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LUCA

T he private elevator ascended with unsettling smoothness, a glass and steel coffin carrying me toward judgment. My reflection stared back at me from polished surfaces—dark circles beneath eyes that had seen no sleep, hair slightly disheveled despite my attempts to appear composed. The manila folder clutched against my chest might as well have been a bomb, its contents just as destructive.

How had it come to this? Twelve hours ago, I'd been alone in my apartment, windows locked against watching eyes. Now I stood in Matteo Corvino's private elevator, summoned without explanation in the gray hours before dawn, the memory of his hand at the small of my back like a brand against my skin.

The way he'd confronted those men outside my building—the naked aggression in his stance, the territorial flare of his scent marking the night air—played on endless loop behind my eyes. Not just an alpha asserting dominance, but something more primal. More personal. Tell Emilio no one watches him. He's mine. The words hadn't been meant for me to hear, but they'd carried on the night air, settling into my bones with unsettling weight.

The elevator slowed, my stomach lurching with it. My scent soured with anxiety, the citrus notes turning sharp despite the fresh patch I'd applied. The doors parted silently, revealing a minimalist foyer of marble and brushed steel—the entrance to Matteo Corvino's private penthouse.

Carlo stood waiting, expression unreadable. " This way."

I followed mutely, each step carrying me deeper into alpha territory. The penthouse sprawled in gleaming monochrome, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city below, still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness. The space smelled of him—sandalwood and cedar, that dangerous metallic undertone—but subtly, as if he maintained control even over his own scent.

"Wait here." Carlo gestured to a sitting area, then disappeared down a hallway.

Alone, I perched on the edge of a leather armchair, manila folder balanced on my knees. The room felt too large, too exposed, every surface reflecting my discomfort back at me in perfect clarity. Time stretched, elastic and uncertain.

"You look like you're waiting for execution."

The voice cut through the silence without warning. I startled, nearly dropping my folder as Matteo Corvino materialized from a doorway I hadn't noticed. He moved with predatory grace, dressed in tailored black pants and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle. No tie, no jacket—casual, yet no less intimidating.

"Isn't that what this is?" The words escaped before I could filter them, exhaustion fraying my usual caution.

Something like amusement flickered across his face. " That remains to be seen."

He settled into the chair opposite mine, posture relaxed yet commanding the entire space. Between us stretched a glass coffee table—neutral territory that felt woefully inadequate as a barrier.

"You've been busy." His eyes, dark and penetrating, fixed on the folder in my hands. " Working late. Taking files home. Being followed."

The directness stole my breath. " You ... know about that?"

"I know many things, Mr . Bianchi ." He leaned forward slightly, his scent intensifying with the movement. " Including that you're missing your regular suppressants. And that there were three alphas marking territory outside your apartment last night."

Heat crawled up my neck, humiliation mixing with fear. My body's betrayal—exposed so casually, as if discussing the weather. " I don't see how that's relevant."

"Everything is relevant." His tone remained even, controlled. " Including why someone would set surveillance on an accountant. Why they would intimidate rather than eliminate." His gaze sharpened. " What did you find, Luca ?"

My name in his mouth felt intimate, dangerous. I swallowed, focusing on the facts—the only solid ground in this quicksand conversation. " Ten million dollars. Missing ."

"Show me."

My fingers trembled slightly as I opened the folder, extracting the meticulous documentation I'd prepared. Spreadsheets , transaction logs, pattern analyses—the language of numbers that had always made sense when nothing else did. I placed them on the glass table between us, creating a paper barrier between predator and prey.

"These transactions," I began, falling into the familiar rhythm of explanation, "show systematic diversion through seemingly legitimate channels. Small enough to avoid automated flags, large enough to accumulate significantly over time."

Matteo didn't touch the papers, merely studied them from his position. " And when did this begin?"

"Three weeks ago." I indicated a highlighted date. " The pattern suggests inside knowledge of our verification protocols. Someone who understands how to subvert our safeguards."

"Someone like you." It wasn't a question.

The implication hung in the air between us, heavy and accusatory. I met his gaze directly, a dangerous choice for an omega facing an alpha in his territory, but fear had hardened into something like defiance.

"If I had stolen it, I wouldn't be sitting here with evidence." My voice remained steady, surprising even myself. " And I wouldn't have spent sixteen hours documenting a theft I committed."

His expression remained unreadable, but something shifted in his scent—the metallic note receding slightly. " No . You wouldn't."

He reached for the papers finally, long fingers sorting through my work with unexpected care. I watched, unable to look away, as he absorbed the information I'd spent the night compiling. His focus was absolute, attention shifting between documents with predatory intensity.

When he looked up again, his eyes had changed—calculation replacing suspicion. " You've traced the shell companies?"

"As far as possible without external resources. They lead to accounts in the Cayman Islands , then disappear." I hesitated, then pushed forward. " But I overheard something. Three weeks ago. Outside your father's office."

Interest sparked in his expression. " Tell me."

I recounted the conversation I'd witnessed— Vincenzo and the security advisor, their cryptic exchange, the timing that aligned too perfectly with the missing funds. As I spoke, Matteo's posture shifted imperceptibly, tension gathering in his shoulders.

"You didn't report this immediately." Again , not a question.

"I didn't understand its significance until I found the discrepancies." I met his gaze again, unwisely. " And I wasn't certain who I could trust."

"But you decided to trust me." His voice lowered, something almost like curiosity threading through it. " Why ?"

The question pierced straight through my carefully constructed explanations. Why had I chosen Matteo Corvino ? The ruthless heir apparent, known for cold efficiency rather than mercy? The answer hovered in the space between truth and self-preservation.

"Process of elimination," I said finally. " You weren't in the conversation I overheard. And you have the authority to act without... excessive complications."

A lie by omission. I didn't mention our hallway encounter, how the memory of his scent had lingered, how I'd seen him spare the young courier when his father would have destroyed him. How something in me had recognized something in him—a complexity beyond the mafia heir facade.

"Excessive complications," he repeated, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. " An interesting euphemism for execution."

The word hung between us, stark and unembellished. My throat tightened. " Am I wrong?"

"No." He gathered the papers, tapping them into a neat stack. " You're not wrong. But neither are you safe."

He rose suddenly, moving to a sideboard where crystal decanters caught the first gray light of dawn. The silence stretched as he poured amber liquid into two glasses, returning to place one before me.

"Drink."

I eyed the glass warily. " It's 5:30 in the morning."

"And you've been awake all night, pursued by unknown entities, and now sit in the den of what you perceive as another predator." He took a measured sip from his own glass. " Circumstances justify exceptions."

Tentatively, I lifted the glass, the liquor burning a clean path down my throat. The warmth spread, momentarily dulling the edge of exhaustion and fear.

Matteo resumed his seat, studying me with unsettling focus. " My father believes you took the money."

The statement landed like a physical blow. " What ?"

"The Don has made his assessment. He plans to make an example of you." His voice remained neutral, as if discussing business rather than my likely execution. " The evidence you've gathered won't matter. He's decided."

The room seemed suddenly airless, the walls pressing inward. " But I didn't?—"

"I know." Matteo cut me off, the certainty in his tone stilling my protest. " But what you did or didn't do is irrelevant to him. You're convenient. Expendable . An omega in a position usually reserved for betas—already a point of contention."

My fingers tightened around the glass. " So I've been summoned to hear my death sentence?"

"No." Something shifted in his expression then, a hardening of resolve. " You've been brought here so I can claim you."

The words didn't register immediately, hanging in the air like smoke before meaning solidified. When comprehension dawned, it felt like the floor had vanished beneath me.

"Claim me," I repeated, the words foreign on my tongue. " As what, exactly?"

"As mine." The simplicity of his answer belied its monumental implications. " My omega. Under my protection and authority. Beyond my father's reach."

A hollow laugh escaped me, bordering on hysteria. " You can't be serious."

"Entirely." His gaze never wavered. " It's the only play that keeps you alive and gives us time to identify who's really behind the theft."

"Us." I set the glass down carefully, afraid my shaking hands would betray me further. " There is no us, Mr . Corvino . I'm an accountant who found a discrepancy. Nothing more."

"You're an omega who uncovered a multi-million dollar theft within my family's organization, compromising enough people that someone has already tried to intimidate you into silence." His voice hardened. " And you're experiencing suppressant failure while three unknown alphas marked territory outside your home. The situation has moved well beyond accounting, wouldn't you agree?"

Put so bluntly, my position seemed even more precarious. The room felt suddenly too warm, my skin too tight. The lingering effects of pre-heat symptoms whispered beneath my skin, heightened by stress and proximity to an alpha whose scent called to something primitive within me.

"A claiming is permanent," I managed finally, falling back on legalities when emotions threatened to overwhelm logic. " Legally binding. Biologically irreversible."

"I'm aware of the implications." He leaned forward, close enough that his scent enveloped me—sandalwood and cedar, tinged now with something warmer. " But it doesn't have to be... conventional. This is about protection, Luca . Nothing more."

His words hung in the air between us, a promise with hidden edges. I knew enough about biology to understand the deception in his reassurance. Conventional or not, a public claim would trigger biochemical changes—my scent permanently altered to carry his marker, my body's cyclic patterns recognizing his alpha presence, potential bonding hormones released during any intimate contact. The changes would begin immediately, subtle but inexorable. There was no such thing as a temporary claim in the biological sense, only varying degrees of completion. His "unconventional" offer merely suggested degrees of intimacy, not fundamental alterations to the claiming process itself.

Protection. The word held weight in our world—currency more valuable than money, more binding than contracts. But protection came with prices, with expectations. With ownership.

"And what happens afterward?" The question emerged smaller than intended. " When you've found who took the money? When you no longer need my evidence? What happens to your claimed omega then?"

Something flickered across his features—too complex to name, gone before I could interpret it. " We'll address that when the time comes."

Non-answer. Political response. I looked away, out toward the windows where dawn had begun painting the sky in watercolor strokes of pink and gold. The city stretched below, a landscape of possibilities now narrowed to a single, impossible choice.

"Your father..." I began.

"Will be furious," Matteo finished, a hint of grim satisfaction coloring his tone. " Which is a secondary benefit."

That drew my attention back to him. " You want to antagonize the Don ?"

"I want to protect what's mine." The possessive pronoun rolled off his tongue with disturbing ease. " And you, Luca Bianchi , with your missing millions and your meticulous records, are now mine to protect."

The declaration should have horrified me. Instead , something molten pooled low in my belly, omega instincts responding to alpha certainty even as my mind rebelled against the primitive reaction. I blamed the pre-heat, the exhaustion, the fear—anything but the dangerous pull I'd felt since our hallway encounter.

"You don't even know me," I protested weakly.

"I know enough." He set his glass down, the movement deliberate. " I know you're intelligent, observant, and brave to the point of foolishness. I know you value integrity over self-preservation. I know your scent..." He paused, nostrils flaring slightly. " Honey and citrus, with something underneath like warm rain on stone."

Heat bloomed across my face at the intimate assessment. " That's biology, not knowledge."

"Perhaps." His eyes darkened. " But it's still truth."

Silence stretched between us, taut with unspoken implications. Outside , the sun breached the horizon fully, bathing the penthouse in golden light that felt incongruous with the weight of our conversation.

"If I refuse?" The question barely rose above a whisper.

Matteo's expression hardened. " Then they'll pin this on you. The evidence against you is already being manufactured. You'll be eliminated—quietly, cleanly—and the real thieves will continue operating within our organization."

The brutal assessment stripped away any illusions I might have harbored about my position. I'd walked into something much larger than missing money—a power struggle within the Corvino family, with me as collateral damage.

"And if I agree?" My voice strengthened slightly, resolve forming from desperation. " What does that entail exactly?"

"A public claim. My mark. Living here, under my protection." He gestured to the expansive penthouse. " Your life continues, but with my name attached to it. My scent on your skin."

The clinical description couldn't disguise the intimacy of what he proposed. A claim meant teeth against my throat, his scent permanently altering my own, his presence a constant shadow even when absent. It meant belonging in ways that transcended contracts or vows.

"This is insane." I stood abruptly, needing distance, movement. The folder fell forgotten to the floor, papers scattering like fallen leaves. " You can't just... claim a person because it's convenient."

Matteo remained seated, watching my agitation with unnerving calm. " Convenient would be letting my father have you. Convenient would be finding another way to track the missing money. This ?" He gestured between us. " This is anything but convenient, Luca ."

I paced toward the windows, staring out at a city carrying on in ignorance of the impossible choice confronting me. Death or claiming. Execution or possession. Neither option left room for the life I'd carefully constructed—invisible, independent, free within the confines of a dangerous world.

Behind me, I heard Matteo rise, his footsteps measuring the distance between us until he stood close enough that his scent enveloped me, his heat radiated against my back. Not touching, but present in a way that made every nerve ending aware.

"I know what I'm asking," he said quietly, his voice closer to my ear than expected. " I know what it costs you."

I turned to face him, closer than wisdom allowed. This near, I could see flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the slight softening of his mouth that belied his ruthless reputation.

"Then why ask it?" The question emerged raw, honest.

"Because the alternative is unacceptable." The simple declaration carried weight beyond its words, something fierce underlining his tone.

The memory of the previous night flashed through my mind— Matteo pushing a Souza enforcer against the wall, his voice cold with promise as he declared, He's mine . Not calculation but instinct. Not strategy but claim.

I searched his face for deceit, for calculation, for the coldness that defined his reputation. Instead , I found intensity and something else—something that looked unsettlingly like protectiveness, like possession not yet claimed but already acknowledged.

"Then let me claim you." The words hung between us, a challenge more than acquiescence.

His eyebrows rose fractionally. " I don't understand."

"If this is about protection, then let it protect us both." I found courage in desperation, in the absurdity of our situation. " You claim me, I claim you. Equal . Not ownership."

A startled laugh escaped him—the first truly unguarded reaction I'd witnessed. " That's not how it works, little accountant."

"Why not?" I pressed, emboldened by his surprise. " If we're inventing solutions, why not invent one that doesn't make me property?"

Something shifted in his expression—respect, perhaps, or amusement at my audacity. " You continue to surprise me, Luca Bianchi ."

"Is that a yes or a no?" I met his gaze directly, a dangerous challenge from omega to alpha.

Matteo stepped closer, erasing the careful distance between us until barely inches remained. His hand rose, hesitated, then settled against the side of my neck where my pulse raced beneath thin skin. The touch burned, electric and foreign and somehow inevitable.

"Neither," he said softly. " It's a negotiation. One we'll continue after you've slept and I've arranged our public announcement."

His thumb brushed once, deliberately, across my scent gland, sending a shiver of awareness through my entire body. Not a claim—not yet—but a promise. A warning. A question yet to be fully answered.

"Then I'll pin this on you," I managed, voice steadier than I felt with his hand still warm against my neck.

The corner of his mouth curved upward—not quite a smile, but close. " I expect nothing less."

His hand fell away, leaving my skin cooling in its absence. Matteo stepped back, restoring professional distance between us. " Carlo will show you to a room. Sleep . We'll continue when you're rested."

The abrupt shift from intimate negotiation to practical directive left me disoriented. I nodded mutely, suddenly aware of the bone-deep exhaustion weighing on me, the emotional toll of the past twenty-four hours.

As if summoned by thought alone, Carlo appeared in the doorway. " Sir ?"

"Mr. Bianchi needs rest," Matteo said, his tone reverting to the controlled cadence of the underboss. " The blue room. Post guards. No one enters without my authorization."

"Understood." Carlo nodded toward a hallway. " This way, Mr . Bianchi ."

I moved to follow, then paused, turning back to Matteo . " The evidence?—"

"Is safe with me." He had already gathered the scattered papers, restoring them to the folder. " As are you. For now."

The qualification hung between us—a reminder that nothing was settled, nothing certain. I nodded once, acceptance without agreement, and followed Carlo from the room, the phantom sensation of Matteo's thumb against my scent gland lingering like a promise waiting to be kept or broken.

The weight of his declaration from the previous night followed me— He's mine —not just posturing for Souza enforcers, I realized, but declaration of intent. The first public claim that would soon become private possession, teeth against vulnerable skin, biochemistry altered beyond reversal.

Mine, his alpha instinct had already decided.

The negotiation my mind demanded would be fought on territory already conceded by my biology, my body's treacherous response to his presence speaking a language more ancient than words. The only question remaining was whether choice could be preserved within constraint, whether partnership could be forged from possession.

Whether Matteo Corvino's claim— mine to protect —might become something other than the ownership my life had been constructed to avoid.

The blue bedroom door closed behind me with quiet finality, lock engaging with mechanical precision. Not imprisonment, Matteo would insist. Protection .

The distinction felt increasingly irrelevant as I sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion claiming conscious thought while my neck still burned with the memory of alpha touch, of promise not yet fulfilled but already imprinted on skin, on scent, on future narrowed to the single word that had followed me from street to penthouse to locked bedroom.

Mine.