17. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he hotel bar is all polished wood and Italian leather, with low amber light that casts everything in the same forgiving glow.
I nurse a Negroni and try not to look anxious, but the back of my dress is damp where it sticks to the velvet booth, and I cross my legs slowly, careful not to flash too much skin.
Luca Bernardi is already three drinks in when he arrives.
He doesn’t sit right away. He stands at the edge of the table like he’s waiting for an invitation, as if this is some dinner date instead of the power play it is.
He demanded that we meet off the record, away from work, said he didn’t want certain things overheard on government servers or passed through departmental gossip.
I didn’t argue, because if he knows something, I need to know what.
“Alessia,” he says, voice slurring at the edges.
"If you’re sitting on anything—evidence, reports, even loose threads—it’s time to decide how this ends.
" His fingers dust over the table's smooth surface as he eyes me menacingly.
I'm not coughing up what I know, and he'll never find my evidence, either—not unless I want him to. But for that I'd need assurances.
“You’re late,” I reply, swirling the ice in my glass. “But I guess that’s in character.” My nonchalance is totally faked. My heart is a jackhammer against my ribs.
He smirks and slides into the seat across from me as he unbuttons his jacket and smooths his tie across his chest. He has no drink in hand, but a dark, smug smirk is on his face.
As if that's supposed to intimidate me. He has no clue I've been fucking the devil.
Dr. Bernardi doesn't scare me at all right now.
“They’re close to making the case,” he says like it’s a casual update. "We could be days away." I can smell the stench of whiskey on his breath, which means he was either in the men's room when I got here, having drunk a lot before that point, or he was elsewhere getting sloshed before he arrived.
My throat tightens. “The Vescari case?”
He nods, gesturing for another drink. "Not just him. Gordo Costa’s name is coming up more and more." He narrows his eyes at me darkly and his smirk deepens. "And you know what happens once his name's on paper. It pulls everyone in his orbit under the microscope."
I keep my face neutral, but my heart is galloping. The implication hits hard and fast. He doesn’t say my name specifically, but he doesn’t have to. I hid evidence. I altered timelines. Even if I course-correct now, I’m tainted.
And why did he name my father directly? It could have been a slip or a warning. But if Luca has figured out who I am—if he knows that Gordo Costa isn’t just a name in a file but the man who raised me—then it’s over. My professional cover, my name, my carefully built life—all of it collapses.
He doesn’t know what I know. He hasn’t seen the DNA match. But if he starts connecting dots and decides to use my bloodline against me, he won’t need a warrant to get what he wants. He’ll just lean in and remind me who I belong to.
“The task force is already building their indictment list," he says as the bartender approaches.
"It won't just be bosses. It'll be lieutenants, fixers, medical professionals. Anyone who knew and didn’t act.
" His attention turns to the slender, twiggy man with tattoos up and down his arms as he gives a drink order, but my spine stiffens.
I glance at the mirrored wall behind him and see my reflection waver, distorted slightly by the bevel in the glass. My skin looks pale and clammy. My eyes are sunken and dark circles ring them. It could be the lighting, but my guess is it's just the anxiety-sickness taking me over.
He leans in. “You think you’ll get immunity if you share now?”
“I haven’t made any discoveries,” I say carefully, because that's the narrative I've set up. That is what I told them. I needed more time for more testing, but it feels like time is up.
“Sure you haven’t.” He grins, teeth slightly bared.
“That’s why you’re here, right? Because you like the suspense and the back and forth.
Or maybe it’s because you know exactly how close we are.
Maybe you’re trying to decide whether you want to go down with your father or hand us something that lets you walk away. ”
A sudden chill makes me shiver as I process the implications of what he just said. “You think Gordo Costa is my father?” The words come out hollow because I feel gutted.
He tilts his head. “You changed your name—moved across the country. You expect me to believe you did that for the view?” The bartender brings a glass tumbler with a few fingers of whiskey in it and sets it in front of him, which serves as a slight distraction from the way I'm feeling cornered.
My throat is dry. I stare into my glass as the adrenaline courses through me, making me shake. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I’ve seen enough to know who you are, Alessia, and I have proof.” He lets the words hang between us, heavy with implication. I squeeze my clutch to my stomach, scrambling for a justification that might deflect his aim. But there’s nothing clean to reach for.
Everything I’ve done to protect myself—changing my name, transferring cities, building a clean record—suddenly looks like deliberate misdirection.
A facade, a cover story laid too neatly.
In this context, it makes me look like I was planted where I am just to cover for my father's illegal activities.
He leans in farther. "If Greco finds out a Costa is working in the medical examiner’s office, your badge will be revoked before you can type up a resignation."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The horror of it crashes down in pieces.
If he’s right—and I know he is—then I’m not just at risk.
I’m compromised. Bernardi sees it now. I’m a name he can use, a story he can sell.
My bloodline makes me exploitable, my position makes me valuable, and the combination gives him everything he needs to control me. He knows it.
And now, so do I.
He studies my silence like it’s the confirmation he wanted. “If you want to keep your job, your freedom, even your apartment, then you’ll stop pretending you’re some impartial little scientist. You’re a Costa, whether you like it or not.” He leans forward, voice dropping.
My pulse is everywhere. I swallow hard and sit straighter, but I don’t say anything.
“You should think very carefully about what you’re holding onto, Alessia. And who you’re holding it for.”
No longer able to sit there without breaking down, I slide out of the booth slowly, tossing enough euro notes on the table to cover my drink. As I'm walking, my hands are shaking so much I can't button my jacket.
“Don’t wait too long to choose a side,” he calls after me. “No one’s neutral forever.”
Outside, the air is cooler than it should be for late spring, and it cuts through the fabric of my blouse as I walk.
The chill should help, but my body is already trembling from everything that happened inside the bar so badly that I have to lean against the lamppost just to steady myself.
A Vespa zips past. Someone whistles from across the street.
Rome is still alive, still lit, still bustling because life moves on.
But for me it has crawled to a stop.
I walk the rest of the way home, barely registering the buzz of traffic or the chatter from nearby cafés. One of Vincenzo's men follows at a respectful distance, never speaking, never drawing attention. He's a shadow to prove I'm not alone, though I feel like I am.
By the time I reach my building, my nerves are shredded. I scan the street again out of habit, then climb the stairs slowly, my hand still shaking as I grip the rail. The door to my apartment is ajar and it makes me pause.
The lock is untouched, not broken or bent—just left open. My stomach flips. But when I push the door open the rest of the way, I find Vincenzo on my couch, elbows on his knees, a drink in hand. He doesn’t look up right away, just says, "I let myself in. Hope you don't mind."
I don’t respond to him verbally. I shut the door softly, drop my bag, and cross the room without saying a word. I climb onto his lap, straddling him, knees pressed into the cushions on either side. My whole body is trembling as I drape myself over his chest and cling to his neck.
His hands come to my hips instinctively, steadying me. "Alessia," he says, voice low. "What happened?"
I shake my head, trying to form the words, but tears start, and when they do it feels like hell's floodgates have been opened.
Enzo waits patiently, smoothing my hair down my back, soothing me with coos and shushing me when appropriate. And when I've gotten enough of the emotion out to be able to articulate myself clearly, I speak.
"Bernardi knows," I whisper finally. "He knows I’m a Costa."
Vincenzo’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl slightly against my waist as his eyes search my face, but he doesn’t speak.
"He has proof," I add. "And he threatened everything. My license. My job. My apartment. Said he'd hand me over to Greco." I hiccup and sniffle, and he shakes his head in anger as he glares.
I watch his face contort as he realizes the new risk to me, the disaster unfolding before his very eyes.
"You're not going to deal with this alone," he says finally. "You hear me? Not one second of this on your own."
I nod, but the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen. Because I know the next question will come, and I don’t know how I’ll answer it. What am I going to do now?