Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Eight

AKIKO

The fifteenth floor smells like fried circuits and anxiety sweat.

I follow the scent through hallways that bend wrong, past doors marked with symbols the convent never taught me. My exploration has become routine—each day pushing deeper into Giancarlo's vertical kingdom, mapping exits and armories and the impossible geography of a building that holds more than physics should allow.

A door stands ajar, leaking blue light and voices. I slip closer, bare feet silent on carpet that costs more than Sister Evangeline's annual weapons budget.

"—forty-seven offers and climbing." A man's voice, high-pitched with stress. "Hong Kong syndicate just threw in a hundred twenty million."

"For one girl?" Another voice, identical pitch but different cadence. "What's she made of, plutonium?"

"Might as well be." A third voice, completing what sounds like a set. "Last confirmed kitsune-wolf hybrid. Virgin. Combat trained by those psycho nuns—"

I push the door open. Three men spin in unison, faces shifting between human and something with black masks and tiny hands. Were-raccoons. The intelligence team Tommy mentioned during our sparring sessions.

"s**t," the first one says.

"f**k," adds the second.

"Ma'am," the third attempts, more polite.

Their workspace looks like the convent's communication room if Sister Evangeline had unlimited funding and a technology fetish. Screens cover every wall, displaying feeds I don't understand. Numbers scroll past—bids, apparently. For me.

"You're tracking offers." Not a question.

"Boss's orders," the first raccoon—Larry, according to his desk nameplate—admits. "Document all inquiries regarding your... status."

One hundred twenty million. The number sits wrong in my head. The convent sold girls to arranged marriages for fifty thousand on a good day. Sister Evangeline's special novitiates—the ones trained for wetwork—went for maybe ten million to select clients.

"Show me."

They exchange glances that suggest entire conversations. d**k—the middle one—pulls up a spreadsheet that makes my eyes water. Names, organizations, offered amounts. Russian bratva. Italian families from the old country. Cartels who've branched into supernatural trafficking. Even human corporations looking to weaponize what they don't understand.

"This is just today?" I scan the list, recognizing some names from Sister Evangeline's lessons on potential clients.

"Last four hours," Greg corrects. "Since your father's press conference."

The screen shifts to news footage. Harrison Carver standing before cameras, every inch the grieving father. His suit costs more than most cars, styled silver hair catching light like a halo. He speaks of his poor, sick daughter. Kidnapped by monsters. Needing medication and treatment.

"Fifty million reward," he announces. "For her safe return."

I study his performance. He's gained weight since I last saw him—six years old, watching through convent bars as he signed custody papers. His hands don't shake. His voice doesn't crack. Professional grief, performed for cameras.

"That's not about getting me back." I understand the game now. "That's about starting a war."

"Bingo." Larry minimizes the footage. "Every crew in Chicago just got permission to hit Morelli territory. Righteous cause, saving the poor kidnapped omega."

Danger approaches, Akiko-sama.

Kazuki materializes beside me, oni mask today showing a weeping demon. His formal tone carries weight of centuries. The raccoons can't see him—their eyes track through the space he occupies, registering only a cold spot.

Many hunters circle the den, Noriko whispers, her breath forming frost on the nearest monitor. They seek the unclaimed treasure.

"Aki-chan!" Yui appears on d**k's desk, knocking over a coffee mug that shouldn't move for her insubstantial form. "We should play with them when they come!"

"No playing," Rei counters from atop a server rack. "Eating. Much more efficient."

The little kitsune will need tools. Tetsu sets his briefcase on an empty desk with the gravity of a salaryman preparing for war. I have prepared selections.

"Ma'am?" Greg notices my shifted attention. "You okay?"

"How long until they arrive?"

"Until who—" His phone buzzes. All three phones buzz. They check in unison, faces paling beneath fur they can't quite suppress. "f**k. Serbians moving in from the north. MS-13 from the west."

"Numbers?"

"Maybe sixty each? Could be more." d**k's fingers fly across keyboards I don't understand. "They're not coordinating. Yet."

The building's energy shifts. I feel it through my feet—residents moving to defensive positions. The easy peace of Giancarlo's kingdom transforming into something harder.

Aki-chan should hide! Hanzo crackles into existence, electricity arcing between his fingers in agitation. Let the wolves handle this!

"No."

Quinn materializes from shadow, making the raccoons squeak in unison. Today they wear my face, which should disturb me more than it does.

"Boss wants you in the safe room." They shift to their preferred androgynous form. "Non-negotiable."

"Everything's negotiable."

I move past them, out of the intelligence center. Quinn follows, the raccoons trailing like anxious satellites. Through the building, I can hear preparations—weapons loading, children being hustled to reinforced apartments, soldiers taking positions.

"They're coming for you," Quinn argues. "Fifty million makes you the most valuable target in Chicago."

"I've been a target since birth." Sister Evangeline made sure I understood that. Every lesson, every training session, every scar carved into my hide—all preparation for the world wanting to own me. "At least now I can fight back."

The kitsune speaks truth, Kazuki declares with a nod of approval. Better to meet death standing than hiding.

The elevator takes us down past floors I know, past the gym where I've spent every day destroying equipment and rebuilding my body's trust in itself. The soldiers I've been sparring with nod as we pass—Tommy, Marcus, a dozen others whose blood I've tasted through split lips and broken noses. They're gearing up with efficient movements, no panic in their preparations.

"Lupa," one calls out. She-wolf. The title they've given me despite my protests. "You fighting with us?"

Before I can answer, the lights flicker. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in red that makes my enhanced vision sing. The building shudders—not from impact but from something deeper.

Ward activation, Noriko explains, ice spreading from her footsteps. The den prepares its defenses.

"Safe room," Quinn insists. "Now."

"No."

We've reached the armory. I know the code—watched soldiers input it during my explorations. The door opens on a collection that would make Sister Evangeline weep with envy. Weapons for every preference, every purpose, every species of violence.

I move on instinct, selecting tools that fit my hands like old friends. Glock 19 with extended magazine—reliable, simple, effective. Twin karambits that curve like smiles. A tactical blade that reminds me of the one Sister Evangeline carried until bullets took her ability to carry anything.

"You don't understand," Quinn tries again. "These aren't professional soldiers. They're gang members hopped up on greed and fifty million promises. They'll—"

"Die." I check the Glock's action, muscle memory older than my conscious mind. "They'll die because they came here thinking I'm treasure instead of threat."

Aki-chan remembers! Yui claps, delighted. She remembers how to make them stop moving!

"Stop breathing," Rei corrects. "More permanent."

Here. Tetsu opens his briefcase, revealing interior dimensions that hurt to look at. For the kitsune who would be queen.

He pulls out impossible things—smoke grenades that whisper names, bullets that hum lullabies, a knife that reflects faces of people who haven't died yet. I take the knife, feeling its weight shift with my intentions.

Eddie appears in the doorway, already shifted. The giant black dog fills the frame, shadow tendrils writhing around him like living smoke. When he speaks, it comes from everywhere and nowhere.

"Boss is leading the eastern defense. Wants to know your position."

Through the bond—that invasive connection I still hate—I feel Giancarlo's awareness spike. He knows I'm not hiding. Knows I won't hide. Anger and something else bleeds through. Pride? Resignation? Understanding that I am what Sister Evangeline built me to be?

"I go where the fighting's thickest," I tell Eddie.

His massive head tilts, shadows pooling into shapes meant to scare. "West side, then. MS-13 brought the most bodies."

"Lead the way."

We move through corridors that echo with preparation. Families locked behind reinforced doors that smell like ozone and old prayers. The building's supernatural residents emerging from their daily facades—the mail carrier whose bones bend wrong, the accountant with too many teeth, the teenagers who phase between solid and suggestion.

Marco appears leading a squad of them. The younger Morelli grins like this is Christmas came early. "Heard you wanted to play, Lupa."

"Not playing."

"Even better." He gestures to his mixed unit—wolves, two vampires, something that might be a ghoul. "West entrance is about to get hot. You sure—"

Glass explodes somewhere below. The building's wards scream—psychic noise that makes my back teeth ache. First contact.

They breach, Akiko-sama, Kazuki reports. Forty-three hearts beating with greed. They've already begun killing each other for the privilege of first entry.

Good. Let them thin their own numbers.

We descend toward the sound of violence. My yokai flow around me, invisible to the others but solid in my peripheral vision.

"The little kitsune will paint the floors," Yui sings.

"With their insides," Rei finishes, and for once they agree on something.

The lobby looks like a war zone waiting to happen. Furniture pushed aside, clear fields of fire established. Eddie positions himself by the main entrance, shadows spreading like ink through water. Giancarlo's soldiers—the ones I've been breaking and rebuilding all week—check weapons with movements that speak of practice.

Through reinforced glass, I see them. MS-13 soldiers in mismatched tactical gear, faces covered in tattoos that tell stories of violence. They're using cars as cover, laying down suppressing fire while others approach with breaching charges.

"Idiots," Marco mutters. "Don't they know the glass is ward-worked?"

As if to prove his point, bullets spark and die against invisible barriers. But the wards won't hold forever. Already I can see cracks spreading—not in the glass but in the air itself, reality straining under sustained assault.

"Let them come," I say, checking the Glock one final time. "I need the practice."

Someone laughs—Tommy, still sore from our morning session but ready for more. The others take positions with the ease of people who've defended this ground before. But their eyes keep drifting to me, curiosity mixing with concern.

They've felt my strength, tasted my speed. But they haven't seen me kill.

Sister Evangeline trained her special novitiates for subtlety. Poison in wine cups. Knives in the dark. Accidents that weren't. But she also taught us war, because sometimes subtlety fails and all that's left is blood.

The first breach comes exactly where expected. Shaped charges blow the loading dock door, MS-13 soldiers pouring through the gap. They expect security guards, maybe some supernatural muscle.

They don't expect me.

I move before conscious thought, seventeen years of training compressed into motion. The Glock fires four times—four heads snapping back, brain matter painting walls. The karambits curve through a throat, catch another man's wrist as he raises his weapon. Tendons part like violin strings.

Beautiful, Aki-chan! Hanzo shouts, electricity dancing through dropped weapons to find new targets. Show them what kitsune can do!

Blood makes the floor slick. I pivot, using their momentum against them. Another burst from the Glock drops two more. The knife Tetsu gave me opens a stomach, spilling truth across marble that cost more than these men will ever see.

Around me, the building's defenders join the dance. Eddie tears through three soldiers, shadows pulling them into spaces that don't exist. Marco's unit works with pack precision, covering angles while I create chaos in their center.

But more keep coming. The fifty million calling them like moths to flame that will burn them all.

I reload without looking, hands knowing the motion. A soldier tries to flank—I put the karambit through his eye, feel it scrape orbital bone. His partner screams something in Spanish. I understand only a bit of it but the tone conveys the message. Terror of men realizing they're not hunters but hunted.

Behind you, kitsune, Noriko warns, breathing winter into lungs that forget how to work.

I drop, roll, come up firing. Three more down, their blood joining the river covering the lobby floor.

"Holy f**k," someone breathes. Tommy, watching me work. "No wonder boss claimed her."

A Serbian kill team breaches from the north—they've coordinated after all. Caught between two forces, some defenders might panic. I just switch targets, letting muscle memory guide me through the geometry of violence.

One tries to grab me. Mistake. I flow around his grip, karambits opening arteries with surgical precision. Use his dying body as shield while I put rounds through his teammates. When the Glock runs dry, I take his weapon. When that empties, I use the knife.

Always the knife, in the end. Sister Evangeline's final lesson.

We feast tonight! Yui and Rei speak in harmony, already pulling shadows from corpses to play with later.

"Push them back!" Marco roars, his wolf showing through human skin.

We drive them to the breaches, defenders turned attackers. I lose count of kills—twenty, thirty, more. Each death feeds something in my chest, that ninth tail my mother hid warming with every life taken.

Then I smell him. Winter and violence, Giancarlo entering from the eastern defense. Our eyes meet across the charnel house of his lobby. Blood covers me head to toe, none of it mine. The bond sings between us—his savage pride mixing with my kill-high.

"That's my girl," he says, loud enough to carry.

I bare teeth that taste like copper and victory. Not his girl. Not anyone's. But for this moment, in this violence, we're aligned. Pack defending den. Predators teaching lessons about what happens when you hunt what shouldn't be hunted.

The last Serbian tries to run. I put the knife between his shoulder blades, watch him drop at the threshold. Message delivered.

Silence falls except for our breathing. My yokai move through the m******e with otherworldly efficiency. Tetsu's briefcase swallows bodies whole, humming satisfaction. Noriko freezes blood before it can stain too deeply. Kazuki's masks reflect the last moments of the dead, storing their terror for later use.

"Aki-chan was magnificent," Hanzo says, electricity still sparking off his skin with excitement.

"The kitsune remembered her nature," Kazuki agrees somberly. "Death-bringer. Life-taker. What she was meant to be."

Around me, the building's defenders stare. Some with respect, some with fear, all with new understanding. I'm not just the boss's mate, not just another refugee seeking sanctuary. I'm what Sister Evangeline built me to be—death in a five-foot-four package, trained by nuns who understood that sometimes prayer isn't enough.

"Anyone else coming?" I ask the room at large.

Greg appears at the stairwell, laptop clutched like a life preserver. "Seventeen more crews inbound. Word's spreading about... this." He gestures at the spotless floors, my yokai having cleaned with impossible efficiency.

"Good." I wipe the knife on my ruined shirt. "I could use the cardio."

The little kitsune makes jokes! Yui laughs, the sound like wind chimes made of bone.

"While covered in their blood," Rei adds approvingly. "We chose well, following this one."

The bond pulses with Giancarlo's approach. He stops beside me, close enough to touch but maintaining distance. Respectful of the killer's space I need after violence.

"Impressive," he says simply.

"Necessary," I correct.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit fun. But he doesn't need to know that yet.