The scent of old wood, expensive cigar smoke, and quiet power was as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. It was the scent of the Rossi Opera House—or what the public saw of it. Beneath the gilded balconies and faded velvet, it was the seat of my kingdom. My father's kingdom. Now mine.
I sat in the director's box, which served as my office, a glass of amaro nonino in my hand, not drinking. The report from my Underboss, Viktor, was a low, steady drone. A shipment secured. A loyalty issue in the midtown crew, resolved. The usual rhythm of control.
Then, the static crackle of the earpiece, a voice from the outer perimeter. "Don Rossi. Movement at the south-east loading dock. A single. Not one of ours."
I didn't move. Viktor paused, his eyes on me. "Police?" he murmured.
"Unlikely. They announce themselves." I set the glass down. The crystal made no sound on the leather pad. "Continue, Viktor."
He did, but my attention was split. I listened to the faint, coded updates in my ear. The intruder was good. Slipped past the first watchpoint. Knew about the blind spot in the camera arc. This wasn't a vagrant. This was reconnaissance.
A slow, cold curiosity unfolded within me. An anomaly in my meticulously ordered world. "Handle it quietly," I said into my mic. "Bring them to the green room. I'll be down."
Viktor's eyebrow twitched. For me to personally attend to an intruder was… unusual. But the precision of the breach warranted it. This was either a bold enemy or a catastrophic mistake.
I descended the hidden staircase behind the stage, the echoes of my footsteps swallowed by thick carpet. The backstage area was a labyrinth of shadows and draped scenery. The "green room" was not for actors. It was a neutral, soundproofed space for meetings that required discretion, or for problems that needed to disappear.
From the observation room behind a one-way mirror, I watched. Two of my men stood guard. On the floor, seated in a plain chair, was the anomaly.
It was a woman. Young. Her hair, a faded chestnut brown, was pulled into a messy knot. She wore practical, dark clothing, slightly too large. A detective's badge was clipped to her belt. Her hands were bound in front of her with a zip-tie, but her posture wasn't one of defeat. It was coiled, alert. She was studying the room, the vents, the doorframe, with a sharp, analytical gaze.
And her scent… or the lack of it.
Most Omegas, even the so-called defective ones, emitted some trace—fear-sour, or sweetly cloying, or milky-weak. She gave off nothing. As if she were a Beta. But the file Viktor had already pulled up on a tablet told me otherwise: Ava Sterling. 25. Omega. Detective Third Grade. It listed her as "non-reactive, scent-dim."
A ghost. A scentless ghost who had walked into the lion's den.
She was arguing, her voice muffled but clear through the speaker. "—illegal detainment. You have no cause. My precinct knows my location."
My man, Leo, merely grunted. "You're trespassing on private property, Detective. Found tampering with a crime scene."
"A crime scene you were cleaning with bleach and black bags," she shot back, no fear, only furious accusation. "Where's the body? Who was it?"
Foolish. Brave. Intriguingly foolish.
I watched as Leo shifted, impatient. He was a good soldier, but not subtle. He saw a problem to be eliminated. He raised a hand, not to strike her, but to inject a sedative into her neck. A quiet end for a quiet problem.
Something tightened in my chest. A cold, swift knot.
Her head turned then, as if sensing the movement behind the mirror. Her eyes—a warm, intelligent brown—seemed to look directly at me through the glass. They were wide, not with the terror I was used to inspiring, but with a blazing, indignant fury. A refusal to be erased.
The order left my lips, quiet and absolute, into my mic. "Stop."
In the room, Leo froze. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The atmosphere changed instantly. My own scent—crimson rose, aged whiskey, cold steel—filled the confined space. My men bowed their heads a fraction. The detective, Ava Sterling, went perfectly still. Her eyes tracked me, widening further. Not in recognition—she didn't know my face—but in an instinctive assessment of threat, of power.
I saw her nostrils flare, trying to place my scent. A slight, almost imperceptible confusion crossed her face. Confusion, not submission.
I stopped a few feet from her. I looked at Leo. "You struck her?"
"No, Don—"
"Good." I turned my full attention to her. Up close, she was… not beautiful in a conventional way. Her face was sharp with stress and poverty, but there was a fierce light behind it, a stubborn resilience that had been hammered into her bones. She was a survivor. I knew the type. I was one.
"Detective Sterling," I said, my voice low and even. It was not a question.
She swallowed, her defiance hardening into a shield. "Who are you?"
I ignored it. "You are looking for a body. A John Doe from the docks."
Her breath hitched. "How do you know that?"
"This is my property. I know everything that happens here." I took a slow step closer, watching her. She didn't shrink back. She held my gaze, a remarkable feat. "You are a persistent anomaly in my evening."
"I'm doing my job."
"Your job will get you killed." The words were flat, a simple fact. "This place, these people… they are not for your solving."
For the first time, a flicker of something else—not fear, but a dawning, horrible understanding—passed through her eyes. She was beginning to comprehend the scale of her error.
The logic was clear. She had seen my men, my operation. She was a loose end. Viktor, watching from the doorway, expected the next order. A nod. A single, terminal command.
But the scentless ghost with the fiery eyes held my gaze. Her complete lack of Omega submission was a paradox. Her bravery was a spark in the stifling gloom of my world. She was a problem, yes. But she was my problem now.
An impulse, reckless and profound, overrode a lifetime of cold calculus.
I turned to Leo. "Bring her to the Selene Suite. Ensure she is comfortable. Not a cell." I looked back at her, capturing her bewildered stare. "We are not animals here, Detective. We will discuss your… intrusion… like civilized people."
I saw the protest form on her lips, the outraged 'You can't—'
I leaned in, just slightly, letting the full, dominant weight of my rose-and-iron scent wash over her. Not to hurt, but to imprint. To mark this moment. Her pupils dilated. A faint, finally, a hint of a scent did rise from her skin—not fear, but clean, sun-dried linen and the faint, sharp edge of graphite.
Unique.
"You will come with him," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. It was a velvet-wrapped command. "And you will forget you ever saw the loading dock. But," I added, as I turned to leave, throwing the words over my shoulder like a challenge, a promise, "you may find it harder to forget me."
I walked out, leaving the stunned silence in my wake. My heart, a dormant thing for so long, gave a single, hard thump against my ribs.
An anomaly had entered the fortress. And instead of ejecting it, I had just invited it into my innermost sanctum.
The game, I realized with a chilling thrill, had suddenly become infinitely more interesting.
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Thank you for reading my novel