13. Alessia
ALESSIA
I wake alone. The room is quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of morning traffic outside.
Soft, golden light filters through the curtains.
I lie still, staring at the ceiling, wishing Enzo were here.
I'm not scared, but waking to someone in bed with me sounds pleasant and appealing.
I've been alone for so long. Maybe I've just lowered my standards too far…
My thoughts drift to yesterday, to the footsteps behind me. The way my skin prickled. I tried really hard to convince myself it was nothing, but when Enzo left his friend Rory outside my door, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Even Enzo thinks there is an additional threat, and that turns my stomach.
I push myself out of bed and force myself to shower and get ready, but by the time I get to work, my nerves are stretched thin.
The lab’s usual chill does nothing to ground me the way a temperature drop can do to the nervous system.
I log in, sterilize my instruments, and begin the routine.
It’s easier when my hands are moving—when the science takes over.
There's a new body on the slab, a teenager—car accident victim—so I dig into what seems normal. But routine shatters fast when Dr. Bernardi corners me over the exam table, waving a folder like it’s a death sentence.
“The 416-bis investigators pulled your toxicology report,” he says. His voice is too loud, too self-satisfied. “They flagged it as incomplete. Why isn't it finished?"
He tosses the printout onto the counter and my stomach flips.
It’s the preliminary report I ran on Matteo Vescari’s blood panel, and I know it's clean.
I didn't destroy evidence. I just didn't submit everything yet because I'm not sure what to do.
I know what the right thing to do is, but Enzo makes it so difficult to know the right thing for my family.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, refocusing on the exposed chest cavity of this victim. Her parents want to know exactly what caused the death, as if saying "traumatic physical injury due to blunt-force trauma at a high rate of speed" isn't enough.
“Say you’re going to get ahead of it,” Luca replies. “Because right now, it looks like you’re either sloppy or dragging your feet. Why isn't this finished?"
I wait until he walks off—the smug bastard—before I exhale.
There's no point in trying to deny that I'm procrastinating, but since my boss is leaning on me harder than normal for this one, I do have to do something.
I can't just publish my findings. I'm not as much worried whether my father goes to prison as I am concerned about what Enzo may think of me.
And if he's right and it starts some sort of meltdown of the criminal organizations in the city, wouldn't that be a good thing?
But then who would let my name slip? Because the Costa legacy is so far-reaching that for sure, someone would tie me to it.
I've done nothing wrong, but simply by association, they would label me as dangerous.
And given that I've hidden some things in this Vescari case already, I may face penalties anyway. I feel stuck.
That night, I stay late, long after the hallway lights have dimmed and the cleaning staff have moved on.
I seal myself in my office and lay out the original blood samples, double-checking each slide as if I might've missed something the first time.
The data is clean and my work is good, but the implications are murky.
If I submit the full report as is, it could unravel the carefully curated narrative the Bianchis are pushing—the one Enzo wants buried (A.K.A.
the truth). If I delay, I risk being flagged for obstruction.
Either way, someone will come for me.
I open a fresh analysis window on my terminal and begin drafting a revised report.
I don’t fabricate evidence—but I do add enough ambiguity to justify a longer timeline because I have to think this through.
I adjust the toxin markers, cite additional metabolite discrepancies, and insert a paragraph explaining the need for further confirmatory tests.
Each keystroke feels like a betrayal. I’m not sure if it’s to the truth, to my profession, or to myself. But I do it anyway. I have to. Buying time is the only strategy left that doesn’t end in immediate fallout.
When I finally hit Save , the digital timestamp glares back at me. My hands are trembling. I lock the file, encrypt it, and sit back in my chair, heart pounding in my throat.
Vincenzo’s words echo in my head. "You play both sides long enough, and someone will make you choose."
When exhaustion threatens to keep me holed up in the lab, I gather my things and leave the lab, walk the shadowed streets home, lock the door behind me, and turn off every light but the one in the kitchen.
I sit on the edge of the sofa for a while, still in my work clothes, trying to convince myself that what I did tonight was necessary, but the guilt is cloying, swarming me like angry birds in that Hitchcock film.
When the buzzer sounds, I already know who it is. I don’t question the timing or ask why he's here. I rise slowly, cross the quiet apartment, and undo the chains and deadbolts.
I open the door and Vincenzo stands there in a dark coat, eyes scanning my face. One eyebrow is raised as he leans on the jamb and says, "Shift change. I gave Rory the night off. I'll be sitting here if you need me." It's kind of him to let me know. I appreciate it, but I feel reserved.
Maybe he thinks I’m breaking. Maybe he’s here to catch me in the middle of something damning.
But when I meet his gaze, it doesn’t feel like surveillance.
It feels like a moment where he's waiting to be invited in, like because I've let my guard down around him, I'll want him inside, when I would let his men just park their asses in the hallway.
He's not wrong.
I step back to let him in. “Couch is yours,” I say as I close the door behind him, and this time, I mean the couch, though I wouldn't mind being held, but things are already messy and complicated.
If I end up swinging toward Dr. Bernardi and letting the case go to the investigators, I'd like a bit of cushion for my heart because Enzo won't be happy with me.
He nods once, shrugs off his coat, and drops it on the back of a kitchen chair. He doesn’t press me with questions or remind me how I'm supposed to be hiding evidence and throwing a case. I appreciate that more than I want to admit.
I go to my room without another word, peel off my work clothes, and slip under the covers. But I can’t sleep. My body is still humming from the choice I made tonight. I stare at the ceiling again, aware of every creak and shift in the silence of my apartment for more than an hour.
And I know… I didn’t leave the door open by mistake.