Page 12

12

MATTEO

B lood blossomed across my knuckles as I slammed my fist into the wall, concrete cracking beneath the impact yet offering no relief from the rage consuming me. The security monitors displayed the empty elevator where Luca had disappeared, the footage looping in mechanical indifference to the void expanding in my chest. Three hours since I'd returned to find his scent lingering in empty rooms, his workstation abandoned, a message blinking on the monitor that said both everything and nothing:

Thank you. Don't lose everything for me. I'll contact you when safe.

He hadn't run. He'd been taken.

The knowledge hummed in my blood with terrible certainty, a truth that transcended evidence or logic. The claiming bond between us—still new, still forming—pulsed with hollow emptiness where his presence should have resonated. Not the silence of willing departure but the vacuum of severed connection.

"Sir," Carlo's voice penetrated the fog of rage clouding my thoughts. " The surveillance footage shows him entering the service elevator voluntarily. With a woman. His sister, according to building records."

I turned slowly, the movement requiring conscious control over muscles that wanted nothing more than violence, immediate and devastating. My consigliere stood in the doorway, his beta status offering immunity from the aggressive pheromones now saturating the office, but not from the danger radiating from every line of my body.

"Voluntarily," I repeated, the word emerging with deceptive calm. " Like his heat was voluntary when someone sabotaged his suppressants."

Something flickered across Carlo's features—so brief, so controlled that anyone else might have missed it. But I had been trained since childhood to recognize the microscopic tells that preceded betrayal. The slight dilation of pupils. The momentary tension at the corner of the mouth. The almost imperceptible shift in scent.

Guilt.

In that fractional instant, understanding crystallized with devastating clarity. Not just suspicion or theory, but bone-deep certainty that resonated with the hollow ache where Luca's presence should have pulsed.

"You knew," I said quietly, the words falling into the space between us like the first drops of blood from a mortal wound. " About the suppressants. About the attempt tonight."

Carlo's hand moved toward his weapon, the motion aborted as he registered the Beretta already aimed at his chest—drawn and positioned before conscious thought had fully formed the intention.

"Matteo," he began, using my given name for only the second time in our long association. " You don't understand the position?—"

The gunshot interrupted whatever justification he'd prepared, the sound strangely muted in the confines of the office. Carlo's expression registered surprise rather than pain as he looked down at the expanding red stain on his shirt—not a killing shot but a deliberate wounding, placed with surgical precision to ensure survival but prevent resistance.

"Who has him?" I asked, voice devoid of the emotion roiling beneath controlled exterior.

Carlo sank to his knees, one hand pressed against the wound as blood seeped between his fingers. " Souza ," he gasped, the name confirming what instinct had already suggested. " Emilio wants... leverage."

"Where?"

"The waterfront property. The old processing facility." Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his beta resilience already fading as shock settled in. " Matteo , your father arranged?—"

"I know what my father arranged," I cut him off, no interest in excuses or explanations that wouldn't change the fundamental betrayal. " How many guards?"

"Twelve. Maybe fifteen." His breathing had grown labored, eyes glazing slightly as blood loss took its toll. " Elite team. They're expecting you."

Of course they were. The Souzas would have calculated my response with mathematical precision—the alpha whose claimed omega had been taken would come for what was his, regardless of odds or rational assessment. They were counting on biology to override strategy, on instinct to blind tactical judgment.

They had miscalculated.

I moved to the intercom, pressing the direct line to what remained of my security team. " Medical to the main office. Gunshot wound, non-lethal." Then , to the bleeding man who had been my right hand since taking the underboss position: " If he survives, keep him sedated and secure. He'll answer for this when I return."

No emotion colored the order—not rage or grief or betrayal. Just cold certainty born of necessity and the singular focus that had descended the moment I'd registered Luca's absence. The claiming bond between us had sharpened priorities to crystalline clarity, stripping away every consideration beyond a single imperative:

Recover what was mine.

I moved efficiently through the office, gathering weapons from the hidden arsenal built into what had appeared to be ordinary cabinetry. Guns slipped into purpose-built holsters. Knives sheathed against forearms, at ankles, across the small of my back. The ritual of preparation centered me, each weapon an extension of intent made manifest. Not just tools but promises written in steel and polymer.

The main security monitors tracked movement in the hallway—medical personnel responding to my summons with the urgency Carlo's status demanded despite his betrayal. They would keep him alive, keep him secure until I returned to extract the full measure of information his treachery contained. Justice would come later. Vengeance too. For now, only recovery mattered.

The private elevator opened directly into the underground garage where the most tactically appropriate vehicles waited in climate-controlled silence. Not the armored sedan that announced Corvino business, but the matte-black SUV designed for operations requiring more discretion, more... flexibility in rules of engagement.

As I loaded additional weapons into the vehicle, memory surfaced unbidden— Luca's hands moving with unexpected competence as he stitched the knife wound at my side. " You killed him." Not a question or judgment, but simple acknowledgment of reality. Understanding beyond what I'd expected from the quiet accountant who had walked into my life with missing millions and unwavering integrity.

The memory sharpened focus rather than distracting from it. The omega the Souzas had taken wasn't just a claiming or a political statement against my father. He was the partner who had seen beyond alpha biology to the man beneath, who had chosen connection within constraint, who had matched my protection with his own form of strength.

Mine to protect. Mine to recover. Mine to avenge.

The streets of the city blurred past as I navigated toward the waterfront, tactical considerations expanding to fill conscious thought where emotion might otherwise have compromised judgment. Twelve to fifteen elite guards, according to Carlo . Likely positioned in rotating patterns around the perimeter and concentrated near the most probable entry points. The Souza processing facility had been ostensibly abandoned years ago, but maintained as an off-books location for operations requiring distance from legitimate business interests.

I knew the building intimately—had once orchestrated a raid on it during an earlier territorial dispute with the Souzas , before the current political maneuvering had begun. Knowledge that would have been strategic advantage if not for the certainty that they knew exactly who would be coming for Luca .

They were expecting the enraged alpha, driven by biological imperative to recover his claimed omega without regard for personal safety or tactical consideration. The berserker state that turned even calculating men into predictable weapons, easily manipulated through the very claiming bond meant to protect rather than expose.

They would be prepared for fury. For frontal assault. For the biological drive that prioritized immediate recovery over strategic patience.

They were not prepared for me.