Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Nineteen

GIANCARLO

Akiko's body goes limp in my arms, and something inside me breaks.

Not breaks—shatters. Detonates. Every careful control I've built over thirty-five years of violence disappears in the space between her last breath and her stopped heartbeat. She's not dead—I can feel her through the bond, distant and strange but still there—but her body hangs empty as a discarded coat.

"No." The word tears from my throat, more growl than speech. "NO!"

The warehouse shakes with my rage. Thirty-five years of learned control, of careful violence, of measured responses—gone. My wolf explodes outward, not a clean shift but something between. Bones crack and reform. Muscle tears and rebuilds. I'm standing but changed, neither man nor wolf but something worse. My hands end in claws that could gut steel. My jaw extends, teeth multiplying into rows that belong in nightmares.

Vivienne watches from her circle with satisfaction that makes my vision bleed red. Blood still drips from the ritual channels, Akiko's essence painting patterns on concrete. "Interesting. The bond didn't break when her consciousness fled. That will make this more—"

I move before she finishes. Not running—hunting. The ritual circle flares as I hit its boundary, salt and iron trying to hold me back. The wards spark against my skin, burning like brands, but rage makes me stronger than magic, stronger than carefully laid plans. I push through, feeling the barriers crack and splinter. The circle shatters like spun glass under assault, sending shockwaves through the warehouse that crack windows and shake dust from rafters.

Vivienne's eyes widen—the first genuine emotion I've seen from her. She backsteps, hands already moving in defensive patterns, fingers weaving symbols that trail light in the air. "You can't—"

My hand closes around her throat, lifting her from the ground. Her designer dress tears under my claws, white fabric parting like tissue. The smell of her fear finally breaks through that perfect composure—sharp and acrid under expensive perfume. "Give. Her. Back."

"I can't." She chokes out the words, hands scrabbling at my grip. Her nails rake across my knuckles, drawing blood that hisses where it hits the ritual circle's remains. "The yokai took her consciousness. That's beyond my—"

I squeeze harder, feeling her trachea compress. The wolf wants to tear, to rend, to paint the walls with her blood until she's as empty as Akiko's shell. But Vivienne hasn't survived this long by panicking. Her left hand drops to her side in a movement I'm too lost in rage to track properly. Too focused on her face turning purple, on making her pay for touching what's mine.

The blade slides between my ribs from an angle I don't expect. Not a wild thrust but trained precision. Silver-coated steel, thin as a needle but long enough to matter. It pierces up through the soft tissue beneath my jaw, through my throat, scraping against vertebrae. The angle is perfect—missing the carotid by millimeters, sliding between bones with surgical accuracy. Not a killing blow—she knows werewolf anatomy too well for that. But enough to flood my system with silver poisoning, enough to make me release her as my body convulses.

I stagger back, blood pouring down my chest in thick streams. The silver burns like acid, preventing the immediate healing my wolf demands. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as my body fights the poison spreading through my bloodstream.

Vivienne drops to her knees, gasping, already moving toward the warehouse doors. Her hands shake as she massages her bruised throat, but her movements stay purposeful. "Always too emotional. It's why you'll lose."

"Why?" The word gurgles through blood. I pull the blade free, more blood following in spurts that match my heartbeat. The silver coating flakes off, each piece burning as it touches my skin. "You're not kitsune. The ninth tail isn't yours by blood. Why do you think you have any claim?"

She pauses at the door, one hand massaging her bruised throat. Even disheveled, she maintains that infuriating composure. "Because I earned it. Seventeen years of planning. Of funding that convent. Of keeping her suppressed and controlled." Her voice rasps but carries conviction that burns like righteous fire. "Matsuki was selfish, hiding power that could reshape reality. Power that should go to someone with vision, not a broken girl who doesn't even want it."

"That's not how inheritance works."

"Isn't it?" She laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "I'm werewolf, trained in the old ways since I could walk. The Gaelic traditions my grandmother taught—they speak of power claimed through effort, not blood. Through sacrifice and planning and will." She straightens her ruined dress with hands that barely shake. "I sacrificed seventeen years. What did that girl sacrifice? Nothing. She was kept safe, fed, trained. I paid for all of it."

"You paid to torture children."

"I paid to contain power until it could be properly claimed." She wipes blood from her throat, examining it with clinical interest. "Do you know what the ninth tail can do? Reality becomes suggestion. Time bends. The barrier between life and death becomes permeable. That kind of power shouldn't be wasted on sentiment."

The warehouse doors burst inward before I can respond, wood splintering into deadly projectiles. Not constructs this time—actual creatures drawn by the scent of blood and magic. Things that hunt in the spaces between Chicago's reality. A wendigo drops from the ceiling, all wrong angles and endless hunger. Its limbs bend in too many places, fingers stretching into claws that drip something black and viscous. Something that might have been human once but now wears its bones on the outside skitters across the walls, leaving gouges in the brick.

"Goodbye, Giancarlo." Vivienne slips through the chaos with practiced ease. "Do try to survive. It would be inconvenient if the bond snapped while I'm preparing the next phase."

I roar frustration, but the wendigo requires immediate attention. Its claws rake across my back, opening furrows that burn with supernatural cold. Flesh parts like wet paper, muscle exposed to air that makes every nerve scream. I spin, catching its jaw, tearing the lower mandible free with a wet crack. Black ichor sprays across my face, burning like acid. It screams through its ruined mouth but keeps coming, hunger overriding pain.

Marco reaches me as I put my fist through the bone-wearer's chest cavity. My hand closes around something that might be a heart, might be something worse. I squeeze until it bursts, the creature collapsing into segments that twitch independently.

"Brother, we need to—Jesus, your throat!"

"I'm fine." The words come out wet, blood frothing with each syllable. The silver poisoning slows my healing, makes every movement agony. My enhanced metabolism fights the poison, but it's like bailing out a sinking boat with a teaspoon. But Akiko's body lies ten feet away, and nothing matters but reaching her.

Eddie has become something massive, shadow given hunger and terrible purpose. His form defies geometry, existing in too many dimensions at once. He swallows two creatures whole, but more pour through the doors. The warehouse has become a beacon for hungry things, Vivienne's ritual like a dinner bell ringing across supernatural wavelengths.

Quinn shifts rapidly between forms—wolf, human, things with too many teeth—trying to stem the tide. I watch them become something insectoid, mandibles clicking as they tear through a creature made of exposed muscle and screaming.

"Get her!" I gesture at Akiko's still form. "Get her out!"

Marco doesn't argue. He scoops up my mate's body with gentle efficiency, her head lolling against his shoulder. The sight makes my wolf howl with grief that threatens to drown rational thought. She looks like she's sleeping, but I can't feel her presence in the flesh anymore. Just that distant echo through the bond, like hearing music from three rooms away. Her skin has already started to cool, taking on a waxy quality that makes my chest tight.

A creature covered in eyes lunges for Marco. Each eye blinks independently, weeping blood that sizzles against the concrete. I intercept it, taking claws meant for my brother across my already-shredded back. Fresh agony blooms as its talons find the wounds from the wendigo, tearing them wider.

We go down together, rolling across blood-slicked concrete. It tries to bite, mouth opening too wide, showing rows of teeth that spiral down its throat like a nightmare funnel. I shove my arm down its gullet, letting it bite, then expand the limb. Bone and muscle swell, tearing through its internal structure. The creature explodes from internal pressure, showering me in ichor that burns through my clothes, raising welts on exposed skin.

"Move!" Eddie's voice booms from everywhere and nowhere. "Building's coming down!"

I look up to see the warehouse ceiling cracking. The magical energies Vivienne unleashed, combined with our violence, have destabilized the structure. Support beams groan and buckle. A chunk of concrete the size of a car crashes down twenty feet away, crushing something multi-legged that had been creeping along the walls. Dust rains down, coating everything in gray that tastes of death and failed magic.

We run. No strategy, no formation, just desperate flight toward the doors. A beam crashes where I stood seconds before, the impact shaking the floor. Something with too many legs tries to block our path—I tear through it without slowing, leaving pieces scattered that twitch with independent life.

The warehouse collapses as we clear the threshold. The sound is tremendous, like the world ending in concrete and steel. The ground shakes hard enough to knock Quinn off their feet. Dust billows out in a choking cloud, coating everything in gray that tastes of old death and failed magic. Behind us, dying creatures scream as tons of debris bury them. In the distance, I hear sirens. The human authorities, coming to investigate what their instruments can't explain.

"The van," Quinn gasps, finally settling on human form. They're bleeding from dozens of small wounds, clothes shredded to show skin marked by claws and teeth. "I've got the van running."

Marco has already loaded Akiko's body, cradling her with care that makes my chest tight. Her limbs hang loose, head tilted at an angle that looks wrong, looks dead. I climb in after, pulling her into my lap. She's so light, so still. Her skin has gone pale, almost translucent. I can see the blue veins beneath, the delicate architecture of mortality. If I didn't know better, I'd think—

"She's alive." Isabella's voice through the comm, steady and professional despite the edge of panic I hear underneath. "The yokai are protecting her consciousness, but her body is in stasis. Bring her home. Now."

Home. The word tastes like ash. What's home without her in it? Without her destroying my heavy bags, arguing with the yokai, discovering Korean dramas? Without her warmth beside me in bed, her scent on my sheets, her laughter echoing through rooms too large for one person? The bond pulses with her presence, but it's like holding smoke. There but not there. Real but unreachable.

"Vivienne." I say her name like a curse, tasting bile. "Find her."

"Already on it." Quinn's driving, somehow, despite their injuries. Their hands shake on the wheel, leaving bloody prints. "But boss, she's had seventeen years to build bolt holes. She could be anywhere."

Seventeen years. The number burns into my brain. Seventeen years of planning while Akiko suffered in that convent. Seventeen years of blood samples building toward this moment. And Vivienne thinks that effort gives her claim to power that was never hers?

"She's a f*****g witch." The realization cuts through grief. "All this time, she was the mastermind, playing Carver like a fiddle. That b***h—"

"Is a f*****g psycho but a trained one," Marco finishes. "Gaelic traditions. Explains how she could work blood magic without being a blood mage."

The Gaelic wolves. Old bloodlines from Scotland and Ireland who mixed witchcraft with their beast nature. Who believed power could be claimed through effort and sacrifice rather than inheritance. Who thought will trumped blood, that wanting something enough made it yours. No wonder Vivienne thought she could steal what belonged to Akiko by birthright.

"She said next phase." My throat has healed enough to speak clearly, though silver poisoning still burns through my system. Every breath tastes of metal and poison. "This wasn't the end. Just another step."

"Then we stop her before—" Eddie starts.

"We fix this first." I cut him off, looking down at Akiko's empty body. "We bring her back. Then we hunt Vivienne to the ends of the earth."

The yokai shimmer into visibility as we drive. Not all of them—Kazuki and the twins remain wherever they've taken Akiko's consciousness. But Noriko manifests in the van, frost spreading from her presence. Ice crystals form on the windows, spelling words in languages that hurt to read.

"The kitsune's mind is safe," she says without preamble. "Hidden in spaces between heartbeats. But reconnection will require..." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "The body must be made ready. The ninth tail must be stabilized. And the one who severed the connection must be dealt with."

"Vivienne."

"Her magic lingers like poison. Until she's dead or the working is properly broken, Akiko remains split." Noriko touches Akiko's forehead with fingers made of winter. Frost spreads from the contact, preserving what remains. "We can maintain this state for days, perhaps a week. Beyond that..."

She doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. A week to find Vivienne, break her magic, and somehow reconnect my mate's consciousness to her body. A week to undo seventeen years of planning.

"Then we'd better get started." I pull Akiko closer, pressing my forehead to hers. Through the bond, I send everything I can't say aloud. Love. Rage. Promises of vengeance and protection. Promises that I'll paint Chicago red to bring her back.

The city passes in a blur of lights and sirens. Behind us, the warehouse burns—someone's covering tracks, though whether it's Vivienne or the authorities, I don't know. Doesn't matter. What matters is the empty shell in my arms and the witch who thinks seventeen years of investment trumps blood and birthright.

She's wrong. And I'll paint Chicago red proving it.

My phone buzzes. Isabella's number.

"Medical team's ready. I've called in specialists—Dr. Yuki Tanaka from Tokyo, she's worked with kitsune before. And Father Miguel Santos, he knows about soul separation."

"A priest?"

"A brujo who happens to wear a collar. He's dealt with consciousness displacement in his community." She pauses. "Gianni, what Vivienne did... it's old magic. Older than Chicago. We need every advantage."

Old magic. Like the Gaelic traditions that taught wolves could claim what wasn't theirs through will alone. Like the kitsune power that could reshape reality. Like the mate bond that even now keeps Akiko tethered to this world.

"Whatever it takes," I tell her. "Whatever it costs."

Because I've lost too much already. Won't lose her too. Not to a woman who thinks seventeen years of scheming equals birthright. Not to anyone.

The van pulls into our building's underground garage. Security swarms us, but I only have eyes for the still form in my arms. Somewhere between heartbeats, my mate waits. And I'll tear apart heaven and earth to bring her home.