Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Twelve

AKIKO

The sixth floor smells wrong.

I pause outside apartment 612, Filipino spices from Lola’s cooking lesson still clinging to my clothes—garlic and ginger and the fish sauce that made my eyes water until she taught me to breathe through my mouth. My hands carry the phantom weight of her wooden spoon, the way she guided my wrist to fold lumpia with practiced precision. “Like wrapping secrets,” she’d said, her aswang teeth glinting in kitchen light. “Tight enough to hold, gentle enough not to tear.”

But here, beneath the building’s usual cocktail of supernatural scents, something else bleeds through. Fear-sweat, sharp and acrid. Old blood, copper and rust. The particular tang of pain inflicted repeatedly in the same space until it soaks into the walls themselves.

Death lives behind that door, Yui whispers, materializing at my shoulder. Her light dims to match the hallway’s shadows, making her look like a ghost of herself.

“Not death,” Rei corrects, coalescing on my other side. “Just wishes for it. Can’t you taste the despair?”

The lock yields to tricks Sister Evangeline taught for silent entry—feel for the pins, listen for the subtle click, apply pressure like a lover’s touch. Inside, the apartment stretches in directions that shouldn’t fit the building’s architecture—spatial expansion work, but sloppy. Reality hiccups at the edges where someone tried to create more room than physics allows, leaving corners that hurt to look at directly.

She’s in the kitchen, back to me, movements careful as she sets the table. Were-lynx by the smell—pine sap and snow, predator musk muted by something else. Submission. Defeat. The bruises paint her arms in purple-yellow watercolors, and when she turns—

“Oh.” The plate slips from her fingers, shattering on tiles that show old bloodstains no amount of bleach can hide. “I didn’t—are you—”

“Sherry.” Her name surfaces from resident files I’ve been memorizing. Sixth floor, apartment 612, works in accounting for one of Giancarlo’s legitimate businesses. Mated to—

“What the f**k are you doing in my home?”

He fills the doorway like spoiled meat stuffed in designer clothes. Dylan Reeves, one of Giancarlo’s mid-level enforcers. The kind who mistakes cruelty for strength, who thinks fear equals respect. His scent carries the edge of recent violence and stale alcohol, undertones of cologne that can’t mask the rot beneath.

“Dylan.” Sherry’s voice shrinks to nothing. “This is—she’s—”

“I know who she is.” His eyes strip me down to meat and value, the same look the auction buyers wore. “Boss’s pet. Doesn’t mean she can break into our place.”

Want to play with him? The twins speak in unison, their excitement making the air taste like copper and burnt sugar.

“I got lost,” I lie with the ease of seventeen years’ practice. “The building’s layout confuses me. All the floors look the same.”

He relaxes marginally, buying the helpless act. Men like him always do. “Yeah, well, find your way out. This is private property.”

I catalog the damage as I move toward the door. Sherry’s left orbital socket shows healing fractures—the bone still tender, discolored. Her ribs, when she breathes, catch in ways that speak of hairline cracks. The way she holds herself—careful, controlled, minimizing her presence—reminds me of convent girls after discipline sessions. After Sister Evangeline’s corrections left us black and blue and grateful to still be breathing.

“Actually,” I pause at the threshold, idea forming, “I was looking for sparring partners. The usual crew is getting predictable. They’re learning my patterns.”

His eyes light with the particular gleam of stupid men offered chances to prove themselves. “Yeah? Boss’s pet wants to play rough?”

“Something like that.”

Behind him, Sherry makes a small sound—half warning, half plea. When our eyes meet, I see recognition there. She knows what I am beneath the surface. Knows what I’m offering. Her lips form the word 'no' but no sound emerges.

“Gym in twenty,” Dylan says, already puffing up with anticipated victory. “Don’t cry when I put you on your ass.”

Oh, he has no idea, Noriko breathes, frost already forming on the doorframe. The little kitsune will teach lessons today.

I spend the twenty minutes warming up, letting muscle memory flow through forms that blend Sister Evangeline’s brutality with my mother’s grace. Each movement precise, controlled, designed to end threats efficiently. The yokai circle me, offering suggestions that would end fights too quickly.

“Make it last,” I tell them. “He needs to understand what he’s done. Needs to feel it.”

Dylan arrives exactly on time, already stripped to workout clothes that show muscle built for intimidation rather than efficiency. Vanity muscle, Sister Evangeline would have called it. Useless bulk that slows you down. Behind him, Tommy and a few others trail in, probably expecting entertainment.

“Rules?” Dylan asks, wrapping his hands with the carelessness of someone who’s never faced real consequences.

“None.”

He grins. Moves into the ring with the swagger of a man who’s never lost to someone smaller. When he drops into stance, I catalog every tell—weight too far forward, expecting to overwhelm with size. Guard drops when he shifts left. Favors his right knee. Breathes through his mouth, wastes energy on intimidation poses.

He swings first, haymaker meant to end things quickly. I flow under it, letting his momentum carry him past. My elbow finds his kidney on the way by, just enough to sting. He grunts, spins faster than expected. Were-lynx reflexes serving him well.

“Lucky shot.”

I don’t respond. Words are wasted on men like him. Instead, I let him come again, mapping his patterns. He fights like he lives—all force, no finesse. When he manages to clip my shoulder, pain blooming hot, he grins like he’s already won.

That’s when I stop playing.

The next punch, I catch and redirect, using his weight to drive him face-first into the mat. The impact rattles through the ring. When he tries to rise, my knee finds his solar plexus. He gasps, rolling away, but I follow. Each strike precise, targeting nerves and joints. Breaking him down piece by piece like Sister Evangeline taught—pain is a teacher, but only if the student stays conscious to learn.

“f**k!” He tries to tap out, slapping the mat, but I ignore it. Rules were none, after all.

My fist finds his nose, cartilage crunching in a spray of red that tastes like copper in the air. When he tries to cover up, I target his ribs—the same ones I saw bruised on Sherry. Each impact draws sounds from him that grow increasingly desperate. Whimpers. Pleas. The kind of sounds he probably drew from her.

More, the twins hiss. Make him understand what fear tastes like.

I mount him, raining strikes down with mechanical precision. His face disappears under blood and swelling. Around us, I hear the other soldiers shifting, uncertain. They should stop this. Protocol demands it.

But they’ve seen Sherry’s bruises too. Heard her excuses. Watched her flinch when Dylan moved too fast.

“Akiko.”

Giancarlo’s voice cuts through the red haze like a blade through silk. I freeze mid-strike, Dylan’s blood dripping from my knuckles onto his ruined face. When did he arrive? The bond hums with his proximity, his concern and curiosity mixing into something that makes my skin prickle with awareness. He smells like winter pine and gunpowder, like he’s come straight from his own violence.

“He’s done,” Giancarlo says, entering the ring with that predator grace that makes reality reorganize around him. The other soldiers part like water, none willing to stand between their Alpha and his focus. “Let him go.”

“He beats her.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Sherry. His mate. I can smell old blood in their apartment, see the healing fractures. He hits where bruises won’t show in public. Probably tells her she deserves it."

Something dangerous flashes in Giancarlo’s eyes—colder than arctic wind, sharper than surgical steel. He looks down at Dylan, who’s trying to speak through broken teeth and blood. The temperature in the gym seems to drop ten degrees.

“Is this true?”

Dylan tries to deny it, but the evidence paints itself across his body—defensive wounds on his knuckles from where Sherry tried to protect herself, the particular pattern of someone who knows how to hit without leaving evidence. His breathing whistles through his broken nose.

“She’s just—she needed—discipline—” Dylan’s excuses dissolve into whimpers as Giancarlo’s presence bears down on him like atmospheric pressure.

“Pack doesn’t hurt pack,” Giancarlo says quietly, and his quiet is more terrifying than any shout. The words carry weight of law, of absolute decree. “You know this. You swore oaths.”

“She’s just an omega—”

Wrong answer. Giancarlo’s hand moves faster than thought, gripping Dylan’s throat. Not squeezing yet, just holding. Promise of violence contained in that careful touch.

“Akiko.” Those ice-blue eyes find mine, and something passes between us through the bond—understanding, approval, recognition of kindred darkness. “What would you have done if I hadn’t stopped you?”

“Fed him to the yokai.” Simple truth. “They’re hungry. They haven’t had fresh meat in days.”

So hungry, Yui agrees, suddenly solid enough to cast shadows that move wrong. He would taste like fear and copper pennies.

And regret, Rei adds, manifesting fully. The best seasoning. We could make it last for hours.

Giancarlo studies me for a long moment. The bond thrums between us, carrying his assessment, his growing understanding of what I am beneath the surface. Not just his mate. Not just a weapon. Something older, hungrier, with its own sense of justice carved from seventeen years of watching the strong prey on the weak.

His thumb traces my cheekbone, smearing Dylan’s blood. The touch sends electricity down my spine. “You’re learning pack law faster than expected.”

“This isn’t pack law. This is older.” I lean into his touch without meaning to. “My mother’s law. Kitsune justice.”

“Ah.” He smiles, sharp and approving. “Then who am I to interfere with cultural practices?” He looks back down at Dylan. “Feed him to your yokai. Let them teach him what happens to those who break trust.”

The permission hangs In the air like a blade. Around us, the other soldiers step back, none willing to intervene. They understand now—I’m not just the boss’s mate. I’m something with my own teeth, my own hunger for justice.

Dylan tries to crawl away, but his body won’t cooperate. Too much damage, too much fear making his muscles lock.

“Please,” he gasps through blood and broken teeth. “Boss, I’m sorry, I’ll—”

“You’ll feed the yokai,” I finish for him.

Finally, Kazuki materializes fully, his oni mask today showing a demon of judgment with too many eyes, all of them seeing sins. The kitsune remembers her nature.

I haul Dylan upright, his blood making my grip slippery. He weighs nothing to my enhanced strength, fear making him somehow lighter. The yokai circle us, their excitement charging the air until it tastes like ozone and endings. The temperature drops as they manifest fully—even the watching soldiers can see them now, shadows and light and impossible things circling like sharks.

Tetsu opens his briefcase with ceremony, revealing depths that shouldn’t exist. Inside, I glimpse stars that burn cold, spaces between heartbeats, the color of regret.

“Any last words?” I ask, because Sister Evangeline taught me to observe certain formalities. Death should have ritual, even for the undeserving.

He looks to Giancarlo, finding no mercy there. “Tell Sherry—”

“She’s free,” Giancarlo cuts him off. “That’s all she needs to know. Your death buys her freedom from your name, your debts, your shadow.”

Dylan screams as the yokai descend. Not all at once—they make it last, each taking their portion with careful greed. Yui pulls light from his eyes, leaving them gray as old snow. Rei drains shadows from his blood until his skin turns translucent. Noriko freezes his tears before they can fall, collecting them like crystals. When Tetsu’s briefcase finally swallows what remains, the gym falls silent except for our breathing.

“Jesus,” someone whispers—Tommy, maybe. “That’s what they do?”

Only to those who deserve it, Hanzo crackles, electricity arcing between his fingers in satisfaction. The kitsune’s justice is precise. We are her teeth.

Giancarlo approaches me slowly, like I’m something wild that might bolt. But I don’t feel wild. I feel settled. Righteous. Like something clicked into place watching Dylan disappear into Tetsu’s infinite briefcase.

His hand cups my face, thumb brushing blood from my cheek with gentleness that makes my chest tight. The contrast—his tenderness against my violence—sends heat pooling low in my belly.

“You’re magnificent,” he murmurs, and the raw honesty in it makes me shiver. “Terrifying, but magnificent. Do you know what you look like right now?”

“Like a killer?”

“Like justice.” His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. “Like retribution in a five-foot-four package. Like everything I never knew I needed.”

“He hurt her.” As if that explains everything. And maybe it does.

“And now he’ll never hurt anyone again.” His thumb traces my jawline, leaving fire in its wake. “Pack protects pack. You’re learning our ways while teaching us yours.”

The approval In his voice does things to my equilibrium I don’t want to examine. Around us, the soldiers disperse with new understanding of what lives in their boss’s penthouse. Not just an omega. Not just a mate.

Something with teeth and its own code of justice.

“I should check on Sherry,” I say, needing distance from the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and dangerous in equal measure. Like he wants to push me against the nearest wall and show me exactly how magnificent he finds me.

“Isabella’s with her. She’ll be cared for.” He doesn’t step back, keeping me caged by proximity. His body heat soaks through my bloody clothes. “You have blood on your hands.”

“I know.” But I don’t move to clean them. The evidence feels important somehow. Proof of justice delivered.

“My shower has better pressure,” he offers, voice dropping to registers that vibrate through my bones. “For washing away evidence. Among other things.”

Say yes, Yui whispers. The winter wolf wants to worship you with his mouth.

With his hands, Rei adds helpfully. We can watch and give scores.

“Just a shower,” I say, echoing our last conversation with roles reversed.

His smile promises things that make my thighs clench. “Of course. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you want more.” He leans closer, lips brushing my ear. “I can smell your arousal, little killer. Can feel it through the bond. You get wet when you deliver justice. When you feed monsters to your monsters.”

Heat floods my face, but I don’t deny it. Can’t, when he’s right. The violence, the righteousness of it, the way he watched me work—it all combines into something that makes me ache.

“Show me,” I hear myself say. “Show me what more looks like.”

His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide. When he takes my hand, bloody knuckles and all, the contact sends electricity through every nerve. He brings my hand to his lips, kisses each bloodied knuckle with reverence that makes my knees weak.

“Are you sure?” he asks against my skin, because even now, even with permission, he gives me choice. “Once we start down this path…”

“No.” Honest truth. “I’m not sure of anything. But I want to find out. With you.”

“That’s enough,” he says. “That’s everything.”

The gym fades behind us as he leads me to the elevator. His hand engulfs mine, careful of my split knuckles but possessive in the hold. The yokai follow, whispering suggestions that make heat crawl up my neck. But beneath the embarrassment, anticipation builds like storm pressure.

I fed Dylan to nightmares for hurting his mate. Giancarlo watched me do it and called me magnificent. Kissed my bloody hands like I was something holy.

Maybe ready isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s just the next step forward. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me—not despite the violence but because of it. Understanding that justice and desire can taste the same in the right moments.

The elevator rises toward his penthouse, toward whatever more means. His thumb strokes over my pulse point, feeling how it races.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“Excited,” I correct, surprising myself with the honesty. “Scared. Curious. Everything at once.”

“Good,” he says. “That means you’re present. Choosing. That’s all I want—your choice, every step.”

The elevator dings softly, doors opening on his domain. On possibility. On whatever comes next.

I squeeze his hand and let him lead me forward.