Page 6

6

MATTEO

B lood dripped between my fingers, viscous and cooling rapidly in the night air. Beside my foot, the body of Souza's assassin lay crumpled on the alley pavement, his throat opened in a clean slash that had silenced him permanently. The knife in my hand—a custom blade with an obsidian handle—felt like an extension of my body, familiar and necessary.

I wiped the blade on the dead man's jacket before resheathing it beneath my suit. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the alley's filth, creating a pungent reminder of mortality that would linger in my nostrils for hours. I'd tracked the man for three blocks after spotting him surveilling the penthouse perimeter, his movements too deliberate to be coincidental, his scent unmistakably Souza territory—pine and bergamot, the signature their enforcers all carried.

He'd made his move as I rounded the corner, a rookie mistake that had cost him his life. When his blade had sliced through my suit jacket, grazing my side, the pain had barely registered. The threat to what was mine had overwhelmed all other considerations.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Carlo's name illuminated the screen.

"It's done," I said simply, stepping away from the body.

"Clean?" Carlo's voice betrayed no judgment, only practical concern.

"Enough. Send the cleanup crew to the alley behind Marcello's . Tell them it's a message delivery, not a disappearance."

"Understood. And your status?"

My hand pressed against my side, coming away sticky with my own blood. " Superficial . I'm returning now."

I ended the call, pocketing the phone with blood-slicked fingers. The wound burned, a sharp reminder of momentary carelessness. I'd allowed the assassin one move too many, distracted by thoughts of the omega waiting in my penthouse—the omega whose scent had begun infiltrating my consciousness like a slow-acting drug.

Luca.

Three days had passed since our agreement to work as partners. Three days of shared investigation, of shoulders brushing as we hunched over financial records, of his honey-citrus scent gradually permeating my territory despite the suppressants. Three days of growing awareness that simmered beneath professional distance.

The path back to the penthouse took me through shadow-draped streets, my senses hyperaware of potential threats lurking in each darkened doorway. My territory had shrunk to a defensible perimeter around one building, one floor, one omega. Protecting what was mine had become an imperative that narrowed my focus to a dangerous degree.

The private elevator ascended soundlessly, carrying me upward toward safety. Blood had begun to congeal beneath my suit, the wound throbbing in time with my heartbeat. The injury itself concerned me less than what it represented—a lapse in vigilance, a weakness in my defenses. The Souzas had advanced from surveillance to direct action more quickly than anticipated. They were testing boundaries, probing for vulnerabilities.

Testing how far I would go to protect what belonged to me.

The elevator doors opened onto the quiet penthouse. Lamps bathed the main living area in warm light, creating the illusion of normalcy that had no place in our reality. Luca sat cross-legged on the sofa, papers spread around him like fallen leaves, his dark curls disheveled from running his fingers through them. He hadn't noticed my arrival, absorbed in his analysis, brow furrowed in concentration behind those wire-rimmed glasses.

For a moment, I allowed myself to observe him undetected. In these unguarded moments, his focus absolute and unaware of scrutiny, I glimpsed what drew me beyond strategic considerations—his intelligence evident in every precise movement, his determination showing in the set of his shoulders. The suppressant patch behind his ear had begun to fade at the edges, his scent gradually strengthening in response. Distinctive , unmistakable, increasingly distracting.

Mine.

The primal thought surfaced before I could suppress it. I'd claimed him on paper, in public declaration, but the biological bond remained unconsummated. The delay had been strategic, practical—a claiming bite would change everything, creating permanent physiological changes in both of us. Yet with each passing day, the absence of that bond chafed against instincts I'd spent years controlling.

Blood dripped onto the marble floor, shattering my reverie.

Luca's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he registered my presence—and my condition. " Matteo !"

He was on his feet in an instant, papers scattering forgotten as he crossed the room toward me. His scent spiked with alarm, the honey notes souring with distress as he cataloged the blood staining my shirt, my hands, the floor.

"What happened? Are you—" He reached for me without hesitation, hands hovering near the bloodstain spreading across my side.

"It's nothing," I said, stepping back to maintain distance. His proximity threatened my control in ways I hadn't anticipated, the combination of his scent and the adrenaline still coursing through my system creating a dangerous cocktail. " A message from the Souzas ."

Understanding dawned in his expression, followed quickly by something darker. " They found us."

"They've always known where we are." I moved past him toward the kitchen, needing distance, already regretting the instinctive withdrawal when his scent registered hurt beneath the concern. " They've simply escalated from watching to acting."

Luca followed, his earlier fear transforming into something more controlled, more analytical. " You killed him."

Not a question. A statement of fact delivered without judgment. Another surprise from the omega accountant who continued to defy expectations.

"Yes." I removed my ruined jacket, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the wound. " The first of many, most likely."

Luca absorbed this with quiet intensity, then moved to the cabinet where I kept medical supplies. He gathered antiseptic, gauze, suture kit—his movements efficient, determined. Professional rather than panicked.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to one of the kitchen stools.

The command in his voice—so unexpected from an omega—caught me off guard. I found myself complying before conscious thought intervened, settling onto the stool as he arranged supplies on the counter.

"Take off your shirt," he continued, opening the antiseptic. " I need to see how bad it is."

I raised an eyebrow, amusement cutting through pain. " Giving orders now, little accountant?"

"Someone has to, when you're bleeding all over your imported marble." His tone remained practical, but something flashed in his eyes—concern beneath the bravado, fear beneath the competence.

I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, the fabric sticking to the wound as I peeled it away. The slash along my side was approximately four inches long, deep enough to require stitches but having missed anything vital. Luca's sharp intake of breath confirmed what I already knew—it looked worse than it was.

"You need a hospital," he said, voice tight.

"No hospitals." The response was automatic, mafia doctrine ingrained since childhood. " It's not as bad as it looks."

"You're not a doctor," he countered, but his hands were already reaching for the antiseptic, accepting the reality that hospitals weren't an option in our world.

"Neither are you."

"I had a clumsy brother and a mother who worked double shifts." He dampened gauze with antiseptic, his movements revealing practiced familiarity. " Sit still. This will hurt."

The warning came a second before the burning sting of antiseptic against raw flesh. I remained motionless through years of discipline, though my muscles tensed involuntarily. Luca worked with clinical precision, cleaning the wound methodically, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've done this before," I observed, studying the careful movements of his hands near my skin.

"Often enough." He discarded bloodied gauze, reaching for fresh supplies. " My brother found trouble wherever he went. Being omega meant I learned to patch things up without attracting attention."

Another piece of his history revealed, another layer beneath the quiet accountant facade. I filed the information away, assembling a more complete picture of Luca Bianchi with each fragment he offered.

"This needs stitches," he said, examining the clean wound. " I can do it, but?—"

"Do it," I interrupted, trusting his assessment more than I'd expected to.

He hesitated only briefly before nodding, opening the suture kit with practiced movements. His hands remained steady as he prepared the needle, his focus absolute. When he stepped closer to begin stitching, his scent enveloped me—honey and citrus intensified by concentration, by proximity, by the fading effectiveness of his suppressants.

The first puncture of the needle sent a sharp spasm through my side. My jaw clenched involuntarily, muscles tensing beneath Luca's hands as my breath hitched—a momentary surrender to pain quickly mastered. The physical discomfort barely registered after that initial response, eclipsed by the effect of his scent, his presence, his unexpected competence in adversity. This close, I could see the fine tension in his jaw, the determination in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that he mastered through sheer will.

Strong in ways my father would never recognize.

His scent thickened in the closed space between us, the notes growing richer, more complex. The suppressant patch behind his ear—the second he'd applied since the earlier incident—was already showing signs of fatigue, the edges curling slightly as his elevated heart rate and proximity to an injured alpha overwhelmed its chemical barriers.

My nostrils flared involuntarily, drawing his scent deeper into my lungs. Beneath the dominant scent lay subtle notes I hadn't consciously cataloged before—something warm and earthy, like sun-baked soil after rain, and a fainter trace like ripening fruit on the edge of sweetness. Distinctive . Unmistakable . His .

My gums ached suddenly, canines throbbing with the primitive urge to extend, to claim, to mark the vulnerable juncture of neck and shoulder now inches from my face as Luca bent to his task. I could see his pulse fluttering beneath the delicate skin of his throat, could trace the slightly swollen scent gland that his failing suppressants could no longer completely conceal.

One movement. That's all it would take. One surge forward to press my teeth against that gland, to break skin, to exchange the biochemicals that would forever alter us both—his scent permanently marked with mine, my biology irrevocably attuned to his, the claiming bond forged beyond paper documentation or verbal declaration.

Mine. The thought pounded in my blood with each heartbeat. Mine to protect. Mine to claim. Mine .

I gripped the edge of the counter, marble cracking beneath the pressure of fingers now white-knuckled with restraint. The sound—subtle but distinct—registered in Luca's awareness. His hands paused in their careful work, eyes lifting to meet mine.

What he saw there must have triggered some primal recognition—omega registering alpha on the edge of control. His pupils dilated, a soft gasp escaping before he could suppress it. His scent shifted instantly, honey notes deepening with something dark and sweet, citrus sharpening with awareness that translated even through chemical barriers.

Sweat beaded along my hairline, dripping down my temple despite the cool air of the kitchen. My vision narrowed, peripheral details fading as focus zeroed in on the pulsing vein beneath the skin of his throat. The counter edge crumbled further under my grip, fine dust of crushed marble raining silently to the floor. Every muscle in my body had gone rigid, coiled with the effort of maintaining position when every instinct demanded I surge forward, claim, bite, mark.

"Matteo?" My name emerged as question and recognition simultaneously, his voice pitched lower than usual.

"Finish," I managed, the word emerging through clenched teeth, control maintained through years of discipline now fraying at the edges. " Quickly ."

Understanding flashed across his features, followed by something more complex—fear mixed with fascination, caution layered over instinctive response to alpha in protective rut. The omega recognizing danger not to himself but to the careful boundaries we'd established between us.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tied off another stitch, his breathing quickening in pattern that matched my own. The air between us had become charged with pheromones neither could fully suppress—alpha aggression triggered by injury and threat to claimed territory, omega response amplified by proximity and caretaking instinct.

"Almost done," he murmured, voice steadier than his scent suggested possible.

I forced my gaze away from the pulse point at his throat, focusing instead on the generic patterns of the kitchen backsplash, on the clinical aspects of what was happening rather than the biological imperative now roaring through my system.

Just stitches. Just wound care. Not the omega I'd claimed on paper now close enough to mark permanently, his scent calling to something primal beneath civilized veneer.

The rational part of my brain—the part still functioning beyond biological imperative—recognized the danger in this moment. Injury combined with threat to claimed territory created perfect conditions for protective rut, for alpha biology overwhelming careful restraint. Add the gradually failing suppressants, the increasing potency of Luca's natural scent, and the intimate act of caretaking—a perfect chemical storm neither had fully anticipated.

"Last one," Luca announced, voice barely above whisper though we were alone in the penthouse.

The final stitch slid into place, his fingers deftly securing the thread before cutting it with small scissors that looked absurdly delicate in his hands. He reached for clean gauze, movements now hurried where they had been methodical, awareness of changing atmospheric conditions evident in the tension of his shoulders, the careful distance he tried to maintain despite our proximity.

As he leaned forward to place the bandage, his neck came within inches of my mouth. I could see the scent gland now clearly swollen beneath his skin, ruddy and inflamed as his biology responded to mine despite suppressants. The sight triggered a visceral reaction I couldn't control—a low, rumbling growl that emerged from my chest without conscious permission.

Luca's hand jerked, his body freezing in place as the sound registered—not threatening but claiming, not aggressive but declarative. His own scent gland throbbed visibly in response, a biological reaction beyond his control. His free hand rose unconsciously to press against it, fingers rubbing the sensitized area as if to relieve an ache that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with biological imperative.

"I'm sorry," I managed, exerting control through sheer willpower as I forced myself to release the counter edge, to straighten on the stool, to restore professional distance between us. " That was..."

"Biology," Luca finished, understanding evident beneath caution, his hand still pressed against his neck where the scent gland pulsed visibly beneath pale skin. " Just biology."

But it wasn't just biology. That was the lie we both needed in this moment—the pretense that what surged between us was merely chemical, merely instinctive, merely the inevitable result of alpha and omega in charged circumstances.

The truth ran deeper, more complex—something evolving between us that transcended secondary gender or biological imperative. Something neither of us had vocabulary to define fully, connection forming through crisis and consequence, through choice preserved within constraint.

Luca stepped further away, creating distance that felt both necessary and artificial. His hand remained at his neck, thumb unconsciously circling the gland that had begun to ache with phantom pressure—the echo of a bite not yet delivered, a bond not yet formed but already calling through flesh and chemistry alike.

"You should change that," I observed, voice rougher than intended as I nodded toward the failing patch. " And I should shower. Change ."

He nodded, refusing to meet my eyes directly—omega instinct preserving delicate balance where direct challenge might trigger response neither could afford in this moment. His fingers still traced absent patterns against his neck, a gesture he seemed unaware of performing.

"I'll clean up here," he said, gesturing toward the bloodied supplies, the evidence of intimacy now requiring erasure for both our sakes.

I stood, careful to move slowly despite the predatory instinct now surging beneath controlled exterior. The distance between us felt charged, magnetic, particles of scent lingering in the air like invisible tether binding alpha to omega despite physical separation.

"Luca."

He looked up finally, something vulnerable and fierce simultaneously in his expression—the complexity I'd glimpsed from our first interaction, the strength my father had dismissed as omega weakness.

"Thank you," I said simply, the gratitude encompassing more than medical attention, than care provided without expectation.

He nodded once, acceptance without elaboration, understanding without need for clarification. " Partners , remember?"

The reminder—of definition we'd established, of boundaries we'd created—steadied something unsteady within me. Not possession but partnership. Not ownership but alliance. Choice preserved within constraint neither could fully escape.

"Partners," I agreed, the word carrying weight beyond its syllables.

I retreated then, needing distance before biology overwhelmed choice, before instinct overrode restraint so carefully maintained since claiming had bound us through documentation rather than bite. The shower awaited—hot water to wash away blood and sweat, to clear head of dangerous impulses now threatening careful boundaries established between us.

As steam filled the bathroom, as water sluiced pink down the drain, I pressed my forehead against cool tile, seeking clarity through physical sensation. The omega in my kitchen—capable, intelligent, unexpectedly fierce despite biological vulnerability—had become essential in ways that transcended strategic alliance or protective imperative.

His scent lingered in my consciousness despite physical distance, despite water washing away external traces of our interaction. Distinctive . Unmistakable . His .

Mine, alpha instinct insisted with primitive certainty.

Ours, partnership countered with evolving definition.

The distinction made all the difference as I fought for control beneath cascading water, for clarity through steam and sensation, for restraint against instinct now roaring through my system with each heartbeat.

Mine to protect. Mine to defend. Mine to honor through restraint rather than possession.

When I emerged finally, wound rebandaged and control restored through discipline and distance alike, I found the kitchen spotless—evidence of our interaction erased as if it had never happened. Luca had retreated to the blue room, door closed though not locked, boundary established through mutual understanding rather than physical barrier.

The memory of his scent lingered despite his absence, despite the fresh suppressant patch he'd undoubtedly applied, despite the careful distance now maintained between alpha and omega navigating territory more complex than either had anticipated when this arrangement began.

His competence. His courage. His unexpected strength beneath apparent vulnerability. All registered in my assessment not as weaknesses to exploit but as qualities to respect, to protect, to honor through restraint rather than possession.

Mine, alpha instinct insisted with undiminished certainty.

Ours, partnership countered with growing conviction.

The distinction would make all the difference in what evolved between us—in what had already begun transforming from paper claiming to something neither of us had vocabulary to define fully. Something not just biological but chosen, not just instinctive but deliberate.

Something worth protecting through restraint as much as through the violence already delivered to those who threatened what was mine.