Amy's POV
Three weeks passed in a blur of cooking and payment and silent screaming.
Sofia was walking. The texts from Nico showed her smiling, healthy, alive. That's what mattered. That's what I told myself every time Lorenzo summoned me after a dinner party. Every time I paid the price for my sister's life.
Then Lorenzo announced we were returning to Stella d'Oro.
"You'll be head chef starting Monday," he said over breakfast. "Bianca has been... reassigned to our Florence location. You'll manage the kitchen, create new menus, train the staff."
"Bianca had three Michelin stars. They'll never accept me…"
"They'll accept you because I'm paying them to accept you. And because your cooking is better than hers ever was." He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "We leave in an hour. Pack your chef's whites."
The kitchen staff at Stella d'Oro stared at me like I had crawled out of a sewer.
I was twenty-three. Self-taught. Female. An omega, even if they didn't know it.
And I was their new boss.
"This is insulting," one of the line cooks muttered in Italian, probably thinking I didn't understand. "She's a child playing dress-up."
I ignored them and started reviewing the prep stations, making notes on efficiency improvements, menu changes, technique corrections.
By hour two, half the staff was ready to walk out.
By hour three, Matteo Ricci walked in.
I froze.
My ex-boyfriend. The one I had dated for three months when I was a janitor. The one who had dumped me when I wouldn't move in with him, claiming I was "too secretive" and "not committed enough."
He was taller than I remembered. Still handsome, with that easy smile that had once made me feel special.
Now it made my skin crawl.
"Amy?" His eyes widened in recognition. "Holy shit. It really is you."
"Matteo." I kept my voice professional. "You're the new sous-chef?"
"I started yesterday. But I didn't realize you were the head chef Lorenzo's been talking about." He moved closer, studying me. "Last I heard, you were scrubbing floors. How'd you end up here?"
"I got lucky," I said shortly.
"Lucky." His smile turned sharp. "Or maybe you found a better meal ticket. Lorenzo De Luca is a hell of an upgrade from a sous-chef's salary."
The other cooks were watching, listening.
"I'm here because I can cook," I said firmly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a kitchen to run."
"Of course, Chef." He said the title mockingly. "Though I have to say, your skills have improved dramatically. Almost... supernaturally." His eyes narrowed. "Makes me wonder what else you've been hiding."
Before I could respond, he pulled out his phone.
"Funny thing, I kept some photos from when we dated. Thought they might come in handy someday." He turned the screen toward me.
It was a photo of a dish I had made once in his tiny apartment. Pasta carbonara. Nothing special.
Except it was glowing.
Faintly, unmistakably, glowing with that silver shimmer.
My heart stopped.
"Camera phones pick up light wavelengths the human eye can't always see," Matteo said conversationally. "Want to explain what that is?"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He knew.
He had known all along.
"I had done some research after we broke up," he continued, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "Read some interesting articles about genetic anomalies. People with enhanced senses. People who can do impossible things. People who glow."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I whispered.
*Sure you don't." He pocketed his phone. "Here's the deal. You help me get what I want, or I send these photos to some very interested parties. Hunters, specifically, who pay top dollar for proof of werewolves."
The word hung in the air between us like a blade.
"You're insane…"
"Am I?" He leaned closer. "Tell me, Amy. What happens if Lorenzo finds out his precious head chef is exactly the kind of creature that hunters love to experiment on? What happens to your sweet little contract then?"
"Matteo, please…"
"Please what? Please keep your secret?" He smiled. "I will. For a price."
*What do you want?"
"I want Bianca's old position. Three Michelin stars. Recognition. Fame." His eyes hardened. "And I want you to help me get it. Starting with sabotaging tonight's VIP service."
"I won't…"
"You will. Because if you don't, these photos go viral by morning.
Every hunter in Italy will know where to find you." He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Amy? Don't think about telling Lorenzo. If he finds out about this conversation, the photos go out immediately. You have until tonight's service to decide."
Then he walked away, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my world crumbling around me.
I made it to the bathroom before the panic attack hit.
Locked in a stall, I hyperventilated into my hands, mind racing.
Matteo had proof. Actual photographic proof of what I was.
If he sent those photos, hunters would come. They would capture me. Torture me. Question me to figure out how I made dishes glow.
And then they would find Sofia. Find Nico. Find every werewolf I have ever known.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
'Sabotage Bianca's replacement at tonight's VIP service. Make her look incompetent. Do it, or the photos go out at midnight. -M'
I stared at the message until my vision blurred.
Then another text came through. This one from Lorenzo.
Tonight's VIP is a major investor. Everything must be perfect. Don't disappoint me.
I was trapped between two predators, both demanding the impossible.
Sabotage the service and lose Lorenzo's protection.
Refuse and let Matteo expose me to hunters.
There was no good choice.
No way out.
I pulled out the burner phone and texted Nico: If something happens to me, protect Sofia. Get her somewhere safe. Don't trust anyone.
His response was immediate: Amy what's wrong?
I didn't answer.
Instead, I stood up, washed my face, and walked back into the kitchen.
Because I'd learned a long time ago that survival meant making impossible choices.
It meant sacrificing pieces of yourself to save the people you loved.
It meant enduring the unendurable.
And tonight, I would have to choose which predator to betray.
The alpha who owned me.
Or the ex-boyfriend who could destroy me.
Either way, someone was going to pay.
The only question was whether it would be me.
Or everyone I'd ever cared about.