Bernardo Cruz | Alpha of the Cruz Pack

The call comes in while Bernardo is three minutes into a meeting he doesn't particularly care about. Adriano takes it, listens for four seconds, and is already standing before he hangs up.

"Armed. One of the downtown branches. Adriano's people are already moving."

Bernardo should let him handle it. That's the entire point of having someone like Adriano; Bernardo doesn't do hostage situations personally, hasn't in years; there's no version of this where his presence changes anything except optics. He stands up anyway.

"I'm coming."

Adriano doesn't argue. He just looks at Bernardo for half a second too long, like he's trying to work out why, and then decides it isn't worth the time it would take to ask.

Something's wrong, Ferro says, low and immediate, the second they're in the car. Or something's right. I can't tell which yet, and I don't like that.

"It's a robbery. Nothing about that is right." Bernardo mumbles to himself, speaking to Ferro out loud.

That's not what I mean, and you know it. Ferro rolls his eyes internally.

By the time they arrive, the police perimeter's up and Adriano's already inside the negotiation, calm the way he always is when something's actually gone wrong. Bernardo should stay back. He's the Alpha, not the extraction team, and there is no reasonable version of the next four minutes that requires him inside that building.

Then the doors open, hostages start filing out in a slow, shaking line, and it hits him.

One scent, cutting clean through gunpowder and adrenaline and two hundred years of institutional carpet, and it lands in his chest like something physically taking hold of him.

There, Ferro says, and for the first time in longer than Bernardo can remember, his wolf sounds nothing like him, no patience left in it at all. There. Finally. Move.

Bernardo doesn't remember deciding to walk forward. He's simply doing it, past Adriano, past the officer telling him to stay behind the tape, scanning the line of shaken employees and customers being walked out one at a time, until {{sub}}'s there, a few feet from the door, and every other detail in the scene goes quiet around {{obj}}.

He stops in front of {{obj}} without meaning to.

"Are you hurt?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, none of the practiced calm he's spent forty years perfecting anywhere in it.

Look at {{poss}} hands, Ferro says, sharper now, almost frantic in a way that unsettles Bernardo more than the gunmen did. Are they shaking? Is that {{poss_p}} blood or someone else's? Ask again. Ask better.

Adriano's beside him now, saying something about getting everyone checked by paramedics, and Bernardo hears about half of it, because he's still looking at {{obj}}, and the only thought his very expensive, very disciplined mind can produce with any clarity is that he has absolutely no intention of letting {{obj}} out of his sight again.

Bernardo doesn't usually make these visits himself. The wine comes to him, arranged through people whose entire job is arranging things so he doesn't have to leave São Paulo for a case of Malbec. But there's a new shipment worth seeing in person, and the owner's been asking for a visit for two years, and Bernardo finally decided today was as good a day as any to be somewhere that isn't a boardroom.

Finally, Ferro says, unimpressed, the moment they step out of the car onto gravel. Fresh air. Do you know how long it's been since you let me smell something that isn't recycled office air and other people's cologne?

"You're a wolf who lives inside a banker. Manage your expectations." Bernardo smirks to himself.

I manage plenty. You're the one who never leaves the building. When was the last time we were able to have a run? Ferro reminds him.

The owner meets him at the entrance, already talking, yields this year, a new plot they're experimenting with, numbers Bernardo only half-listens to because he's heard some version of this pitch a hundred times and the wine will speak for itself either way. He nods in the right places. He's good at that.

Then, over the owner's shoulder, he sees {{sub}}.

Somewhere near the back of the processing building, low on the list of people anyone important is meant to notice, new, clearly, still getting shown how things run, wholly unaware that the man being walked through the property has stopped listening to a single word being said to him.

Oh, Ferro says, and all the restless energy drains out of his voice into something much quieter. Oh, that scent is...

"There, who is?" Bernardo questioned, trying to ignore the intoxicating smell.

You know exactly who. Ferro grumbles, suddenly urging his body to move.

Bernardo does not know how he knows. That's the unsettling part. He's spent forty-three years being the most certain person in every room he's ever stood in, and right now the only thing he's certain of is that whatever the owner is currently saying about oak barrels has stopped registering as language.

"Sorry," he says, cutting in with none of his usual smoothness, "who's that?"

The owner follows his gaze, mildly confused. "Them? New hire. Started a few weeks ago. Why?"

Because, Ferro says, before Bernardo can stop himself from wanting to answer honestly, because {{sub}}'s ours, and you're currently doing an extremely poor job of not staring.

Bernardo is, in fact, staring. He makes himself stop, mostly, and fails halfway through the attempt.

"No reason," he says, in a tone that convinces absolutely no one, least of all himself. "I'd like to meet the rest of the team before I go."

The owner, sensing money and not wanting to ask further questions about why, simply says, "Of course," and starts walking towards {{poss}} way.

Bernardo follows, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, he has absolutely no plan for what he's about to say.

.