6. Vincenzo
VINCENZO
T he safehouse sits on the edge of the city, tucked between a row of empty buildings with nothing to mark it from the outside.
Inside, everything is sterile—metal, screens, and silence.
I’ve spent too many nights like this, lit only by the glow of a dozen monitors.
Rome is a lot like New York City—never truly going to sleep, but Alessia does.
It's where she is now, curled in her bed with her creamy skin covered in a white satin sheet, her light snoring coming across the airwaves.
Her apartment flickers across the main monitor.
The monitor shows high-definition footage streaming in real time, captured through the network of bugs I installed throughout her apartment last week, long after Gordo’s original wiring was removed when she remodeled.
She hasn't found my handiwork, or maybe she did and gave up trying to fight it, like the rest of Gordo Costa's legacy.
She hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes—no tossing or restlessness, no sudden shifts.
Just the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
Her hair spills across the pillow like ink, tangled from being unbrushed, and I itch to run my fingers through it.
Even in sleep, she’s beautiful. I study her face and see how much she looks like Gordo and even Emilio.
How she thinks she can evade being recognized is beyond me.
She hasn’t told anyone about what she knows.
Not a single detail has slipped past her lips.
She hasn’t said a word about the strange symbol carved into Matteo’s chest, a detail that should have raised questions immediately—one I only know because it's Gordo's trademark. She also hasn’t breathed a word about the bloodwork she ran—not the official results and definitely not the second set I saw her process in secret in that old university lab. She’s calculating and deliberate—smart in ways that make people like her unpredictable and hard to manage.
That’s what makes her dangerous—she got her wit from her father.
I switch feeds on the surveillance system, letting the screen shift with a soft flicker of static.
I switch to camera three, which is aimed directly at her laptop screen, zoomed close enough to catch the details.
It’s encrypted with decent protection, but I’ve broken into tighter systems for far less compelling reasons.
She’s logged into a private research drive.
It’s not the kind of drive the university IT department monitors or archives.
It exists off the books, private and hidden for a reason.
It’s something older, probably predating her employment, and it feels personal—designed to keep certain work separate from official records.
Maybe it's hers, a homemade NAS or something, but definitely crackable.
I lean forward, fingers skimming keys as I slice through the firewall.
It takes less than two minutes to break in and mirror the data.
The files reveal mitochondrial chain analyses, detailed cross-referenced alleles, and a partial male DNA profile connected to a third, unidentified genetic strand.
It makes me wonder who it is and why she went to such great lengths to hide it.
It belongs to someone unknown, a ghost in the system with no official trail. The DNA doesn’t belong to Matteo, which means she found it on him—probably defensive—and it can’t be found in any official government registry or database.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. I rub the heel of my palm against my jaw, staring hard at the screen as if sheer will might change what I’m seeing. If she matches that to Gordo, we're sunk.
This confirms what Emilio was afraid of. There was a third man in the room when Matteo died—one the government hasn’t identified. One who could tie the scene to our larger network. If that profile leaks to the wrong hands, the task force doesn’t just have a corpse. They have leverage.
Gordo got sloppy. He let he fucker touch him, and not just touch him, but draw blood.
I tap the mic. "We have a problem," I say, knowing Emilio won’t appreciate the understatement. I lean back in the chair and crack my neck. The tension settles in like a weight across my shoulders.
"Go on," he growls through the static. His voice buzzes through the earpiece like gravel, and I hear the edge to his voice.
"She found a second profile—unmatched DNA. If Greco gets her hands on that, it opens the 416-bis case." I click through the mirrored files again, double-checking the markers just to be sure I haven’t misread the data.
There’s a beat of silence before Emilio speaks again. "Bernardi?" he snaps. The name alone sounds like a loaded weapon coming from his mouth.
"She hasn’t told him. But he’s sniffing around." I glance toward the surveillance footage, watching her turn over in bed. Her leg stretches out across the top of the covers, revealing the curve of her bare hip. My eyes are glued in an instant.
"Shut him up." The words come flat, automatic, like he’s ordering a drink, not a body.
I hesitate before I answer, because this is a touchy time. It’s not a question of willingness—I’ll do it if needed—but the timing has to be precise or it’ll backfire.
"If he goes quiet now, it’ll raise more flags than it kills. Let me handle it." I rest my fingertips on the desk, keeping my voice level even though I already know Emilio hates delays. My eyes drift over Alessia's form and I imagine what she looks like beneath that sheet.
He leaves another pause, like he's thinking about what I'm saying, then he says, "You have one day." His voice cuts off clean, and silence follows. The line goes dead, leaving behind a myriad of things for me to think about.
I know how important it is to put a lid on the pot so the authorities don't tie Gordo back to the victim because if they do, the Bianchis won't stop until they've destroyed every single one of Emilio's men, including me.
But I can't just take out the man responsible for helping head the investigation. It's dumb at best, deadly at worst.
My eyes stay on her body, memorizing every shift under the sheets. But I tear myself away and scroll back through the mirrored files again, scanning the DNA strands and mitochondrial markers with mechanical focus, as if repetition might settle the unease in my chest.
Once I’ve confirmed the data again, I switch feeds.
This time, I queue up the earlier footage from the night—the clip where she came home and changed.
I watch as she unbuttons her blouse and peels it off, folding it with unconscious precision before reaching for the hem of her skirt.
The camera catches everything—how methodical she is, how unaware.
Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she knows I’m there, and this is her way of holding power without saying a word.
I rewind the clip to the beginning and watch the entire sequence play out again—her movements smooth, her posture unhurried, her hands steady.
I scrub through the feed frame by frame, pausing on the moment she steps out of her skirt, the moment she bends to pick up her folded clothes, the moment the muscles in her back shift beneath her skin.
I should be analyzing the footage for threats, for risk.
That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’m not.
I shift in my seat to get more comfortable.
The tension in my groin is making it harder to ignore the way my body reacts.
Her back is bare as she moves through the room, and there’s nothing practiced or artificial about it.
She doesn’t pose or perform. She just undresses and relaxes because she believes she's alone and safe. She’s stunning without trying, and I feel it everywhere.
I press play again, letting the footage run without interruption, and this time, I don’t bother pretending it’s for surveillance.