Page 1 of The Omega Accountant

1

LUCA

The numbers refused to lie, no matter how desperatelyIwished they would.

I sat alone in the quiet sanctum of theCorvinoaccounting office, the building's shadows stretching long across my desk as evening descended over the city.Everyoneelse had gone home hours ago—normal people with normal lives who didn't spend theirFridaynights reconciling the bloody finances of one of the city's most notorious families.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the glowing screen where the numbers refused to add up.Tenmillion dollars.Missing.Avoid in the ledger that gaped like an open wound.

I removed my glasses, pressing the heels of my palms against my tired eyes.Thefaint scent of my own anxiety—subtle notes of citrus turned sour—registered in my consciousness, a biological warning systemI'dspent years learning to ignore.Omegasweren't supposed to be accountants for the mafia.Weweren't supposed to notice financial discrepancies.Wecertainly weren't supposed to be alone in theCorvinoheadquarters after dark.

Yet hereIwas.

I replaced my glasses, the world coming back into sharp focus asIscrolled through the digital ledger again.Themissing money had been cleverly disguised, distributed across multiple accounts in fragments that wouldn't trigger automated alerts.Someonewho knew the system had done this—someone with access and authority.

"Think,Luca,"Iwhispered to myself, my voice barely disturbing the tomblike quiet of the office.

A memory surfaced: three weeks ago, passing the partially open door toDonCorvino'sprivate office.Inside, the old alpha's right-hand man,Vincenzo, and the family's external security advisor huddled close, voices pitched low.Ihad slowed my steps, an old childhood habit of making myself invisible serving me well.

"—can't trace it back to us?" the advisor had asked.

"Not if your end is handled properly.Theaccounts are clean."

They'd fallen silent whenDonCorvinoentered from his private bathroom.Ihad continued walking, quickening my pace just enough to avoid suspicion.I'dthought nothing of it at the time—cryptic conversations were the currency of mafia life.

AsI'dturned the corner,I'dnearly collided with him—MatteoCorvino, theDon'sson.Mybody had registered his presence before my mind did.Awall of sandalwood, cedar, and something dangerously metallic—gun oil, perhaps—had enveloped me.Myscent suppression patch had faltered for just a second, a biological glitchIcouldn't control.

He'd steadied me with one hand, his touch burning through the fabric of my shirt.Darkeyes had assessed me, nostrils flaring slightly before his expression smoothed into cool detachment.

"Careful, accountant," he'd said, voice low.

He'd continued past me, but not beforeIcaught a glimpse of something unexpected in his eyes—not the dismissive contempt most alphas showed omegas, but a flash of... consideration.Thesame look he'd given a young beta courier the month before, right before he'd intervened when theDonwas ready to execute the boy for delivering bad news.

Now, with ten million missing and cleverly concealed, both fragments of memory took on new significance.

I pulled up the transaction records, cross-referencing dates and times.Thediverted funds had begun to move exactly two days after that overheard conversation.Toomuch coincidence to ignore.

My fingers drummed against the polished wood of my desk asIweighed my options.Reportthe discrepancy, andI'dbecome a target for whoever was behind it.Staysilent, andImight be implicated when it eventually came to light—as it inevitably would.

TheCorvinofamily didn't forgive financial betrayal.Theycertainly didn't show mercy to omegas who stuck their noses where they didn't belong.

The air conditioning cycled off, leaving the office in a silence so completeIcould hear my own quickened heartbeat.Itouched the scent suppression patch behind my ear—a habit when stress threatened to broadcast my emotional state to any passing alpha.Ipressed harder than necessary, as ifIcould retroactively erase that moment of weakness withMatteoin the hallway.

My omega hindbrain had never quite forgotten the encounter—how his scent had triggered a cascade of unwanted responses, the sudden slick warmth, the way my throat had wanted to expose itself.Biologywas a prison in its own way, oneI'dspent my adult life trying to escape.

My decision crystallized in the quiet.Icouldn't stay silent.Notwith this much money.Notwhen it could bring down the wrath ofDonCorvinoon innocent staff if discovered later.

I would report it—but carefully, to the right person.NottheDondirectly, nor his right-hand manVincenzowho might be involved.MatteoCorvinowas my only option.Hehad a reputation for being ruthless but fair.AndI'dseen firsthand his unexpected mercy.Thefact that my traitorous body hummed at the thought of being in his presence again was irrelevant—a biological inconvenienceIwould suppress just like always.

I methodically gathered evidence, downloading transaction records onto an encrypted drive.Icompiled the data into a comprehensive report, attaching visualizations that clearly showed the pattern of diversion.Thework calmed me, as numbers always did.Inthe world of accounting, there were no ambiguities, no political games—just the clean clarity of mathematics.Thenumbers didn't lie.Butthe men behind them—that was an entirely different matter.

WhenIfinally finished, the digital clock on my desktop read 11:37PM.I'dbeen there nearly sixteen hours.Mysuppressants were due for renewal—Icould feel the edge of my natural scent beginning to seep through, a vulnerabilityIcouldn't afford tonight of all nights.

I slipped the drive into my messenger bag, along with a printed copy of my findings sealed in a manila envelope.Ishut down my computer and stretched, my body protesting the long hours of immobility.

The vastCorvinooffice building felt different at night—less like a legitimate business headquarters and more like the criminal fortress it truly was.Myfootsteps echoed on the marble floors asImade my way to the elevator, the weight of my discovery heavy in my bag and heavier on my mind.

The elevator carried me down to the lobby, the mirrored walls reflecting a man who appeared more composed thanIfelt.Darkcurls slightly disheveled, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a straight nose, slim build in a wrinkled white shirt and navy slacks.Nothingremarkable.Nothingthreatening.JustLucaBianchi, the quiet omega accountant who melted into the background ofCorvinooperations.

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