Page 2

2

MATTEO

T he family estate loomed against the twilight sky like a monument to power—cold, imposing, impenetrable. Just like my father wanted it.

I stood at the threshold of my father's study, the scent of aged leather and cigar smoke hanging in the air between us. Don Corvino sat behind his mahogany desk, the embodiment of old-world alpha authority. His silver hair caught the lamplight, creating a halo effect that belied the ruthlessness beneath.

"You're late," he said without looking up from the papers before him.

I didn't offer an explanation. Explanations were for those who required approval. " You called. I came."

His eyes finally rose to meet mine. The same dark brown as my own, yet infinitely colder. " Sit ."

I complied, occupying the chair across from him with deliberate ease, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. The posture of a man unconcerned. A lie we both recognized.

"The Souza alliance," my father began, placing his fountain pen precisely parallel to the edge of his desk. " It's time to finalize terms."

The muscles along my spine tensed imperceptibly. This conversation had been inevitable since Emilio Souza's daughter had come of age three months ago. An alpha-alpha union between the families would create a powerful bloodline, a merger of territories that would reshape the city's underworld. Strategic . Profitable . Expected .

"No," I said.

The word hung between us, simple and irrevocable.

My father's scent shifted, pine and amber sharpening with sudden anger, though his expression remained unchanged. " It wasn't a request, Matteo ."

"I'm aware."

"You're thirty-two. It's time you produced an heir."

"I'll produce an heir when I choose, with whom I choose." I held his gaze without flinching, two alphas engaged in a silent battle of wills. " But it won't be with Sofia Souza ."

My father's fingers curled against the polished wood, the only visible sign of his mounting rage. " You would reject the most advantageous match in the city? For what? Some omega whore you've been hiding?"

"There's no one," I replied, the truth cooling my words. " I simply won't be a pawn in your political game."

"Everything is a political game." He stood, a gesture meant to emphasize his dominance, though we both knew I'd outgrown that particular intimidation tactic years ago. " The Souza girl comes with territory east of the river. Her bloodline is pure alpha for four generations. The match is perfect."

"The match is convenient for you." I remained seated, a small defiance. " And irrelevant to me."

His palm struck the desk, papers scattering. " You are my son. My heir. You will do as I command."

"I am your son," I agreed, standing now to meet him eye to eye. " And I will lead this family when the time comes. But I will not breed on command like some stud animal."

The tension between us thickened, two alpha scents clashing in the confined space. The study had witnessed this scene countless times—father and son, locked in the eternal struggle of succession. Each time, the power balanced shifted incrementally in my direction. We both felt it.

A knock at the door interrupted the standoff. Vincenzo , my father's consigliere, entered without waiting for permission—a liberty granted only to him.

"Pardon the interruption, Don Corvino ." Vincenzo's eyes flickered between us, reading the situation with the precision of a man who had survived decades in our world. " There's a situation requiring immediate attention."

My father's jaw tightened. " What situation?"

"Financial." Vincenzo's gaze shifted to me briefly. " The quarterly review shows... irregularities."

Interest sparked through my irritation. " What kind of irregularities?"

"Ten million," Vincenzo answered flatly. " Missing ."

My father's rage redirected instantly, a predator scenting new prey. " Who ?"

"We're investigating, but the accounting department would have noticed. Someone there may be involved."

The accounting department. The quiet, methodical team that handled the legitimate face of our operations. Mostly betas, with a few carefully vetted omegas for their natural attention to detail. Including one particular omega with wire-rimmed glasses and a scent that had lingered in my memory for weeks.

"I want the entire department questioned," my father declared. " Starting with that omega—the one with the curls."

"Bianchi," I supplied, the name emerging before I could stop it. My father's eyebrow raised a fraction, noting my immediate recall.

"Yes, Bianchi ," he agreed. " Omegas are easily compromised. Start there."

Something protective and fierce uncoiled in my chest. " I'll handle the investigation."

My father's expression shifted to calculating. " Eager to prove yourself useful somewhere, since you refuse your duty elsewhere?"

I didn't rise to the bait. " The financial operations fall under my purview. I'll find who's responsible."

"See that you do." He dismissed me with a wave. " And Matteo —this doesn't change our discussion. The Souza alliance will happen. One way or another."

I left without acknowledging the threat, Vincenzo falling into step beside me as we exited the study.

"The Don is growing impatient with your resistance," he murmured once we were beyond earshot.

"The Don is growing impatient with everything," I replied. " What's really happening with the missing money?"

Vincenzo's expression remained carefully neutral. " Exactly what I said. Ten million, gone. Disguised as legitimate transfers to shell companies, then vanished."

"And Bianchi ? Why is my father so quick to accuse him?"

"He's an omega in a position usually reserved for betas. The Don never trusted the arrangement."

I stopped walking, turning to face my father's most trusted advisor. " But you didn't answer my question, old friend. Why Bianchi specifically?"

Vincenzo hesitated, something he rarely did. " There were surveillance reports. He was seen accessing financial records after hours several times this week. And tonight, he left with what appeared to be data."

Interesting. " Show me the surveillance."

* * *

The night air carried a metallic edge as I stepped from the car, the familiar weight of my Beretta nestled against my ribs. The street outside Luca Bianchi's apartment building stretched empty and quiet—deceptively so. My senses, honed through years of navigating the predatory undercurrents of our world, detected the watchers immediately.

Three men. One in a black sedan across the street, engine idling. Two more positioned in the shadows of adjacent buildings, their scents betraying them before their silhouettes became visible. Pine and bergamot—the signature pheromones Souza enforcers carried.

Not my father's men. Souza's .

Cold fury ignited beneath my controlled exterior. The omega accountant who had discovered financial discrepancies was being watched by our rivals, not our family. The implications crystallized with disturbing clarity—whatever Bianchi had found, whatever he now carried, the Souza family wanted it. Wanted him.

I moved with deliberate purpose, not toward Bianchi's building but toward the closest watcher—a broad-shouldered figure half-concealed in the recessed doorway of an abandoned storefront. He registered my approach too late, recognition flashing across his features a moment before my hand closed around his throat, slamming him against the brick wall with enough force to rattle his teeth.

"Corvino," he choked, hands rising instinctively before freezing as he felt the press of my blade against his ribs—not enough to break skin, but a promise of what could follow.

"Souza sends dogs to watch my territory now?" My voice remained conversational, though my scent had sharpened with alpha aggression, filling the confined space between us. " Interesting choice."

"Public street," he managed, the words emerging strained against the pressure on his windpipe. " No territory claimed here."

I leaned closer, watching his pupils dilate with instinctive fear as my alpha pheromones intensified. " Everything within my sight is my territory. Everyone under my protection is mine." The blade pressed fractionally deeper, a needle-point of pressure. " That includes Bianchi ."

Surprise flickered across his features—the truth beneath my claim registering through his panic. He hadn't expected this. None of them had. The omega accountant was supposed to be expendable, unprotected, an easy target for whatever scheme Souza had designed.

"Tell Emilio a message from me." I eased the pressure on his throat just enough to ensure comprehension. " No one watches Bianchi . No one approaches him. No one breathes near him without my permission." The blade twisted slightly, drawing a single drop of blood that bloomed dark against his shirt. " He's mine. Whatever he found, whatever he knows—mine."

I released him abruptly, watching him stumble forward, one hand rising to his throat where my fingers had left marks that would bruise into spectacular evidence by morning.

"Go," I ordered, voice dropping to the register my captains recognized as final warning before violence. " Now . Take the others. If I see Souza men within ten blocks of this building again, I won't be delivering messages."

He retreated, eyes never leaving mine until he reached the safety of distance. Through the shadows, I watched him signal the others—a quick gesture that sent the sedan pulling away from the curb, the second watcher melting into the darkness of side streets.

Only when they had disappeared did I turn toward Bianchi's building, alpha instincts still thrumming with territorial imperative. The scent of the Souza enforcer clung to my skin like a reminder of boundaries crossed, of threats that would require more permanent resolution soon.

The lobby doors opened to my approach, the night guard's expression shifting from professional alertness to the careful deference our family name inspired throughout the city.

"Mr. Corvino ," he acknowledged, posture straightening imperceptibly. " How can I assist you this evening?"

"Luca Bianchi . Fourth floor. Call him down."

The guard hesitated, protocol warring with self-preservation. " Sir , I'm not authorized to?—"

"Call him," I repeated, letting alpha command color the words. " Tell him Matteo Corvino is here regarding the financial discrepancies he discovered today."

Recognition flashed across the guard's features—not of the situation but of the inevitable outcome should he continue resistance. He reached for the phone, dialing with careful precision.

"Mr. Bianchi ? My apologies for the late hour. There's a Mr . Corvino in the lobby for you. Regarding ...financial matters." A pause. " Yes , sir. I'll inform him."

He replaced the receiver, nodding toward the elevator. " He'll be down momentarily, Mr . Corvino ."

I moved to the center of the lobby, positioning myself where I could observe all entrances simultaneously—a habit formed through years of navigating spaces where threats rarely announced themselves before striking. The elevator hummed to life, numbers illuminating in sequence as it descended from the fourth floor.

When the doors opened, Luca Bianchi stepped out cautiously, his slender frame tense with alertness that belied the composed expression he maintained. Dark curls fell slightly disheveled across his forehead, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a straight nose, slim build encased in the same white shirt and navy slacks he'd worn at the office. Nothing remarkable on the surface. Nothing that explained the instant recognition that triggered when our eyes met—a chemical awareness that transcended conscious thought.

His scent reached me even from this distance—subtle notes of honey and citrus partially masked by suppressants but unmistakable to alpha senses. An omega in low-grade distress, controlled but present beneath the professional veneer he projected.

My jaw tightened involuntarily, teeth clenching against the unexpected potency of his scent. The lobby suddenly felt too warm, confined in a way that had nothing to do with tactical vulnerability and everything to do with alpha biology responding to something my conscious mind wasn't ready to acknowledge.

"Mr. Corvino ," he greeted, voice steady despite the anxiety evident in his scent. " This is...unexpected."

"We need to talk," I replied, deliberately controlling my breathing through my mouth to limit how much of his scent reached my receptors. Even so, the honey-citrus notes registered on my palate, making my next words emerge with a subtle roughness I couldn't entirely suppress. " Not here."

Wariness flickered across his features, calculation evident as he assessed options, risks, potential outcomes. Smart . Cautious . The instincts of prey recognizing predator while maintaining dignity—qualities that had registered in our brief hallway encounter weeks earlier.

"Perhaps we could schedule a meeting tomorrow at the office," he suggested, maintaining formal distance both physically and verbally. " I'd be happy to discuss any financial concerns during business hours."

"This isn't a request, Mr . Bianchi ." I moved closer, watching his pupils dilate slightly as my scent registered—alpha asserting territorial claim through pheromones rather than mere words. " There are men watching your building. Not my father's men. Souza's ."

His composure faltered momentarily, a microexpression of genuine fear flashing beneath professional calm. " I don't understand. Why would the Souzas? —"

"That's what we're going to discuss," I interrupted, moving toward the exit and gesturing for him to follow. " My car is waiting. It's not safe for you here."

To his credit, he didn't move immediately, intelligence and caution warring visibly as he processed limited options against potential dangers. " How do I know I'm safer with you?"

The question—direct, unembellished with omega deference—registered as both challenge and unexpected point of respect. This was no cowering subordinate seeking alpha protection, but a man weighing calculated risks against immediate threats.

"Because whatever you found in those financial records," I answered with equal directness, " I want to protect it. And you. The Souzas want to eliminate both."

His gaze held mine for a measured moment, assessment visible in eyes sharper than most would expect from his unassuming exterior. Then he nodded once, decision reached through necessity rather than trust.

"Let me get my coat."

When he returned moments later, messenger bag clutched protectively against his side, I moved instinctively to position myself between him and potential threat vectors—the doorway, the darkened street beyond, the shadows where Souza watchers had stood minutes earlier. My hand settled naturally at the small of his back as we exited the building, a gesture that combined guidance with possession, with declaration.

Before we stepped fully outside, I paused at the threshold, turning to face him. Under the guise of straightening his collar—a simple, professional adjustment—my thumb brushed deliberately over the sensitive scent gland at his nape. A fleeting touch, almost casual, yet unmistakably territorial. His pupils dilated in immediate response, body recognizing the alpha claim even if his mind didn't fully process it. The subtle press left invisible traces of my scent on his skin—a chemical warning to any alpha who might approach. A primitive declaration: this omega is protected.

The contact, even through layers of clothing, sent heat spiking through my palm. The urge to slide my hand higher, to cup the vulnerable nape of his neck and leave my scent there where any rival alpha would detect it, crashed through me with visceral intensity. I inhaled too deeply, drawing his scent into my lungs, and had to exhale slowly through clenched teeth to maintain control. Every instinct screamed to lower my mouth to the nape exposed beneath my touch, to seal this fragile truce with a bite that would silence rivals and doubts alike. Every alpha instinct demanded I press my face into the curve where his neck met shoulder, where his scent would be strongest, and mark him as claimed territory.

Mine to protect. Mine to defend. Mine .

He stiffened slightly beneath my touch but didn't pull away, practical enough to recognize the protection it offered as we moved through darkness toward the waiting car. His scent shifted subtly—anxiety tempered with grudging recognition of safer passage, of alpha shield against external threats.

The thoughts registered with unsettling intensity, alpha biology responding to perceived threat against what instinct had already categorized as territory—not just the omega himself but what he represented, what he had discovered, what he might mean to larger strategies still forming in my consciousness.

"Where are we going?" he asked as Carlo opened the car door, his expression betraying nothing of the tension evident in his posture.

"Somewhere secure," I answered, guiding him into the backseat before sliding in beside him. " Somewhere the Souzas can't reach you."

In the confined space of the backseat, his scent intensified—honey and citrus notes becoming more pronounced as his anxiety elevated his body temperature, compromising the effectiveness of the suppressants. I shifted slightly, creating marginal distance as I detected the faintest trace of omega slick emerging beneath the chemical barriers—a biological response he couldn't control and I couldn't ignore.

Something wasn't right. Even accounting for stress, his suppressants shouldn't be failing this noticeably. Beneath the citrus and anxiety lay the unmistakable warm undertones of pre-heat—subtle but present, like the first warning tremors before an earthquake. Either his medication was substandard, or something more deliberate was at play.

Even under stress, a standard suppressant shouldn't fail this fast. Unless the dosage was off. Or tampered with. A suspicion I'd have to confirm later—when we were somewhere safe.

My pupils dilated in the dimness, vision sharpening with predatory focus that had nothing to do with external threats and everything to do with the omega now under my protection. Under my influence.

As the car pulled away from the curb, distance growing between the omega accountant and the threats that had converged around him, something primitive and possessive settled in my chest—a certainty that transcended strategic calculation or tactical advantage.

Whatever Luca Bianchi had discovered, whatever danger now circled him like wolves scenting vulnerability, he had become mine to protect through alpha imperative that recognized no authority beyond its own claiming instinct. Not my father's orders. Not Souza ambition. Not even the careful boundaries I'd maintained between professional authority and personal entanglement.

Mine to defend. Mine to shelter. Mine .

The territorial claim had been staked—first against Souza watchers, now in the protective positioning that kept the omega accountant within the radius of my scent, my vigilance, my defense. What had begun as strategic interest had evolved into something more primal, more absolute in the span of a single night.

The implications would require analysis later. For now, the singular focus remained: secure what was mine against those who would take or harm it.

As simple and as complex as that.