Page 7 of The Omega Accountant

Alone,Iperched on the edge of a leather armchair, manila folder balanced on my knees.Theroom felt too large, too exposed, every surface reflecting my discomfort back at me in perfect clarity.Timestretched, elastic and uncertain.

"You look like you're waiting for execution."

The voice cut through the silence without warning.Istartled, nearly dropping my folder asMatteoCorvinomaterialized from a doorwayIhadn't noticed.Hemoved with predatory grace, dressed in tailored black pants and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle.Notie, no jacket—casual, yet no less intimidating.

"Isn't that what this is?"Thewords escaped beforeIcould filter them, exhaustion fraying my usual caution.

Something like amusement flickered across his face. "Thatremains to be seen."

He settled into the chair opposite mine, posture relaxed yet commanding the entire space.Betweenus stretched a glass coffee table—neutral territory that felt woefully inadequate as a barrier.

"You've been busy."Hiseyes, dark and penetrating, fixed on the folder in my hands. "Workinglate.Takingfiles home.Beingfollowed."

The directness stole my breath. "You... know about that?"

"I know many things,Mr.Bianchi."Heleaned forward slightly, his scent intensifying with the movement. "Includingthat you're missing your regular suppressants.Andthat there were three alphas marking territory outside your apartment last night."

Heat crawled up my neck, humiliation mixing with fear.Mybody's betrayal—exposed so casually, as if discussing the weather. "Idon't see how that's relevant."

"Everything is relevant."Histone remained even, controlled. "Includingwhy someone would set surveillance on an accountant.Whythey would intimidate rather than eliminate."Hisgaze sharpened. "Whatdid you find,Luca?"

My name in his mouth felt intimate, dangerous.Iswallowed, focusing on the facts—the only solid ground in this quicksand conversation. "Tenmillion dollars.Missing."

"Show me."

My fingers trembled slightly asIopened the folder, extracting the meticulous documentationI'dprepared.Spreadsheets, transaction logs, pattern analyses—the language of numbers that had always made sense when nothing else did.Iplaced them on the glass table between us, creating a paper barrier between predator and prey.

"These transactions,"Ibegan, falling into the familiar rhythm of explanation, "show systematic diversion through seemingly legitimate channels.Smallenough to avoid automated flags, large enough to accumulate significantly over time."

Matteo didn't touch the papers, merely studied them from his position. "Andwhen did this begin?"

"Three weeks ago."Iindicated a highlighted date. "Thepattern suggests inside knowledge of our verification protocols.Someonewho understands how to subvert our safeguards."

"Someone like you."Itwasn't a question.

The implication hung in the air between us, heavy and accusatory.Imet his gaze directly, a dangerous choice for an omega facing an alpha in his territory, but fear had hardened into something like defiance.

"IfIhad stolen it,Iwouldn't be sitting here with evidence."Myvoice remained steady, surprising even myself. "AndIwouldn't have spent sixteen hours documenting a theftIcommitted."

His expression remained unreadable, but something shifted in his scent—the metallic note receding slightly. "No.Youwouldn't."

He reached for the papers finally, long fingers sorting through my work with unexpected care.Iwatched, unable to look away, as he absorbed the informationI'dspent the night compiling.Hisfocus was absolute, attention shifting between documents with predatory intensity.

When he looked up again, his eyes had changed—calculation replacing suspicion. "You'vetraced the shell companies?"

"As far as possible without external resources.Theylead to accounts in theCaymanIslands, then disappear."Ihesitated, then pushed forward. "ButIoverheard something.Threeweeks ago.Outsideyour father's office."

Interest sparked in his expression. "Tellme."

I recounted the conversationI'dwitnessed—Vincenzoand the security advisor, their cryptic exchange, the timing that aligned too perfectly with the missing funds.AsIspoke,Matteo'sposture shifted imperceptibly, tension gathering in his shoulders.

"You didn't report this immediately."Again, not a question.

"I didn't understand its significance untilIfound the discrepancies."Imet his gaze again, unwisely. "AndIwasn't certain whoIcould trust."

"But you decided to trust me."Hisvoice lowered, something almost like curiosity threading through it. "Why?"

The question pierced straight through my carefully constructed explanations.WhyhadIchosenMatteoCorvino?Theruthless heir apparent, known for cold efficiency rather than mercy?Theanswer hovered in the space between truth and self-preservation.

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