7. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he lab is quieter at night and there's less of a chance of running into Dr. Bernardi. The exam room is dim, the corridor outside sterile and empty, and the usual clatter of gurneys and low voices has gone still for the evening. There are no colleagues hovering with questions I don’t want to answer.
I keep my breath measured as I run the toxicology panel for the third time, eyes fixed on the monitor while the machine cycles through its process.
I lean over the workstation, scanning the readout as the results render line by line. The screen blinks to life, and I see the same readout again—trace quantities of a sedative compound I haven’t seen in years. I keep telling myself something is off, but I keep getting the same results.
"That can't be right," I murmur, narrowing my eyes. I press my fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding myself as the data continues to blink on the screen. I've rerun the sample three times now, and I can't believe what I'm seeing.
I cross-reference it with the old database I keep buried on my NAS.
The compound matches the entry in my archived files.
It’s listed under several aliases but always flagged for restricted use.
I remember it showing up once in a case review Bernardi supervised—it wasn’t mine, and I was never briefed on its origin.
I don’t know who manufactures it or how it circulates, only that it’s extremely uncommon and not something anyone uses lightly.
My father banned it years ago, said it left a trail.
It was one of the last vile conversations I overheard from him before I ghosted the entire family and went my own way.
I should not be seeing what I'm seeing, and I should not be put in this position.
I told him to pretend I was dead, and instead, he is haunting my waking hours.
If Matteo had it in his system, someone broke protocol—or maybe it was him.
Maybe my father gave the order and changed his mind, or someone else in his inner circle acted without his knowledge.
The uncertainty twists in my gut as I try to reconcile what I know of him with what I’m seeing in front of me.
I pace the length of the lab, arms folded tightly. The light casts a sterile wash across the counters and floor that makes everything feel cold and sterile, but I feel dirty. My skin itches with unease.
I grab my phone and scroll to Chiara’s name. It rings thrice before she picks up, and I feel better as soon as I hear her voice.
"You’re up late," she answers, her voice light. I hear her shuffle something in the background—probably the stack of books she keeps by her bed.
I settle onto a stool at the counter with a huff. "I found something. In the tox panel on this autopsy I'm doing…" I grab a pen and start scribbling on the margin of a file folder already filled with notes. It gives my hands something to do while I'm nervous.
There’s a pause, and when she speaks again, her tone softens. "What do you need from me?" Chiara’s voice flattens, but I hear her shifting, likely sitting upright now.
"If I send you something, can you help me identify it?
Or really… confirm that I'm correct?" I pin the phone tighter to my ear with my shoulder and glance down at the printed tox reports, the numbers swimming slightly as my thoughts race. Rubbing the back of my neck, I feel the faint stiffness from how long I’ve been hunched over my work. "It's a sedative."
"What kind of sedative?" Chiara’s voice sharpens slightly, and I know she's more awake. I feel bad for disrupting her sleep.
"M99. It’s not on the market. It’s controlled use, and I think it links back to some organized crime.
" I lean back, tasting the sour words as I speak them, because the deeper truth behind them is one I don’t want to face.
One I don't really want her to know about me.
Chiara knows nothing about my connection to the Costas and I'd like to keep it that way.
"That sounds serious," Chiara says slowly. I can hear the shift in her tone—still cautious, but more grounded now. "You know I’ll help however I can. But promise me you’ll be careful. That shit is used by some pretty sketchy people. Whoever the stiff is, it could be dangerous."
"I will," I say, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. "I just… I can’t let this go. Something about it is eating away at me."
"I’m not asking you to let it go," she says gently. "Just don’t do it alone. If you’re seeing something, talk to someone who can actually help you—not just me. Isn't Dr. Bernardi good at this stuff?"
"There’s no one else I trust," I admit, and I bristle at her suggestion.
Bernardi would be the first person I would go to, except the way he already thinks I'm hiding stuff creeps me out.
And if he knows I have a personal connection to the victim, all my work will be thrown out.
Someone else will be put on this case, and that Mafia badass who keeps following me will get up close and personal really quickly.
"Well, it's gonna eat you alive. Just hand it over to that nerdy tech."
I press my fingers against my temple, the tension creeping higher. "It already is."
She’s quiet for a beat, then asks, "Do you want me to come over?"
I think about it for a minute and decide it's not what I want. Maybe a glass of wine and a hot bath, not more questions and skepticism or lectures. "No," I say. "Just talking to you helps. I just needed to say it out loud."
"Then I’m here. Anytime. And Alessia?"
"Yeah?" I ask, feeling slightly better now and more ready to go home and try to sleep off this new revelation.
"Go get some sleep. Or at least lie down." I smile at her gentle mothering attempt.
"You too. ’Night."
"’Night."
We hang up without saying goodbye. I scrub my hands over my face and clean up the lab. Nothing’s changed, really, except now the knot in my stomach has a name—M99.
The walk home is short but tense thanks to my handsome shadow I can basically count on at this point. My nerves buzz the entire way because I am terrified he's going to corner me and ask me what I learned today.
The hallway is quiet when I reach my floor, but the instant I reach for my keys, I feel a sliver of fear crawl down my back. The lock is scuffed. The metal casing is dented just slightly, like someone tried to force it with a tool and then gave up. I shudder and run my finger along the edge.
Someone has been here, trying to get into my apartment, and it happened sometime today. I swear that damage wasn't here when I left this morning.
I slide my phone out and type a quick message to Chiara to let her know I'm home safe, but I'm glancing over my shoulder as I do it, praying whoever it was is gone.
Alessia: 11:42 PM: Home. Talk tomorrow. Buona notte.
I don’t wait for a reply from her because standing in this hallway feels too exposed.
So I unlock the door, step inside, and reset the deadbolt.
Then I reach for the drawer beside the fridge and pull out the small pistol I keep there.
My hand doesn’t shake, but my pulse jumps as I walk from room to room making sure I'm alone.
I check the rooms one by one—bathroom, bedroom, closet. Nothing’s out of place, but something is off, or maybe I'm just too afraid now.
I stand in the center of the kitchen with the gun in my hand, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether I’m overreacting or not.
I don’t like feeling cornered in my own apartment, but something about the lock tells me I’m not imagining how dangerous the situation I'm in is.
I grip the pistol tighter and stare at the door, trying to decide whether it's safe to stay here.
There’s a knock at the door. The two solid taps are evenly spaced and controlled, with no panic or haste behind them.
I stand completely still with a rigid back and my hand tight on the gun’s grip. The apartment is silent, and I listen for any follow-up sound—a footstep, a breath, anything at all—but nothing comes.
A few seconds pass. Then another knock comes, this time followed by a voice.
"Alessia." The voice is muffled but familiar. My shoulders tense as I walk closer to the door and rise up on my tiptoes to peek through the peephole.
I let a gust of air burst from my lungs—an exasperated sigh.
I don't think for a second that Vinny was the one who tried breaking in.
He's better than that. He'd be able to pick the lock and let himself in without my knowing it.
I can almost bet on it. But I don't feel safe in here right now, and he's here…
I unlock the door but leave the chain on. "What do you want?" I keep my stance tight, fingers curled around the inner door handle, my body angled to slam it shut if I need to.
"Someone was outside when we walked up," he says. "They ran when I turned the corner. I checked the perimeter, but they’re gone." He keeps his voice level, but I catch the flicker of something colder in his eyes—calculation, or maybe restraint. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."
"Convenient," I mumble, then I narrow my eyes through the gap in the door, my pulse climbing as I scan his face for the smallest sign of dishonesty.
My belly flutters as I remember the way he touched me the other night and I think about why he's even in my life right now.
My father would never send one of his men in to keep an eye on me if he thought they'd harm me in any way.
I know at least that much about my father is civil.
He does care, even if it's messed up the way he shows it.
Vinny meets my gaze evenly. "I’m not here to start something. I just wanted to make sure you were alright," he repeats. His stance doesn’t shift, hands loose at his sides, like he knows exactly how much space to take up to avoid being threatening. I shake my head and sigh.
"You’re watching me now too?" I ask as I eye the chain. The gun in my hand feels like dead weight now.