Page 15 of The Omega Accountant

His chin lifted slightly as he spoke, gaze steady and unflinching.Thefaintest edge of determination sharpened the honey in his scent, cutting through the lingering suppressants—a subtle but unmistakable declaration that matched his words.Notbegging for protection, not cowering, but standing his ground.

With that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my mind.Imoved to the windows overlooking the city, my territory spread before me like a living chess board, players moving in shadows, pieces repositioning after tonight's declaration of intent.

My father was wrong aboutLuca.TheSouzaswere wrong about my intentions.Whoeverhad stolen from us was wrong to think they wouldn't be found.

And perhapsIhad been wrong as well—to thinkIcould maintain emotional distance while claiming an omega who challenged everythingIthoughtIknew about strength.

I watchedLuca'sretreating form in the reflection of the window glass, a resolution forming in my mind.Iwould protect him, yes.ButIwouldn't need to make him strong.

He already was.

5

LUCA

Consciousness returned slowly, fragments of reality assembling themselves like puzzle pieces behind my closed eyelids.Unfamiliarsoftness cradled my body—sheets with a thread count higher than my monthly rent, pillows that yielded with perfect resistance.Thescent reached me beforeIopened my eyes: sandalwood and cedar, that dangerous metallic undertone.Notmine.His.

I bolted upright, the events of yesterday cascading through my mind.Themissing millions.Thecar outside my apartment.Thesummons toMatteoCorvino'spenthouse.Theclaim.

My omega.Undermy protection and authority.Beyondmy father's reach.

Light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating an unfamiliar bedroom.Mybedroom now, apparently.Theblue room, asCarlohad called it.Thedecor was understated luxury—midnight blue walls, charcoal furnishings, chrome accents.Beautiful.Impersonal.Agilded cage.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, registering thatIstill wore yesterday's clothes, rumpled from sleep.Mywatch showed 10:17AM.I'dslept 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.Iapproached it with measured steps, hand extending toward the handle with scientific detachment, as if conducting an experiment whose resultsIalready anticipated.Thehandle turned.Thedoor opened.Notlocked.

Small mercies.

The hallway stretched before me, silent and empty.Noguards visible, thoughIsuspected they lurked somewhere beyond my immediate perception.Ipaused, listening.Thepenthouse 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.Idiscovered coffee already brewed, still warm in an elaborate machine that required an engineering degree to operate.Anote sat propped against a mug:Helpyourself.Securitybriefing at noon. —M

The handwriting was precise, controlled.Likethe man himself.

Cup in hand,Icontinued my exploration, cataloging exits, windows, potential escape routes.Oldhabits from a childhood spent navigating around an alcoholic father's unpredictable moods—always know your exits.Thepenthouse proved larger than expected, a maze of rooms both functional and decorative.Officespaces.Meetingrooms.Asmall gym.Everyconvenience required to maintainMatteoCorvino'sposition 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.Iapproached the glass, testing its solidity with my fingertips.Bulletproof, most likely.Myreflection stared back at me—pale face, dark curls disheveled, eyes shadowed from stress despite the long sleep.Thesuppressor patch still clung behind my ear, a small miracle of modern chemistry keeping my biology contained.

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

Movement caught my eye—a small red light blinking from the ceiling corner.Iturned slowly, scanning the room with newfound awareness.There.Anothercamera, discreetly positioned near a bookshelf.Andanother by the hallway entrance.Therealization spread coldly through my chest.Thepenthouse wasn't just secured from outside threats.Itwas monitored from within.

I was being watched.

The coffee turned bitter on my tongue.Iset the mug down carefully, restraining the urge to wave sarcastically at the nearest lens.Instead,Icontinued my circuit of the penthouse, now noting the surveillance points with methodical precision.Livingroom: three cameras.Kitchen: two.Hallways: one at each junction.Theblue bedroom: none visible, butIwouldn't bet against hidden monitoring.

If there were hidden cameras in the bedroom,Ihadn't found them... butIwasn't naive enough to believe none existed.Icouldn't decide if the absence of visible cameras in the bedroom was respect for privacy or merely better concealment.Neitheroption particularly comforted me.

A sleek laptop sat on the dining table, closed but not locked.Iapproached it warily, expecting it to be password-protected, but the screen illuminated at my touch.Fileshad been arranged on the desktop—financial records, transaction logs, surveillance reports.EverythingI'dcompiled about the missing money, plus additional informationIhadn't had access to.

He'd left it for me.Aninvitation to continue my investigation.Ora test.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating.Trustnothing freely offered—another childhood lesson.Yetthe data called to me, promising answers to questions that had landed me in this gilded prison.Iclicked open the first file, losing myself in the familiar language of numbers and transactions.

Time dissolved asIfollowed the digital trail, cross-referencing accounts, tracking shell companies through jurisdictional loopholes.Themethodology 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.Someonewith intimate knowledge of theCorvinofinancial structure had orchestrated this.Someonewith authority to approve transfers without triggering alerts.Someone?—

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