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LUCA

T he numbers refused to lie, no matter how desperately I wished they would.

I sat alone in the quiet sanctum of the Corvino accounting office, the building's shadows stretching long across my desk as evening descended over the city. Everyone else had gone home hours ago—normal people with normal lives who didn't spend their Friday nights reconciling the bloody finances of one of the city's most notorious families.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the glowing screen where the numbers refused to add up. Ten million dollars. Missing . A void in the ledger that gaped like an open wound.

I removed my glasses, pressing the heels of my palms against my tired eyes. The faint scent of my own anxiety—subtle notes of citrus turned sour—registered in my consciousness, a biological warning system I'd spent years learning to ignore. Omegas weren't supposed to be accountants for the mafia. We weren't supposed to notice financial discrepancies. We certainly weren't supposed to be alone in the Corvino headquarters after dark.

Yet here I was.

I replaced my glasses, the world coming back into sharp focus as I scrolled through the digital ledger again. The missing money had been cleverly disguised, distributed across multiple accounts in fragments that wouldn't trigger automated alerts. Someone who knew the system had done this—someone with access and authority.

"Think, Luca ," I whispered to myself, my voice barely disturbing the tomblike quiet of the office.

A memory surfaced: three weeks ago, passing the partially open door to Don Corvino's private office. Inside , the old alpha's right-hand man, Vincenzo , and the family's external security advisor huddled close, voices pitched low. I had slowed my steps, an old childhood habit of making myself invisible serving me well.

"—can't trace it back to us?" the advisor had asked.

"Not if your end is handled properly. The accounts are clean."

They'd fallen silent when Don Corvino entered from his private bathroom. I had continued walking, quickening my pace just enough to avoid suspicion. I'd thought nothing of it at the time—cryptic conversations were the currency of mafia life.

As I'd turned the corner, I'd nearly collided with him— Matteo Corvino , the Don's son. My body had registered his presence before my mind did. A wall of sandalwood, cedar, and something dangerously metallic—gun oil, perhaps—had enveloped me. My scent suppression patch had faltered for just a second, a biological glitch I couldn't control.

He'd steadied me with one hand, his touch burning through the fabric of my shirt. Dark eyes had assessed me, nostrils flaring slightly before his expression smoothed into cool detachment.

"Careful, accountant," he'd said, voice low.

He'd continued past me, but not before I caught a glimpse of something unexpected in his eyes—not the dismissive contempt most alphas showed omegas, but a flash of... consideration. The same look he'd given a young beta courier the month before, right before he'd intervened when the Don was ready to execute the boy for delivering bad news.

Now, with ten million missing and cleverly concealed, both fragments of memory took on new significance.

I pulled up the transaction records, cross-referencing dates and times. The diverted funds had begun to move exactly two days after that overheard conversation. Too much coincidence to ignore.

My fingers drummed against the polished wood of my desk as I weighed my options. Report the discrepancy, and I'd become a target for whoever was behind it. Stay silent, and I might be implicated when it eventually came to light—as it inevitably would.

The Corvino family didn't forgive financial betrayal. They certainly didn't show mercy to omegas who stuck their noses where they didn't belong.

The air conditioning cycled off, leaving the office in a silence so complete I could hear my own quickened heartbeat. I touched the scent suppression patch behind my ear—a habit when stress threatened to broadcast my emotional state to any passing alpha. I pressed harder than necessary, as if I could retroactively erase that moment of weakness with Matteo in the hallway.

My omega hindbrain had never quite forgotten the encounter—how his scent had triggered a cascade of unwanted responses, the sudden slick warmth, the way my throat had wanted to expose itself. Biology was a prison in its own way, one I'd spent my adult life trying to escape.

My decision crystallized in the quiet. I couldn't stay silent. Not with this much money. Not when it could bring down the wrath of Don Corvino on innocent staff if discovered later.

I would report it—but carefully, to the right person. Not the Don directly, nor his right-hand man Vincenzo who might be involved. Matteo Corvino was my only option. He had a reputation for being ruthless but fair. And I'd seen firsthand his unexpected mercy. The fact that my traitorous body hummed at the thought of being in his presence again was irrelevant—a biological inconvenience I would suppress just like always.

I methodically gathered evidence, downloading transaction records onto an encrypted drive. I compiled the data into a comprehensive report, attaching visualizations that clearly showed the pattern of diversion. The work calmed me, as numbers always did. In the world of accounting, there were no ambiguities, no political games—just the clean clarity of mathematics. The numbers didn't lie. But the men behind them—that was an entirely different matter.

When I finally finished, the digital clock on my desktop read 11:37 PM . I'd been there nearly sixteen hours. My suppressants were due for renewal— I could feel the edge of my natural scent beginning to seep through, a vulnerability I couldn't afford tonight of all nights.

I slipped the drive into my messenger bag, along with a printed copy of my findings sealed in a manila envelope. I shut down my computer and stretched, my body protesting the long hours of immobility.

The vast Corvino office building felt different at night—less like a legitimate business headquarters and more like the criminal fortress it truly was. My footsteps echoed on the marble floors as I made my way to the elevator, the weight of my discovery heavy in my bag and heavier on my mind.

The elevator carried me down to the lobby, the mirrored walls reflecting a man who appeared more composed than I felt. Dark curls slightly disheveled, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a straight nose, slim build in a wrinkled white shirt and navy slacks. Nothing remarkable. Nothing threatening. Just Luca Bianchi , the quiet omega accountant who melted into the background of Corvino operations.

Exactly as I'd always intended.

The night guard nodded to me as I crossed the lobby. " Working late again, Mr . Bianchi ?"

"The numbers don't balance themselves, Marco ." I offered a faint smile, careful to project nothing but tired professionalism.

"You want me to call you a car?"

"No need. I could use the fresh air."

A lie. What I needed was privacy, and the Corvino car service was too easily monitored.

Outside, the September night air carried the first hint of autumn chill. I buttoned my light jacket, clutching my bag closer to my side as I began the twelve-block walk to my apartment. The financial district gradually gave way to more residential streets, the buildings growing smaller, older, less imposing.

Three blocks from the office, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. Years of surviving in a world dominated by predatory alphas had honed instincts that went beyond conscious thought. I was being followed.

I didn't alter my pace or glance back. Instead , I took out my phone, pretending to check messages while angling the screen to catch reflections in the dark glass. Two shadows moved behind me, keeping pace at about half a block's distance. Large men, moving with the practiced ease of professionals.

My heart rate doubled, but my steps remained steady. Panic would only draw attention to my awareness.

A bus rumbled past, and I made a split-second decision, darting across the street to catch it at the next stop. The bus doors hissed open just as I reached them. I boarded, paid my fare with shaking hands, and took a seat near the middle, finally allowing myself a glance out the window.

The two men stood on the corner, watching the bus pull away. One spoke into what looked like a radio or phone.

They weren't trying to be subtle. This was a message: We see you .

The bus carried me within three blocks of my apartment building—close enough for convenience, far enough that I hoped I'd lost my tail. I disembarked, quickly scanning the nearly empty street before walking briskly toward home.

The familiar outline of my apartment building appeared ahead, a modest six-story pre-war structure with a small courtyard entrance. As I approached, my steps slowed.

A black sedan idled across the street, its engine running, windows tinted too dark to see inside. The vehicle hadn't been there this morning.

My fingers tightened on the strap of my messenger bag. This wasn't coincidence. Someone knew—or suspected—what I'd found.

I kept walking, forcing myself not to look at the car again as I climbed the steps to my building's entrance. The weight of unseen eyes followed me, boring into my back as I fumbled with my keys.

Inside, the familiar lobby with its faded carpet and mail slots offered little comfort. I bypassed the ancient elevator, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. Only when I reached my apartment door, unlocked it, and secured the three deadbolts behind me did I allow myself to exhale.

My apartment was dark and silent—a modest one-bedroom that served more as a place to sleep than a true home. I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and moved to the window, carefully staying to the side as I peered down at the street.

The black sedan remained, patient and menacing.

My hand moved unconsciously to touch the scent suppression patch again, pressing it more firmly against my skin as if it could somehow make me completely invisible. The encrypted drive in my bag suddenly felt like a live grenade with its pin removed.

I'd uncovered something dangerous—something worth killing for.

And now they knew I knew.

I backed away from the window, decision made. I wouldn't be sleeping tonight. Instead , I'd prepare. Review the evidence again. Plan my approach for the morning when I would request a private meeting with Matteo Corvino .

If I survived until then.

In the darkness of my kitchen, I removed the drive from my bag and held it in my palm, its weight insignificant compared to the information it contained. " What have you gotten yourself into?" I whispered to the empty apartment.

Only the distant hum of the city and the oppressive silence of fear answered me.

I tried to slow my breathing, but the adrenaline coursing through my system had triggered something worse—something biological. A bead of slick warmth formed between my thighs, my body's unconscious response to danger. Stress could trigger pre-heat symptoms in some omegas, a cruel evolutionary trick meant to find protection through submission.

The patch at my neck was failing, overwhelmed by my body's chemistry. A faint sweetness—honey and citrus—began to permeate my small kitchen. I pressed a trembling hand against the scent gland at my throat, feeling it swell slightly beneath my fingers.

The honey-citrus cloud in my kitchen only made it worse, triggering an unwanted cascade of sensory memory. Suddenly I was back in that hallway, enveloped in sandalwood, cedar, the faint metallic trace of gun oil. My body responded to the phantom scent as if Matteo were actually present—the memory of him overlaying my own scent like an invisible claim I couldn't scrub away. My omega hindbrain whispered treacherous thoughts: how our scents had mingled so perfectly in that brief moment, how the metallic note in his scent could sharpen the sweetness in mine.

I moved quickly to my bathroom medicine cabinet, already knowing what I'd find. Empty . My backup supply had been depleted after last month's audit stress had triggered similar symptoms. The Corvino -approved pharmacy that supplied omega employees with regulated suppressants wouldn't open until 8 AM , and my prescription required in-person verification—another way the family maintained control over their omega staff.

Of all the nights for my suppressants to falter, it had to be this one.

I bit back a bitter laugh. This was the reality of being an omega—even my own body would betray me when I most needed control. Tomorrow I'd face Matteo Corvino , an alpha powerful enough to make lesser men kneel with just his presence, and I'd be fighting my biology every step of the way.

In the world I inhabited, silence was not the absence of sound, but a language all its own—dense with implications, heavy with potential violence. And tonight, that silence spoke volumes about my precarious position, caught between loyalty to numbers that couldn't lie and men who wouldn't hesitate to kill for them, all while my treacherous omega nature threatened to unravel what little protection I had built for myself.