Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Seven

GIANCARLO

Tommy's blood decorates my gym floor in patterns that make my wolf bare teeth.

I watch through security feeds as Akiko breaks his nose for the third time this week, her movement liquid violence that makes my chest tight. She's teaching my enforcer humility through systematic destruction. Part of me wants to tear his throat out for bleeding on her. The rational part remembers I ordered this—told my men to keep her occupied, keep her distracted, keep her from dwelling on seventeen years of systematic torture disguised as holy education.

"Boss." Greg materializes at my office door, were-raccoon shifting nervous energy between forms. "Got those numbers you wanted."

I minimize the security feed, though her ghost remains burned in my vision. "Talk."

"Forty-seven offers since the auction." He sets a tablet on my desk with trembling hands. "Bratva offered sixty million. Triad's up to seventy-five. Some hedge fund manager—human, if you can believe it—bid ninety million cash."

"For?"

"The girl. Your mate. They all want—" He swallows at my expression. "Want to purchase her services."

Services. Like she's merchandise instead of mine. I review the offers, each more obscene than the last. Virgin kitsune-wolf hybrid, the last of her bloodline, trained killer—she's become the supernatural equivalent of a winning lottery ticket everyone thinks they can cash.

"Send standard responses. She's not for sale." I pause. "Make sure the responses include photos of what happened to the last person who tried to buy her."

"Liu's grandson? Those photos are... unsettling."

"Good."

Larry and d**k burst in without knocking, were-raccoon twins who handle electronic surveillance. Their tablet shows local news coverage, Harrison Carver's press conference playing on loop.

"Fifty million dollars," Harrison announces to assembled media. "For the safe return of my daughter, kidnapped by supernatural traffickers. She's sick, needs medication. Without proper treatment, she could hurt herself or others."

Brilliant. Paint her as mentally ill, me as a kidnapper, and put a price tag high enough to motivate every two-bit crew in Chicago. The bounty goes live and my phone starts ringing. Territory partners wanting clarification. Enemies testing boundaries. The Mayor demanding explanations.

"Double perimeter security," I tell the raccoons. "Nobody gets within three blocks without—"

The desk phone rings. FBI seal flashing on caller ID.

"Mr. Morelli?" Female voice, professionally neutral. "This is Assistant Director Catherine Walsh. We need to discuss the events at the lake last week. Can you come to the Federal Building, or should we visit you?"

"My office. One hour." I hang up before she can negotiate.

Dick's already pulling intelligence. "Agent Harold Rollins leading the team. Ex-military, divorced twice, son died in a supernatural gang incident five years ago. He's... not sympathetic to our kind."

Our kind. Like we're all the same species of monster to these people.

"Lola Maria wants to report," Greg adds. "About your mate."

Always about her. Every resident has become an informal spy, reporting her movements like she's weather they need to track. She ate with the dryad family on seven. Helped Eddie move furniture on the loading dock. Let the ghost children braid her hair while she told them stories about fox spirits.

Each report makes the bond pulse with satisfaction I don't examine. She's adapting. Integrating. Becoming pack whether she admits it or not.

"Tell Lola I'll see her after the FBI leaves."

The raccoons scatter to prepare. I return to the security feed, watching Akiko work through combinations on a heavy bag that's already showing wear. A week of her attention has destroyed more equipment than Marco manages in a month. But it's not just strength—it's precision. Control. Every strike exactly where she intends.

She pauses, head tilting like she hears something. Turns to look directly at the camera. For a moment, I swear she sees me through the lens. The bond thrums with awareness before she returns to her work, dismissing my observation.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" Isabella enters without permission, family privilege. "Wanting something you can't touch."

"I could touch her whenever I want."

"But you won't." She settles in the client chair, studying me. "Saint Giancarlo, patron of restraint. How unlike you."

"She needs space."

"She needs therapy. Years of it. But space is a start." Isabella pulls up medical files on her tablet. "Her healing rate continues to accelerate. Broken bones mend in hours. Cuts in minutes. At this rate, she'll be functionally indestructible within the month."

"And the other changes?"

"Fox-fire manifestation increases daily. Core temperature runs five degrees hot. And her blood..." Isabella trails off. "Her blood dissolves organic matter. Discovered that when a sample ate through three lab containers."

Acidic blood. Of course. Because normal mate bonds weren't complicated enough.

"The FBI will be here soon," I say.

"I'll be in medical. Try not to kill federal agents in the building. The cleanup is murder on the marble."

She leaves me to prepare. I dress carefully—suit expensive enough to remind them who owns this city, conservative enough to avoid peacocking. The winter wolf stays leashed beneath civilized veneer.

They arrive exactly on time. Six agents, local police backup, enough firepower to feel safe. Agent Rollins leads—six-four of steroid-enhanced muscle crammed into a federal suit. His neck barely fits the collar. Tracks of old acne scar his jaw. His eyes hold the particular emptiness of men who've replaced grief with rage.

"Mr. Morelli." He doesn't offer to shake hands. "Thank you for seeing us."

"Assistant Director Walsh suggested it was important."

"Multiple homicides on Lake Michigan. Modified military weapons. Reports of a... dragon?" He says it like the word tastes bad. "We need to discuss what happened at the auction."

I gesture them to the conference room, noting how Rollins catalogues exits, defensive positions, potential weapons. His hand hovers near his service weapon. The local cops cluster by the door, obviously uncomfortable in supernatural territory.

"I attended a private gathering," I begin once seated. "On a platform in the deepest part of Lake Michigan. The organizers assured us it was... all perfectly legal."

"'Perfectly legal.'" Rollins's voice drips contempt. "That's what you call a slave auction in US waters?"

"I call it what it was. A gathering I attended to prevent trafficking of my mate."

"Forty-three bodies recovered. Another twenty missing, presumed dissolved." Rollins sets crime scene photos on the table. The platform awash in blood, bodies scattered like dropped dolls. "Witnesses say you started it."

"Witnesses say many things."

"They say you killed seventeen men to steal a girl." His voice drops, disgust bleeding through professionalism. "Trafficking victim. American citizen. Kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder until you decided to take her by force."

"Incorrect." I select my words carefully. "I eliminated threats to my mate. The venue operated outside legal frameworks. Had you arrived earlier, you might have prevented the entire situation."

"Your mate." He practically spits the word. "The girl you bought."

"Claimed. Different process."

"Right. Your kind and your claims." He leans forward, steroid-swollen muscles bunching. "Where is she?"

"Safe."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

His face flushes red. A vein throbs in his temple, mapping cardiovascular distress. "Her father filed a missing persons report. Says she's mentally ill, needs medication. You're holding a vulnerable woman against her will."

"Her father sold her to a convent that carved suppressant channels in children's spines. Forgive me if I don't consider him a reliable narrator."

"So you admit you have her."

"I admit to protecting my mate from those who would harm her." I meet his rage with winter calm. "Including her father. Including you, if necessary."

Rollins shoots to his feet. The local cops hands drift to weapons. My security responds, subtle shifts that promise violence if lines are crossed.

"You think you're untouchable." His voice shakes with barely controlled fury. "Own half of Chicago, buy judges, kill whoever you want. But I know what you are. What all of you are. Monsters playing human, corrupting everything you touch."

"Agent Rollins." The female agent, Walsh on video call, interrupts. "Perhaps we should—"

"No. He needs to hear this." Rollins leans over the table. "That girl's father is offering fifty million for her safe return. Every gang in the city will come for her. And when they do, when the blood starts flowing, that's on you. Every death, every innocent caught in crossfire. Your fault."

"Noted."

"You smug son of a—" He catches himself. "We're not done here."

"Yes, you are." I stand, dismissal clear. "Unless you have warrants, evidence, or jurisdiction, we're finished. Send future communications through my lawyer."

They file out, Rollins last. He pauses at the door. "Your kind killed my son. Five years old. Caught between wolf packs fighting over territory." His emptiness cracks, showing the grief beneath. "I'll be watching. First mistake, first body that drops in my jurisdiction, and I'll bury you so deep they'll need archaeology to find you."

"Agent." I let winter creep into my voice. "If you come for me or mine, they'll need DNA to identify what's left."

He leaves without another word. Through the window, I watch them load into black SUVs, Rollins gesturing angrily. They'll be back. Men like him always come back, grief metastasized into crusade.

"Boss!" Marco bursts in. "We've got problems."

I follow him to security, where monitors show the developing situation. Three blocks out, MS-13 soldiers mass in stolen vehicles. Another screen shows Serbians moving in from the north. Both groups converging on my building like antibodies to infection.

"Fifty million," Marco says. "Dinner bell for every crew looking to move up."

"Numbers?"

"Maybe sixty MS-13. Forty Serbians. Could be more staging." He grins, all wolf anticipation. "Want me to hit them before they coordinate?"

"No. Let them come." I scan the monitors, calculating angles. "Building goes to full lockdown. Combat protocols. Get the children to safe rooms."

"And your mate?"

Mine. The word makes something primitive surge in my chest. These insects think they can take what I claimed. Think a bounty makes them predators instead of prey.

"Quinn." I don't raise my voice. The shapeshifter materializes from shadow. "Secure the lupa. She doesn't leave the gym until this is resolved."

"She won't like being caged."

"Then tell her the truth. Half of Chicago's coming to collect her father's bounty." I watch the gangs position, amateur hour tactics obvious even on monitors. "Tell her she can fight beside us or be protected like property. Her choice."

Quinn vanishes. Around me, the building transforms. Families vanish into reinforced apartments. Soldiers emerge from civilian facades. Weapons appear from hidden caches. In minutes, my home becomes a fortress.

"Serbians just blocked the eastern approach," Greg reports. "MS-13's covering west and south."

"North?"

"Clear for now."

For now. They'll plug that gap soon, complete the siege. Harrison's fifty million turning my territory into a war zone. The bond pulses with Akiko's agitation—she knows something's wrong, can feel the building's tension through pack connections she doesn't acknowledge.

"Sir." Eddie appears, having shed his doorman facade for tactical gear that stretches over his massive frame. "Lobby's secured. You want survivors for questioning?"

"From the first wave. After that..." I smile, showing teeth. "Send a message."

The monitors show more movement. Not just the announced players—smaller groups circle like scavengers. Opportunists hoping to grab the prize while the big predators fight. They have no idea what they're walking into. This building has sheltered monsters for fifteen years. Every resident a survivor. Every survivor a killer when threatened.

"Marco, take the Serbians. Eddie, you've got MS-13." I move to arm myself, selecting weapons for close quarters work. "I'll handle whatever comes through the gaps."

"And if they get past us?" Marco asks, though his grin suggests he finds the idea amusing.

"Then they get to explain to Akiko why they're interrupting her workout." I chamber a round in the Glock, silver-core bullets singing readiness. "Somehow, I think she'll be less diplomatic than us."

The first shots crack across Chicago air. Windows shatter three blocks away as the gangs realize they're not the only hunters circling. Good. Let them thin each other before they reach my walls.

I touch the bond, sending wordless reassurance to a mate who doesn't want my protection. She sends back irritation and something else—anticipation? My little killer, trained by nuns and tempered by torture, scenting violence on the wind.

Soon she'll get her fill. Harrison's bounty ensuring what I've tried to delay—Akiko discovering exactly what it means to be mated to Chicago's winter wolf. What it means when the world comes for you and finds pack standing in the way.

The building shudders as something explosive detonates nearby. Not at us—the gangs still sorting their pecking order. But soon. Soon they'll come, and we'll remind them why you don't hunt what belongs to Morelli.

Through the bond, I feel Akiko moving. Not fleeing to safety like Quinn suggested. Moving toward the fight, toward the violence, toward me.