Amy's POV
The blood wouldn't come out.
I scrubbed harder, my knees aching against the rough floorboards of the communal hall, hands raw from lye soap. Three days old, from when the hunting party returned with two dead and one dying. We had lost more wolves this month than the entire previous year.
"Harder, omega."
I flinched at Elder Marco's voice, shoulders hunching automatically.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by pale morning sun filtering through the Apennine forest.
"Yes, Elder," I whispered, scrubbing until my arms burned.
"The blood of our fallen heroes deserves respect." He stepped closer, and I could smell the anger rolling off him. "Though I shouldn't expect more from the wolf who can't even shift properly."
My jaw clenched, but I kept my eyes down. Because he was right. I was broken. The weakest omega in a pack already dying.
"And yet you waste resources sneaking to the human city," he continued, voice dropping to something dangerous. 'Don't think I haven't noticed, Amy Rossi. Rome clings to you like a disease."
My heart slammed against my ribs. He knew.
"Sofia needs medicine," I said quietly. "Real medicine, not just herbs…"
"Your sister needs pack protection. Which she won't have if hunters follow your scent back to us." He gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his pale yellow eyes. "Human contact equals death. The next time you leave without permission, you're banished. Am i clear?"
"Yes, Elder."
He released me. "Your parents died protecting this pack. Don't dishonor their memory."
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the blood and shame and the stolen chef's knife hidden under my cot that I used to practice cuts on tree roots when everyone slept.
Because cooking was the only thing I was good at. The only thing that made me feel worth something.
And I would rather die than give it up.
Four hours later, I stood outside Stella d'Oro for the forty-seventh time.
The restaurant rose like a palace in Rome's historic district marble columns, gold lettering, windows gleaming with promises. I had applied for the janitor position every week for three months. Been rejected every single time.
But Sofia had been unconscious for two days, the silver fragment still lodged near her spine, and the black-market antidote cost more than our pack's monthly food budget.
I had to try.
I pushed through the employee entrance and nearly collided with Gabriella, the HR manager, who was screaming into her phone.
"I don't care if your grandmother died you're fired!" She slammed the phone down, saw me, and her eyes narrowed. "You. The persistent one."
"I'm here about the janitor position…"
"It just opened up. Night shift, four a.m. to noon, nine euros an hour. Can you start tonight?"
My heart stopped. "What?"
"The previous janitor tried to steal a two-hundred-euro lobster. So unless you're also planning grand theft to steal seafood, the job's yours."
I could barely breathe. "I…yes. Yes, I can start tonight."
"Three-thirty for orientation. Don't be late. And don't steal my lobsters." She was already walking away.
I stood there, stunned, until I realized what I had just done.
I had the job.
Which meant Elder Marco would banish me the moment he found out.
Which meant I had to make this work.
I texted Nico, the ten-year-old orphan I had been feeding with stolen scraps: Got the job. Watch Sofia for me. Don't tell Marco
His response: You're insane. Be careful.
My first shift began at 4 a.m. in darkness so thick I could barely see. The kitchen was enormous stainless steel, hanging pots, industrial stoves that could feed hundreds.
And the smells.
My werewolf nose went wild. Saffron from Iran. Peppercorns from Tellicherry. Rosemary and thyme and a dozen herbs I had only read about. My hands itched to cook, but I forced myself to focus on the mop.
I was here to clean. Be invisible. Earn money for Sofia.
Nothing more.
By 6 a.m., the line cooks started arriving. They ignored me completely, which was perfect. I memorized their routines while scrubbing floors. Learned which ones were kind, which would report me for breathing wrong.
At 7 a.m., a tall woman in chef's whites stormed in, her presence filling the entire kitchen.
Bianca Moretti. Head Chef. Three Michelin stars. Legend.
She looked at me once, dismissed me as beneath her, and started screaming orders at her staff.
I stayed invisible. Cleaned. Kept my head down.
At 11:47 a.m., my stomach growled so loudly a line cook glanced over. I hadn't eaten in two days omegas ate last in the pack, and there hadn't been enough.
I finished mopping and grabbed my things, but something made me pause at the walk-in refrigerator. The door wasn't quite closed.
Inside were containers of prepped ingredients. Nothing that would be missed.
Just a few roasted vegetables. A handful.
I grabbed them, shoved them in my mouth, tasting so perfect, and…
Footsteps.
I slammed the fridge shut, grabbed my mop, heart hammering.
A man walked into the kitchen. Tall impossibly tall in an expensive suit, with black hair and gray eyes that made every instinct I had scream warnings.
Lorenzo De Luca. Owner. CEO. Billionaire.
He looked at me, and his nostrils flared slightly.
"You're new," he said, voice low and precise.
"Yes, sir. I am the new night janitor. Amy is my name and I just started."
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded and walked past, disappearing into his office.
I stood there, shaking.
Because for just a second, I had seen his eyes flash gold.
And I thought to myself, could it be? That Lorenzo De Luca wasn't human?
For two weeks, I kept my head down. Cleaned. Earned money. Sent it all to Nico for Sofia's medicine. She was improving. Slowly.
Everything was working.
Until the night I stayed too late.
It was 2:37 a.m. The restaurant had been closed for hours. I should have left. But I had found leftover risotto rice which would go into the trash, and scraps mushrooms, half an onion, a piece of parmesan.
Nothing anyone would miss.
I told myself just once. Just to remember what cooking felt like.
The pan heated. Butter melted. Onions turned translucent. I added rice, hearing it hiss. Then wine. Then stock, ladle by ladle, my nose guiding everything.
When to add the mushrooms. When to fold in the cheese. When to stop.
I plated it. One perfect portion.
And then I saw it.
The shimmer.
Faint silver light dancing across the surface, my omega gift, the thing I had suppressed for years.
Because I had cooked with passion.
"No, no, no," I whispered, grabbing the plate to dump it.
But I heard voices outside. Panicked, I set it on the counter and hid in the storage closet.
Through the crack, I watched a delivery driver walk in, see the risotto, taste it.
His eyes widened. "Madonna," he breathed.
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the evidence of what was still glowing on the counter.
I dumped it, scrubbed the plate, and ran.
But the damage was done.
Someone had tasted my food.
And tomorrow, everyone would know