
The goosebumps I should feel fly to my stomach to join the butterflies dancing, and before I think, I act.
"Don’t touch me," I snap, slapping his hand away.
Vinny chuckles and winks at me before saying, "Ciao, Bella. Try not to dream of me tonight."
I push past him, spine straight and chin high.
My steps echo off the courtyard stones. I don’t look back, but I'm not foolish enough to believe he's left me alone.
Whoever sent him to intimidate me would be very disappointed if he did, and so I know every time I leave my apartment from now on, he'll be there.
At least until the public prosecutor has their suspect and the case moves on from my docket.
Later, I lock the door to my apartment behind me and double-check every window, even though I know he’s long gone—or at least pretending to be.
The lights stay off as I step into the kitchen, unspooling my scarf and tossing my bag onto the counter.
I don’t bother eating. I’m too keyed up.
My fingers twitch like they’re still bracing for another shock. I've had a few today already.
I head to the bathroom and splash water on my face.
My hands tremble with nerves and my mind replays the conversation with Luca and then the one with Vinny—whose name I'm sure is Vincenzo or something stupid.
I think of all the things I should have said to both of them but couldn't conjure up in the moment.
When I finally peel off my clothes and sink into bed, the sheets are cool against my skin, but my jaw still tingles where he touched me. I press the side of my face into the pillow, willing it to erase the memory, but it doesn’t help.
His touch lingers like heat after a flame, seared into nerve endings I can’t shut off.
I bury my face in the blanket and squeeze my eyes shut.
And I hate that I want to feel it again.