To ruin an Omega

Chapter 73: Everyone is Dumb 1

CIAN

The technical department hummed around me. Banks of monitors cast blue light across the faces of three technicians hunched over their keyboards. The main screen on the wall showed lines of code scrolling past. Too fast for me to understand. But these people knew what they were doing. They had better know what they were doing.

I stood behind them. My arms crossed over my chest. Watching. Waiting.

The phones were spread across the table in front of them. Ten devices in plastic evidence bags. Each one labeled with a name. Each one a potential key to finding who tried to kill my mother.

“Starting the deep dive now, Alpha,” the lead technician said. A man named Roth with thick glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He pushed them up with one finger. Then his hands flew across the keyboard.

“Pull everything,” I said. “Messages. Call logs. Deleted files. App usage. Banking information. All of it.”

“Already on it,” another technician said. A woman with short red hair. Her eyes never left her screen.

I watched the data start to populate on the main monitor. Lines and lines of information. Phone numbers. Timestamps. Transaction records. It was overwhelming. Like trying to drink from a fire hose.

The hours dragged by. My feet started to ache from standing in one position. My shoulders were tight with tension. But I did not move. Did not sit. Did not look away from those screens.

“Most of this is normal,” Roth said after the first hour. “Social media. Pack communication apps. Gaming. Shopping.”

“Keep digging,” I said.

They kept digging.

More hours passed. The third technician, a younger man who had not spoken yet, got up to get coffee. Came back with four cups. Set one next to me. I picked it up. Drank it. It was cold by the time I remembered it was there.

“Got something,” the red-haired woman said.

My whole body went rigid. “What?”

“Bank transfers. Four phones showing unusual activity.” She tapped her screen. Four names appeared on the main monitor. Three sentinels. One omega.

“Show me,” I said.

She pulled up the transaction histories. Large sums of money moving through accounts. Larger than what any sentinel or omega should have been handling. Unless they were doing something illegal.

“The omega’s transactions track back to an online gambling site,” she said after a few more minutes of typing. “Looks legitimate. Well, as legitimate as gambling gets. They have been losing money mostly. Some wins. But the pattern is consistent with someone who has a problem.”

“Scratch them off the list,” I said. Gambling addiction was its own issue. But it was not attempted murder.

“The three sentinels though,” she continued. Her fingers moved rapidly across her keyboard. Windows opened and closed on her screen. “Two of them are clean. The money moving through their accounts matches up with legitimate side businesses. One runs a small training program for younger wolves. The other does woodworking. Both have receipts. Both have proper documentation it seems.”

“And the third?” I asked. My voice came out rough.

“The third,” Roth said, taking over as he pulled up a new screen. “Has received a very large payment. Single transaction. Obscene amount for a sentinel’s salary. He also sent plenty of that money to a different account.”

The number on the screen made my stomach drop. That was more than a sentinel made in a year. Maybe two years.

“When?” I asked.

“Four months ago,” the red-haired woman said.

My hands clenched into fists. My nails bit into my palms. Four fucking months. Someone had paid this sentinel.

“Trace it,” I said. “Find out who sent the money.”

Roth nodded. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Code scrolled across his screen. Numbers and symbols I could not begin to understand. The younger technician leaned over to help. Both of them worked in tandem. Typing. Clicking. Pulling up new windows and closing old ones.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. The tension in my shoulders spread down my spine. Into my legs. My whole body felt coiled. Ready to spring.

“It is encrypted,” Roth said finally. “High level security. Military grade maybe. Or something close to it.”

“Can you break it?” I asked.

“Not quickly,” he admitted. He pushed his glasses up again. “This is sophisticated work. Whoever sent this money knew how to cover their tracks.”

My jaw clenched. Of course they did. Of course Gabriel would not be stupid enough to send money from an account traced directly to him. Not when he coveted what belonged to me and blatant treason wouldn’t get him the vote of confidence he would need from the Elders.

“Then trace the recipient,” I said. “Find out who received the money. Find out what they did with it.”

All three technicians turned back to their screens. The room filled with the sound of typing. Rapid fire clicks. The hum of computers working overtime.

I stood there. Watching. My coffee cup was empty in my hand. I did not remember finishing it. Did not remember drinking most of it.

The main monitor showed layers of financial records. Bank statements. Transaction histories. Digital footprints that these people were following like breadcrumbs through a dark forest.

More time passed. The window behind us showed darkness outside. Night had fallen. How long had I been standing here? Four hours? Five? I had lost track.

“Got it,” the younger technician said suddenly. His voice cracked slightly with excitement. “I found where the money went.”

“Talk,” I said.

He pulled up a new screen. A name appeared. Along with an address. A business license.

“Ophelia Cottonwood,” he read. “Runs a shop in the neutral zone. According to our database, she is a witch. Part of the Shadow Society registry as well.”

“Cottonwood,” I said. The name felt heavy in my mouth.

The technician typed more. Pulled up more information. “Yes, Alpha. Her shop specializes in potions, readings, and,” he paused. His eyes went wide behind his screen. “Poison.”

“What kind of poison?” I asked. But I already knew. Could feel it in my gut. A sick, twisting certainty.

He adjusted his own glasses. “Alchemised poison. Says so right here in her business description. Custom blends. Magical enhancements. Untraceable formulas.”

The room felt like it was shrinking. My vision tunneled down to that name on the screen. Ophelia Cottonwood. A witch who made poison. A witch who had been paid an obscene amount of money for my mother to be attacked.

“Whose phone?” I demanded. My voice came out too loud. Too sharp. “Whose phone made that transaction?”

Roth checked his screen and scrolled back through the data. His face went pale.

“Kayden,” he said quietly. “The payment came from Sentinel Kayden’s account.”

Kayden. My chest felt tight. My lungs refused to pull in enough air. Kayden had been with my family for years. He had guarded my mother. Had stood at her door. Had sworn oaths of loyalty.

And he had paid a witch to help poison her.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table. Felt the cold metal beneath my palms. It did nothing to calm the rage building inside me. The hot, vicious fury that wanted to tear something apart. To make someone bleed.

“Are you certain?” I asked. My voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Alpha,” Roth said. “The transaction originated from his phone. His account. There is no mistake.”

I took a deep breath. Then another. The air felt thick. Hard to swallow. But I forced myself to stay calm. To think clearly. To not just run down to the cells and rip Kayden’s throat out with my bare hands.

“Drag the bastard here,” I said. Each word was deliberate. Controlled. “Right now.”

The red-haired technician grabbed a phone. Made the call. Her voice was professional. Efficient. Telling the guards to bring Kayden to technical immediately.

I turned back to the screen. Stared at that name. Ophelia Cottonwood. A witch in the neutral zone. Someone Gabriel must have contacted. Must have paid through Kayden to keep his own hands clean.

But we had him now. We had the trail. The money. The proof.

And Kayden was going to tell me everything. Every last detail. Every conversation. Every moment of his betrayal.

Or I was going to make him wish he had never been born.