Page 5

5

LUCA

C onsciousness returned slowly, fragments of reality assembling themselves like puzzle pieces behind my closed eyelids. Unfamiliar softness cradled my body—sheets with a thread count higher than my monthly rent, pillows that yielded with perfect resistance. The scent reached me before I opened my eyes: sandalwood and cedar, that dangerous metallic undertone. Not mine. His .

I bolted upright, the events of yesterday cascading through my mind. The missing millions. The car outside my apartment. The summons to Matteo Corvino's penthouse. The claim.

My omega. Under my protection and authority. Beyond my father's reach.

Light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating an unfamiliar bedroom. My bedroom now, apparently. The blue room, as Carlo had called it. The decor was understated luxury—midnight blue walls, charcoal furnishings, chrome accents. Beautiful . Impersonal . A gilded cage.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, registering that I still wore yesterday's clothes, rumpled from sleep. My watch showed 10:17 AM . I'd slept for nearly fourteen hours, my body claiming the rest it had been denied during that long night of investigation and fear.

The door was the first test. I approached it with measured steps, hand extending toward the handle with scientific detachment, as if conducting an experiment whose results I already anticipated. The handle turned. The door opened. Not locked.

Small mercies.

The hallway stretched before me, silent and empty. No guards visible, though I suspected they lurked somewhere beyond my immediate perception. I paused, listening. The penthouse held the particular stillness of expensive spaces—the kind of quiet money buys, insulated from the city's chaos thirty floors below.

The kitchen revealed itself after two wrong turns, a sprawling expanse of marble and stainless steel that looked barely used. I discovered coffee already brewed, still warm in an elaborate machine that required an engineering degree to operate. A note sat propped against a mug: Help yourself. Security briefing at noon. — M

The handwriting was precise, controlled. Like the man himself.

Cup in hand, I continued my exploration, cataloging exits, windows, potential escape routes. Old habits from a childhood spent navigating around an alcoholic father's unpredictable moods—always know your exits. The penthouse proved larger than expected, a maze of rooms both functional and decorative. Office spaces. Meeting rooms. A small gym. Every convenience required to maintain Matteo Corvino's position without ever needing to leave.

In the main living area, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the city stretched below like a diorama. I approached the glass, testing its solidity with my fingertips. Bulletproof , most likely. My reflection stared back at me—pale face, dark curls disheveled, eyes shadowed from stress despite the long sleep. The suppressor patch still clung behind my ear, a small miracle of modern chemistry keeping my biology contained.

I looked like what I was: an omega out of place in alpha territory.

Movement caught my eye—a small red light blinking from the ceiling corner. I turned slowly, scanning the room with newfound awareness. There . Another camera, discreetly positioned near a bookshelf. And another by the hallway entrance. The realization spread coldly through my chest. The penthouse wasn't just secured from outside threats. It was monitored from within.

I was being watched.

The coffee turned bitter on my tongue. I set the mug down carefully, restraining the urge to wave sarcastically at the nearest lens. Instead , I continued my circuit of the penthouse, now noting the surveillance points with methodical precision. Living room: three cameras. Kitchen : two. Hallways : one at each junction. The blue bedroom: none visible, but I wouldn't bet against hidden monitoring.

If there were hidden cameras in the bedroom, I hadn't found them... but I wasn't naive enough to believe none existed. I couldn't decide if the absence of visible cameras in the bedroom was respect for privacy or merely better concealment. Neither option particularly comforted me.

A sleek laptop sat on the dining table, closed but not locked. I approached it warily, expecting it to be password-protected, but the screen illuminated at my touch. Files had been arranged on the desktop—financial records, transaction logs, surveillance reports. Everything I'd compiled about the missing money, plus additional information I hadn't had access to.

He'd left it for me. An invitation to continue my investigation. Or a test.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. Trust nothing freely offered—another childhood lesson. Yet the data called to me, promising answers to questions that had landed me in this gilded prison. I clicked open the first file, losing myself in the familiar language of numbers and transactions.

Time dissolved as I followed the digital trail, cross-referencing accounts, tracking shell companies through jurisdictional loopholes. The methodology became clear: small fragments of the ten million dollars, diverted through legitimate-seeming transactions, laundered through multiple corporate entities, finally consolidating in offshore accounts under layers of protective anonymity.

Not the work of an amateur. Someone with intimate knowledge of the Corvino financial structure had orchestrated this. Someone with authority to approve transfers without triggering alerts. Someone? —

My skin prickled with sudden awareness, a sensation so primal it cut through my concentration like a physical touch. The air in the room had changed, becoming charged with a presence I recognized before conscious thought could name it. A warmth began spreading at the base of my spine, radiating outward in unwelcome waves. I pressed my hand against the suppressor patch behind my ear—a habitual gesture of reassurance—and found the edges curling slightly, the adhesive failing after too many hours.

No. Not now.

I tried to focus on the screen, on the numbers that had always offered clarity, but my vision blurred slightly as sweat beaded at my hairline. Warmth unspooled low in my belly, dragging heat through my limbs, making the chair beneath me feel too solid, too present. The honey-citrus scent that defined my natural biochemistry began seeping through chemical barriers, subtle at first, then unmistakable even to my own dulled senses.

My fingers trembled against my neck as I traced the patch's deteriorating outline, as if physical contact could somehow reinforce its chemical barriers. The stress of the past twenty-four hours, the interrupted sleep cycle, the unfamiliar environment saturated with alpha pheromones—all conspiring to overwhelm suppressants designed for normal conditions, not crisis.

"I see you found the files."

The voice came from behind me, rich and deep, striking something low in my belly that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with biology I'd spent years suppressing. I turned slowly, fighting to maintain composure as Matteo Corvino filled the doorway with his presence.

He wore a simple black suit, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his frame. No tie, top buttons open at his throat where I could see the faint pulse of his scent gland beneath olive skin. His dark eyes registered me with the focus of a predator, nostrils flaring slightly as he processed the change in my scent.

"Your suppressants are failing," he observed, the words emerging rougher than his usual controlled cadence.

Humiliation burned through me, hot and unwelcome. " The patch is old. I didn't have time to replace it before..." I gestured vaguely, encompassing everything—the abduction, the penthouse, the claim.

He moved into the room with measured steps, maintaining distance that felt deliberately calculated. " There are replacements in the bathroom. Medicine cabinet."

The consideration caught me off guard—practical, impersonal, yet observant of a need I hadn't voiced. " Thank you."

He nodded once, gaze dropping to the laptop screen where financial data still glowed. " You've made progress."

"Some." I shifted, trying to create additional space between us without making the movement obvious. " The money passed through seven different shell companies before consolidating in the Caymans . From there?—"

My voice faltered as another wave of warmth washed through me, more intense than before. The suppressor's failure was accelerating, chemical barriers crumbling against biological imperatives strengthened by proximity to an alpha—not just any alpha, but one who had staked verbal claim already. My body responding to promises not yet fulfilled with a betrayal of my carefully maintained control.

Matteo went utterly still, the only movement the subtle dilation of his pupils as they fixed on me with heightened intensity. His scent shifted perceptibly—sandalwood and cedar notes sharpening with a distinctive undertone I recognized instinctively: alpha responding to omega in pre-heat distress.

"You need to replace that patch. Now ." His voice dropped lower, something primal threading through the command.

I rose on unsteady legs, calculating the distance to the hallway, to the blue room, to the bathroom he'd mentioned. Too far, with him between me and the exit, with my traitorous body broadcasting vulnerability with every passing second.

"I'm fine," I lied, words emerging tighter than intended. " I just need to finish this analysis."

"You're not fine." He stepped closer, close enough that his scent enveloped me completely—sandalwood and cedar intensified with protective alpha pheromones that spoke directly to the most primitive part of my brain. " Your biology is responding to mine. To territory. To claim."

The blunt assessment stripped away pretense, leaving raw truth between us. My fingers clenched against the edge of the table, seeking stability as another wave of warmth pulsed through me, bringing with it the unmistakable precursor to slick—the omega body's preparation for alpha penetration, for mating, for potential breeding.

"I don't want this," I whispered, the words emerging as much plea as declaration.

"I know." His acknowledgment carried no triumph, no satisfaction—only recognition of biology neither of us had fully anticipated when this arrangement began. " That's why you need to replace the patch. Before it progresses further."

He shrugged out of his suit jacket, the movement swift and efficient. Before I could process his intent, he held it out to me—a gesture as unexpected as it was confusing.

"Take it," he said, impatience threading through control as I hesitated. " My scent will help stabilize yours until you can replace the suppressant. Biochemical equilibrium through proxy contact."

The explanation—clinical, detached—helped me process what instinct had already recognized. Alpha scent as temporary shield. Protection through proximity rather than direct contact. A biological hack to buy time against accelerating failure.

I accepted the jacket with reluctant gratitude, sliding my arms into sleeves too long for my frame. The fabric enveloped me in his scent—not just sandalwood and cedar but deeper notes I hadn't consciously registered before. Gun oil, yes, but also leather, aged paper, something almost like cinnamon. Complex . Distinctive . Unmistakably him.

The effect was immediate and profound. My racing pulse steadied fractionally, the roiling heat in my core subsiding from urgent demand to muted awareness. Not elimination of biological response, but temporary reprieve—alpha scent satisfying the most primitive part of omega biology without direct intervention.

"Better?" Matteo asked, still maintaining careful distance despite the visible strain in his posture, the tension evident in his jaw.

I nodded, humiliation washing through temporary relief. " I'm sorry. This isn't— I don't usually?—"

"Don't apologize for biology," he interrupted, voice controlled once more though his pupils remained dilated, his scent still carrying traces of response to mine. " Just fix it before it progresses further. For both our sakes."

The acknowledgment of mutual vulnerability hung between us—his control as precarious as my suppression when biology decided to assert its ancient imperatives. Alpha responding to omega signals wasn't just instinct but biochemical cascade, triggering protective aggression, territorial defense, mating imperative in sequence designed to answer omega distress with complementary response.

I clutched his jacket tighter around me, drowning in fabric that provided temporary shield against a threat we both recognized without naming. " I should go. Replace the patch."

He nodded once, stepping aside to clear path to the hallway. His restraint was palpable—muscles tense beneath his shirt, hands slightly fisted at his sides as he maintained the distance his instincts clearly wanted to close. I moved past him carefully, preserving space between us that felt increasingly artificial given what had just transpired.

At the threshold, I paused, something compelling me to acknowledge what he'd done—the control he'd maintained, the solution he'd offered without taking advantage of vulnerability that would have been easy to exploit.

"Thank you," I said quietly, not meeting his eyes. " For the jacket. For the distance."

"Don't mistake restraint for disinterest, Luca ." The warning emerged lower, rougher than his usual controlled cadence. " I'm still alpha. You're still omega. And you're still mine by claim, if not yet by bite."

The reminder—of status, of arrangement, of claiming yet to be physically consummated—sent another pulse of heat through my core despite the temporary buffer his jacket provided. Not fear but anticipation, not rejection but recognition of truth neither of us could fully escape despite best intentions.

"I understand," I replied, the words emerging steadier than I felt. " But I appreciate the choice within constraint."

Something shifted in his expression then—surprise, perhaps, at articulation of nuance most wouldn't recognize within alpha-omega dynamics. The acknowledgment that restraint wasn't absence of desire but respect for autonomy, that protection needn't require submission, that claiming could contain degrees of consent even within biological imperative.

"Go," he said finally, the single syllable carrying weight beyond its brevity. " Before biology removes choice from either of us."

I retreated then, the jacket trailing behind me like visible evidence of something neither of us had fully anticipated when this arrangement began. Not just protection through possession, not merely strategic alliance, but biochemical recognition that transcended conscious intention or careful planning.

The suppressant patch in the medicine cabinet—higher grade than what I'd usually access, specially formulated for omegas in high-stress environments—adhered with reassuring firmness behind my ear. The clinical packaging promised six-hour effectiveness under standard conditions. Whether the past twenty-four hours qualified as "standard" seemed doubtful at best.

I sank onto the edge of the bathtub, still wrapped in Matteo's jacket, allowing his scent to continue stabilizing mine while the fresh suppressants took effect. The situation had evolved beyond what either of us had calculated when this arrangement began—beyond paper claiming or political statement against Don Corvino's authority.

Biology had its own agenda, its own timetable for developments we'd imagined could be controlled through chemistry and willpower. The failure of my suppressant patch had revealed truth neither of us had fully acknowledged: whatever existed between alpha underboss and omega accountant had roots deeper than strategic alliance, than protection through possession.

Roots that reached into primitive brain stems where rationality held no jurisdiction, where scent and proximity and claiming instinct wrote their own narrative regardless of our conscious intentions.

I shrugged out of his jacket finally, folding it with careful precision across the counter. The mirror revealed someone I barely recognized—dark curls disheveled, eyes too bright, skin flushed despite chemical intervention now working to restore equilibrium. The omega beneath the accountant, revealed through chemical failure and alpha proximity alike.

Not who I had been before missing millions had pulled me into Matteo Corvino's orbit, nor quite who I would become once claiming progressed beyond paper to physical consummation. Someone in transition, balanced between autonomy and possession, between resistance and surrender to what biology seemed increasingly determined to manifest.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, fresh suppressant in place and tenuous control restored, I made my way back to the dining table where financial data still glowed on the laptop screen. Matteo had gone, leaving empty space that felt significant beyond mere physical absence.

The work remained. The investigation continued. The partnership—for that seemed increasingly apt description of what existed between us—persisted despite biological complications neither had fully anticipated.

I settled back into analysis of numbers that couldn't lie, of transactions that couldn't hide their origins from eyes trained to see patterns others missed. This , at least, remained unchanged. This skill, this function, this purpose that had brought me into Matteo Corvino's world before biology had begun asserting its own agenda.

But the memory of his scent lingered, despite fresh suppressants and chemical barriers carefully reconstructed. Sandalwood and cedar. Gun oil and leather. Protective alpha presence that had offered solution rather than exploitation when vulnerability had exposed itself between us.

The jacket lay folded in the blue room, returned but not forgotten. Evidence of something evolving between us—not just alpha and omega locked in biological inevitability, but man and man finding possibility for choice within constraint, for partnership within claiming, for autonomy within possession.

Small mercies, perhaps. But mercies nonetheless in a world where such considerations rarely factored into calculations of power and protection, of dominance and submission, of alpha and omega navigating the dangerous territory between them.