19. Alessia
ALESSIA
M orning light hits the countertop and glints off the subpoena beside my coffee mug.
I read it yesterday and this morning, it’s still there staring at me.
The gold seal reflects a thin line of glare from the window.
My name is printed in bold letters. The wording is plain and direct.
I’ve been ordered to testify. My stomach tightens as I think through what that means, and I sip the coffee even though it’s cold.
Chiara drops a spoon into the sink with a sharp clatter. She turns around, arms crossed, and leans on the counter behind her. In her scrubs she looks far more professional than her usual self, but the concern on her face is the same. She watches me with the kind of patience that has limits.
"You going to tell me what’s going on now, or do I have to guess?" she asks as she taps her foot on the tile. The tip of her sneaker bobs and I return my gaze to the subpoena.
I set the mug down and lean into the counter. "It’s work-related. A case I handled a few weeks back. Something’s come up." My hand floats upward to rest on my neck, and I rub it unconsciously until I realize it makes me look nervous.
"Clearly," she says. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
I let out a slow breath. "It’s tied to a 416-bis investigation involving organized crime.
The review team flagged one of my reports, and now they think I either made a serious error or missed something important.
" The lies stream out of my mouth without restraint.
It's not like I can outright tell her I'm hiding evidence or delaying a case because if I do, she's complicit and she could be forced to testify against me.
Chiara straightens. "Are they saying it’s your fault?" The heels of her hands push against the counter behind her as her eyes flick to the notice and back to meet my gaze.
"No one’s said that directly," I say, "but that's the implication. They’re reviewing everything. I’ve been subpoenaed to testify. They want to know what I saw, what I missed, how I handled the report."
"But you didn’t do anything wrong, right?" she asks. Her eyebrows dip in the middle as she shows how much she doubts my ability to be ethical. It sours my mood, but she has every right to doubt me and be suspicious. I'm doing exactly what they think I'm doing.
I hesitate. "I did my job. I followed procedure. But this is politics now. And if they think I’m covering for anyone, it could spiral." A knot forms in my throat and I start to feel a chill rising in my body.
Chiara drops into a chair. "So, what are you going to do?" She leans, adjusting the laces on her sneaker before reaching for her messenger bag. I know she has to get to work soon, and so should I. But the company this morning was a welcome change.
"I don’t know yet," I say. "I can’t ignore it. That would make it worse. It doesn't even matter if I quit, at this point. I still have to go testify. I'm sure it will be fine."
"You sure? Because it sounds like you’re standing in quicksand." Chiara rises and slings her bag over her shoulder with a look of compassion. I'm sure if she could rescue me from this, she would.
"I am," I admit. "But if I run, I make their case for them. I have to face it."
She runs a hand through her hair, her expression tightening. "This sounds serious, Lessi. Like… life-changing serious."
"It could be," I say. "But I’ll figure something out. I always do." My nonchalant shrug doesn't convince her and she narrows her eyes at me.
Chiara doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. "You should get a lawyer. One with experience in this kind of mess."
"I will."
She clutches the strap to her bag and walks to the door. Her hand rests on the knob. "If you need anything, I’m here. I know I can't do much, but I can listen."
"Thanks," I tell her as she steps out the door and shuts it behind herself.
I've been nothing but a bundle of nerves lately, and anger rises inside my chest, only making that pressure build to the point of a searing pain.
I feel like being destructive, as if smashing things will help me release some tension, but I don't want to smash my own things.
So instead, I take the forged report out of the drawer, hold it over the sink, strike a match, and burn it.
The paper curls and turns to ash, and I drop the last flaming bits into the metal of the sink.
I stay still until it’s done burning and rinse the ash down the drain as I take our coffee mugs and rinse them out too.
When Vincenzo knocks, I’ve already tried to clean my face and regain my composure. I open the door and step back to let him in. He looks at me for half a second, then wraps his arms around me.
I press my forehead against his chest and the confession bubbles up before he even has the door shut.
"I got a subpoena yesterday. If I tell the truth, my father will go to prison.
So could I. They could charge me with obstruction, maybe even conspiracy.
And if they find out how much you've done to help me, they might come after you too.
" I don't hold anything back because so far, Enzo has been the only thing holding me together.
"You should’ve told me sooner," he eventually says. His grip on me tightens, and I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head. "Emilio already thinks something’s off. If he finds out I’ve been protecting you, I don’t know how far he’ll go. Why didn't you say something immediately?"
He's not acting surprised by this, so I assume he already knew it before I told him. But I don't bother asking him about it when I feel so rotten as it is.
"You had Rory here…" I narrow my eyes. "What were you doing?" I ask as I pull back just enough to look at him.
"I've been busy, that's all…" His stern expression tells me not to push, so I switch gears back to my own stress.
"What are we supposed to do? I can’t lie under oath.
I already falsified one report. If I go in and tell the truth now, they’ll ask why I waited.
I can’t walk that back." Biting my lip, I think of how Dr. Bernardi has been pressuring me for so long to wrap up the Vescari case.
I know when he sees me again, he will demand the report immediately. I'm not sure what to do now.
"It won’t stop here," he says. "They’ll dig deeper. Eventually, someone’s going to connect the dots anyway."
"Exactly," I say. "We’re both trapped. I can’t expose my father without exposing myself. And you?—"
"I knew the risk," he says. "You didn’t ask me to get involved.
I did it anyway. I'm just saying you have to protect yourself now.
You're good to no one locked up." His hands slide up to cup both of my cheeks and he presses a kiss to my forehead.
He's so gentle, it's hard to imagine that what he does in his free time is so horrific and unspeakable, he won't even tell me what it is.
We fall silent. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. I glance at the sink, where a few flecks of ash cling to the edge.
"I don’t see a way out of this," I say. "There’s no version of this where we all walk away clean."
Vincenzo reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Then we figure out which version leaves the fewest scars."
Before I can respond, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen. His expression tightens.
"What is it?" I ask.
He turns the screen toward me. A name glows across the top. Gordo .
My heart skips. "Don’t answer it," I say quickly. "Please. What if he knows? What if he’s calling to threaten you?"
Vincenzo doesn’t respond. His thumb hovers over the screen as he stares at the name. The silence stretches, and I can feel my own breath quicken every time the phone vibrates.
"Enzo," I whisper. "Please."
He looks at me once. Then he presses the phone to his ear.
"Yeah?"