29. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he deposition room is too bright. Not overly harsh, but the kind of natural light that doesn’t feel like it belongs here—streaming through high windows as if this were any ordinary meeting and not the final fork in the road for my career, my name, and what little remains of my independence.
I sit in the straight-backed chair and lay my palms flat against the table to keep them from shaking. They're already sweating.
Across from me sits a federal judge whose robe is draped loosely over one shoulder.
He doesn’t look up yet. He’s flipping through papers like this is one of a dozen things he has to get through before lunch.
To his right, Luca Bernardi. To his left, Elena Greco.
Both of them carry clipboards and pens like they’re here to take notes, not dissect me inch by inch.
I try not to look at them. I try to keep my eyes on the carafe of water and the single sheet of paper they’ve placed in front of me—my oath, my name, the date.
There’s nothing special about this room.
There’s a vent hissing softly near the door and a clock that clicks every six seconds.
There are no cameras watching, no jury seated behind a partition.
Only the three of them across the table—and me, sitting alone under the full weight of their scrutiny.
The judge looks up and clears his throat, lifting his chin in my direction. “Let’s begin,” he says. His voice is brisk and unaffected. The court reporter’s fingers begin to fly.
The first questions are simple. My full name. My title. My professional background. I answer them like I’m still a functioning part of the system. Like I haven’t compromised the database. Like I’m not here lying by omission.
“Where were you assigned at the time the evidence in question was submitted?” the judge asks, looking up from his file, his voice still even.
I meet his eyes and answer clearly. “The Rome forensic pathology unit.” My voice is steady. That surprises me.
“What was your role in processing the sample?” he continues, tapping a pen lightly against the desk.
I take a breath before answering. “I was responsible for DNA extraction and preliminary database alignment.”
“And was that done according to protocol?” he asks, one brow lifting slightly as if testing for a crack.
I nod once, letting my hands rest flatter on the table. “Yes.”
Dr. Bernardi doesn’t look up. Greco’s pen scratches faster. The sound is constant, like a metronome driving the pace.
“And your final determination?” the judge prompts, glancing down at the file. “Was the blood found on Matteo Vescari's clothing linked to any known individuals in the criminal database?”
Here it is. The line I’ve rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror, the line Vincenzo coached me to deliver without flinching.
I sit up straighter and say, “No. It was not." But a shiver of shame runs across my spine like a drag racer.
He shifts slightly in his seat. “And is that the final conclusion submitted in your report?”
“Yes.” I meet his gaze head-on, not blinking. “That conclusion was recorded and filed in accordance with our protocols.”
The silence that follows is measured—heavy without being dramatic. The judge leans back in his chair, slowly folding his hands. Bernardi folds his as well, fingers interlaced. Greco is the one who speaks next, and she narrows her eyes at me as she does it. She's trying to make me crack.
“Ms. Leone, were there any irregularities in the sample collection?” she asks, her tone clipped but polite, her posture sharper than it was a moment ago.
I sit up straighter and answer. “No.”
Greco leans forward, her pen still in hand. “No issues with the chain of custody?”
“No,” I repeat, keeping my voice flat.
She sets her pen down and lifts her gaze to mine, her eyes narrowing even more. “And to your knowledge, has this sample been altered or interfered with in any way since its collection?”
I hesitate, just long enough to register the trap in her phrasing. A breath barely fills my lungs. The truth presses forward in my mouth, like a cracked filling I can’t chew around without bleeding.
“No,” I say again, quieter this time, letting my eyes fall briefly to the table.
They shift tactics. Greco leans in, elbows on the table, her expression unreadable. “Why were you the one to complete the analysis?”
I keep my hands flat and my voice level. “I was on shift when the request was entered.” I'm not sure why they're asking this. I want to say it was just my job, but I realize they're trying to push me. They want me to confess that I took it because I knew it was connected to my father.
“Were you aware of the implications at the time?” she asks, fingers laced over the folder in front of her.
“I was aware the sample was relevant to an ongoing homicide investigation,” I say, my pulse ticking up. "Nothing more."
“Were you aware that the Costa family had been implicated in the murder?” she presses, eyes steady on mine. The chill on my spine sweeps across my arms, to my fingertips, down to my tiptoes. I won't crack.
“Yes,” I answer, forcing my voice to remain even.
Greco’s tone softens, but the edge remains. “And that your father, Gordo Costa, was affiliated with their organization?” The hammer hits the nail right on the head.
My stomach turns. I’ve known this question was coming. Vincenzo warned me. I lift my chin slightly.
“I was aware that my father was under investigation,” I say carefully. “But I was not in contact with him.”
Greco’s voice drops a note. “And is your report final?”
“It is,” I say, nodding once and leaving it at that. My chest feels like a ticking time bomb, and my palms are so sweaty that if I picked up my glass of water, it would slip from my grasp.
“And you stand by it?” she asks, watching my face closely.
My throat tightens. I nod again, slower this time. “Yes.”
The judge clears his throat and closes the folder with a quiet finality. “That concludes the initial deposition,” he says, already shifting the next file toward himself. “We reserve the right to call you again should new evidence arise.”
The court reporter stops typing. Her hands still hover above the keys.
I rise too quickly from my seat, knees tight, limbs awkward, but I make it out of the room without stumbling. The hallway feels cold, or maybe it's just my anxiety, but I'm sweating too. I move through the building like a ghost and no one stops me to talk.
Outside, the heat slams into me. Rome in early summer is relentless. The pavement radiates warmth through the soles of my shoes, and a line of sweat immediately breaks beneath the collar of my shirt. But the deposition is over, and I am out. It's over.
Across the street, Vincenzo’s car is already waiting.
He’s parked in the shade of a tree, engine running, elbow resting on the windowsill like he hasn’t been watching the door for the last hour.
I cross without looking at traffic, but the street is quiet.
He leans over and opens the door before I reach it.
I slide into the passenger seat without a word and close the door behind me.
Vincenzo doesn’t say anything right away. He pulls out into traffic, takes a right, then another, winding us away from the state building. I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes.
“You held the line,” he says after a long silence, and I feel his hand on my knee.
I open my eyes and turn my head toward him. “I did.”
“They won’t come for you again. They know they don't have proof for any accusation. They wanted an easy win, and you didn't let them win."
Flinching, I swallow the bile of lies back down and nod at him. “They wanted me to flinch… but I did what you told me to do."
“You did so well.” He glances at me briefly, then back to the road.
“Then why do I feel so bad inside?" My eyes roll toward the window, and I stare out at the passing scenery.
We drive in silence for a while. My breath starts to slow. My pulse stops kicking at the inside of my throat. I watch the buildings change outside the window, city bleeding into outskirts.
“I’m not like him,” I say. I don’t mean for it to come out, but it does. Vincenzo doesn’t ask who I mean. He knows I mean my father and everything he's done in his life. I won't ever be like him.
“No,” he says. “You’re not. But you’re still his daughter.”
The truth of it cuts cleanly, without venom. I let the words settle in my chest. They don’t sting or make me flare up in anger. Instead, they settle like truth. They clarify what I’ve always known but never dared to say out loud.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I glance down and see the name. Papà .
There’s only one message. One line.
Papà 11:12 AM: You did good, figlia mia .
I stare at it for a long moment, then turn the screen toward Vincenzo.
He reads it and gives a single nod. “It’s done.”
“No,” I say. “It’s started…" My hand reaches down to where his rests on my knee, and I interlock our fingers.
My future is so uncertain, and nothing I planned or wanted for my life will happen now, but inside, I feel steady.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm home.
And if it takes being connected to the very legacy I tried to cut off to keep myself stable, then so be it.
Because I don't want a future if Enzo isn't in it.