Page 2 of The Omega Accountant

Exactly asI'dalways intended.

The night guard nodded to me asIcrossed the lobby. "Workinglate again,Mr.Bianchi?"

"The numbers don't balance themselves,Marco."Ioffered a faint smile, careful to project nothing but tired professionalism.

"You want me to call you a car?"

"No need.Icould use the fresh air."

A lie.WhatIneeded was privacy, and theCorvinocar service was too easily monitored.

Outside, theSeptembernight air carried the first hint of autumn chill.Ibuttoned my light jacket, clutching my bag closer to my side asIbegan the twelve-block walk to my apartment.Thefinancial district gradually gave way to more residential streets, the buildings growing smaller, older, less imposing.

Three blocks from the office, the skin on the back of my neck prickled.Yearsof surviving in a world dominated by predatory alphas had honed instincts that went beyond conscious thought.Iwas being followed.

I didn't alter my pace or glance back.Instead,Itook out my phone, pretending to check messages while angling the screen to catch reflections in the dark glass.Twoshadows moved behind me, keeping pace at about half a block's distance.Largemen, moving with the practiced ease of professionals.

My heart rate doubled, but my steps remained steady.Panicwould only draw attention to my awareness.

A bus rumbled past, andImade a split-second decision, darting across the street to catch it at the next stop.Thebus doors hissed open just asIreached them.Iboarded, paid my fare with shaking hands, and took a seat near the middle, finally allowing myself a glance out the window.

The two men stood on the corner, watching the bus pull away.Onespoke into what looked like a radio or phone.

They weren't trying to be subtle.Thiswas a message:Wesee you.

The bus carried me within three blocks of my apartment building—close enough for convenience, far enough thatIhopedI'dlost my tail.Idisembarked, quickly scanning the nearly empty street before walking briskly toward home.

The familiar outline of my apartment building appeared ahead, a modest six-story pre-war structure with a small courtyard entrance.AsIapproached, my steps slowed.

A black sedan idled across the street, its engine running, windows tinted too dark to see inside.Thevehicle hadn't been there this morning.

My fingers tightened on the strap of my messenger bag.Thiswasn't coincidence.Someoneknew—or suspected—whatI'dfound.

I kept walking, forcing myself not to look at the car again asIclimbed the steps to my building's entrance.Theweight of unseen eyes followed me, boring into my back asIfumbled with my keys.

Inside, the familiar lobby with its faded carpet and mail slots offered little comfort.Ibypassed the ancient elevator, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.OnlywhenIreached my apartment door, unlocked it, and secured the three deadbolts behind me didIallow myself to exhale.

My apartment was dark and silent—a modest one-bedroom that served more as a place to sleep than a true home.Idropped my bag on the kitchen counter and moved to the window, carefully staying to the side asIpeered down at the street.

The black sedan remained, patient and menacing.

My hand moved unconsciously to touch the scent suppression patch again, pressing it more firmly against my skin as if it could somehow make me completely invisible.Theencrypted drive in my bag suddenly felt like a live grenade with its pin removed.

I'd uncovered something dangerous—something worth killing for.

And now they knewIknew.

I backed away from the window, decision made.Iwouldn't be sleeping tonight.Instead,I'dprepare.Reviewthe evidence again.Planmy approach for the morning whenIwould request a private meeting withMatteoCorvino.

IfIsurvived until then.

In the darkness of my kitchen,Iremoved the drive from my bag and held it in my palm, its weight insignificant compared to the information it contained. "Whathave you gotten yourself into?"Iwhispered to the empty apartment.

Only the distant hum of the city and the oppressive silence of fear answered me.

I tried to slow my breathing, but the adrenaline coursing through my system had triggered something worse—something biological.Abead of slick warmth formed between my thighs, my body's unconscious response to danger.Stresscould trigger pre-heat symptoms in some omegas, a cruel evolutionary trick meant to find protection through submission.

The patch at my neck was failing, overwhelmed by my body's chemistry.Afaint sweetness—honey and citrus—began to permeate my small kitchen.Ipressed a trembling hand against the scent gland at my throat, feeling it swell slightly beneath my fingers.

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