Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Eleven

GIANCARLO

The Serbian's blood pools around my Testonis in patterns that remind me of Jackson Pollock's darker works—chaotic splatter with underlying intention. Through the warehouse's broken skylights, Chicago's perpetual gray filters down like judgment. The metal tastes of rust and old violence in my mouth, mixing with the copper scent of fresh death. I can feel Akiko watching through security feeds, her presence a live wire through the bond that makes my nerve endings sing.

Three days. Three f*****g days since she spent the night devouring Korean dramas wearing nothing but my shirt, and I'm unraveling like a cheap suit in the rain. Every breath brings phantom traces of her—jasmine and that electric ozone scent of barely contained power. My control, legendary in this city of monsters, cracks a little more each time she looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much.

"You thought you could move product through my territory." I twist the blade between Lionel Petrović's third and fourth ribs, feeling the scrape of bone through the handle. His breath comes in wet gasps that spray fine red mist. Behind him, four more Serbians kneel on plastic sheeting that crinkles with their trembling. "After I was so clear about boundaries."

"The girl," Lionel gasps, pink foam bubbling at his lips like rabid champagne. "Fifty million—"

"Is not yours to collect."

The knife parts his throat in one clean motion, angled to avoid the arterial spray. Still, a few drops catch my collar, warm and sticky against my skin. Through the bond, Akiko's pulse spikes—not fear but something darker that makes my wolf rise beneath my skin, eager and hunting. Her arousal at violence tastes like burnt sugar and ozone on the back of my tongue.

She's been watching me work more often lately. Quinn reports she haunts the security room like a ghost made of curiosity and barely leashed hunger. Hours spent studying my methods with the intensity of a scholar parsing ancient texts. The were-raccoons tell me she takes notes, offers suggestions that prove disturbingly effective. Yesterday she correctly predicted where a target would run based solely on his body language in the opening moments of confrontation.

My little killer, learning to be deadlier.

"Boss." Eddie materializes from shadows that shouldn't exist in the harsh fluorescent lighting. His massive form makes the warehouse feel like a dollhouse, shadows writhing around him like living things. The scent of otherworld clings to his fur—ozone and deep earth and the peculiar smell of places between. "Got three more crews circling. Romanians from the north side, some freelance hunters, and—" His muzzle wrinkles. "Harrison Carver's people. Professional mercenaries. Ex-military by their movement patterns."

"Let them come." I clean the knife on Petrović's imported shirt, the silk parting like water under blood. "But not here. This place already reeks of death. Too much cleanup."

The winter wolf makes art with death.

The voice slides through the air like smoke through teeth. I spin, knife raised on instinct, to find one of Akiko's yokai perched on a shipping crate. Rei—the shadow twin—grins with too many teeth in too many rows. Darkness pools around her like spilled ink, and where it touches the concrete, the flooring ages decades in seconds.

"You can see me." Her delight tastes like copper pennies and childhood nightmares. "How interesting. The bond changes you, wolf-who-belongs-to-our-fox."

I've been seeing them more clearly each day. First, flickers in peripheral vision. Then full manifestations that make reality hiccup. The ice woman who leaves frost swirling like dust made of ice. The oni whose mask reflects crimes back at their perpetrators. The salaryman whose briefcase holds things that shouldn't fit in three-dimensional space. Half of them shadow me now, drawn by whatever metaphysical chains bind me to their kitsune.

"Does she know you're here?"

"Aki-chan sent us to watch. To learn." Yui materializes beside her twin in a shower of light that smells like funeral lilies. Where Rei is shadow and sharp edges, Yui glows with terrible brightness. "She says the winter wolf has things to teach about ending threats permanently."

My wolf preens at her interest, even secondhand. Three days of careful distance while she orbits closer like a satellite falling toward gravity's inevitable pull. This morning I found her in my bed—not sleeping, just existing in sheets that carried my scent. When I asked why, she said the guest room was too quiet, too empty. The way she looked at me then, pupils blown wide with want she doesn't know how to voice—

I'm going to lose what's left of my sanity before she decides she's ready.

"Tell her the next lesson starts in an hour." I gesture to Marco, who's already calculating disposal logistics. "East side docks. The Romanians think darkness covers stupidity."

The twins vanish in giggles that sound like glass breaking in reverse. Through the bond, I feel Akiko's attention sharpen like a blade being drawn. She'll be there, hidden in shadows but watching. Learning the language of violence I speak fluently, adding it to her extensive arsenal.

We leave the Serbians for the cleaners—professionals who know how to make bodies disappear in a city built on buried foundations. The ride to the docks passes in tense silence. Eddie drives with Marco in the passenger seat while in the back, I feel Akiko moving through the building, preparing. The bond feeds me glimpses—she's choosing weapons with the care of a sommelier selecting wine. The way her fingers trail over gun metal makes my mouth go dry.

"You're going to crack," Marco observes, his voice carrying the rumble of tectonic plates. "This control of yours. It's not natural, what you're doing."

"Nothing about this is natural." I watch the city blur past—neon bleeding through rain that started twenty minutes ago. "She needs time. Choice. After seventeen years of cages, she deserves that."

"And what do you deserve?"

The question hangs like a blade. What I deserve and what I want are chasms apart. What I want is to press her against the nearest surface and show her exactly how ready she already is. The way she watches me, the way her breath catches when I pass too close, the way she steals my clothes to wrap herself in my scent—she wants too. But wanting and being ready to want are different creatures.

"I deserve whatever she chooses to give."

Marco makes a sound that might be approval or pity. Hard to tell with him.

"Six cars," he reports as we approach the dock district. The air here tastes of Lake Michigan and industrial decay, fish and rust and the peculiar ozone that clings to supernatural territories. "Maybe thirty men. They've got the warehouse surrounded."

"Amateurs." But unease prickles along my spine like ice water. Too many crews making synchronized moves. Harrison's money talks, but this coordination suggests something more orchestrated. "Circle around. I'll take the direct approach."

"Boss—"

"They want the winter wolf? Let them have him."

I exit the car two blocks from the warehouse, letting them see me coming. The rain has turned to sleet, each drop a tiny blade against exposed skin. The yokai shimmer in my periphery—not just the twins now but Noriko leaving frost flowers in her wake, Hanzo crackling with electricity that makes the streetlights flicker. Guarding what belongs to their mistress, even if she hasn't claimed it fully yet.

The first shot rings out before I'm halfway there. Sloppy work—the muzzle flash telegraphs the sniper's position like a neon sign. I sidestep, feeling the bullet part the air where my head was. Return fire drops him from his perch, body hitting pavement with the wet sound of a dropped melon.

More gunfire erupts—automatic weapons chattering from multiple positions. I move through it like water through a sieve, the wolf lending inhuman speed and instinct. The sleet helps, making their aim uncertain. Bodies fall as I close distance, each death precise as calligraphy. The Romanians expected a gangster. They got an apex predator wearing human skin.

I'm almost to the warehouse when wrongness shivers down my spine like a lover's nail.

The bullet hits before I consciously register the threat. Silver-core, blessed by someone who knows their business—I can smell the holy water and wolfsbane oil from here. It punches through my left shoulder, spinning me into a wall hard enough to crack brick. Fire races through my veins as the silver does what silver does to our kind—burns, poisons, seeks the heart like a homing missile made of agony.

"Got him!" Someone shouts in accented English. "The bounty—"

He never finishes. Akiko flows from shadow like liquid death given form, karambits opening his throat in movements so beautiful I forget the silver eating through my shoulder. She moves through the remaining Romanians with the efficiency of a plague, the yokai swirling around her in a tornado of supernatural assistance. Noriko freezes blood in veins. The twins pull fear from dying minds and shape it into weapons only she can see. Hanzo shorts out nervous systems with electrical precision.

She is vengeance in a five-foot-four package, and I've never wanted anyone more.

I try to stand, fail spectacularly. The silver burns deeper, seeking my heart with single-minded purpose. My vision grays at the edges as I watch her work. Beautiful. Lethal. Mine, mine, mine, the wolf chants even as we're dying.

"Giancarlo." Then she's there, hands on my face, and when did she start using my first name? It sounds like prayer in her mouth, like promise, like possession. "The bullet—"

"How did you get here?" I manage to hiss as I try to stay conscious.

"I followed. I sensed you were in danger."

"Silver," I mutter through teeth clenched hard enough to crack. "Blessed. Need to—"

I can help. Noriko materializes fully, frost already spreading from fingers that look delicate but could freeze oceans. But it will hurt worse than the wound itself.

"Do it."

Ice floods my system like liquid nitrogen in my veins. Worse than the silver's burn because it's everywhere at once. I bite back a scream that wants to tear from my throat, tasting blood where I've bitten my tongue. Akiko holds me steady, her strength surprising for her size. The bond hums between us, her concern flooding through like warm honey over broken glass.

"Why didn't you wait for backup?" Her voice cracks with something that might be anger or fear or both braided together. "Why do you always have to be the hero? You're not invincible, despite what your ego tells you."

"Had to draw them out." The words come easier as Noriko's ice numbs the worst of the burning. "Too many crews moving in concert. Need to know who's conducting this orchestra."

She makes a sound of pure frustration, hands tightening on my shoulders hard enough to bruise. Around us, the yokai finish their work with terrible efficiency. Bodies vanish into Tetsu's briefcase—I watch a full-grown man fold into impossibility like origami made of meat. Blood freezes and shatters, leaving no trace except the psychic weight of death that sensitives will feel for years.

The bullet must come out, Noriko says, her breath making ice crystals form in the air between us. The kitsune must do it. Her hands, her claim. The bond demands it.

"I don't—" Akiko starts, panic edging her voice. "I could hurt him worse. Kill him."

"Please." The word costs me pride I can't afford, but the silver costs more. "Trust me. Trust us."

She studies my face like she's reading scripture written in a language she's still learning. Whatever she finds there makes her nod. Her fingers probe the wound with gentle efficiency that speaks of Sister Evangeline's medical training. When she grips the bullet, I feel it through the bond—her determination a blade, her focus a laser, her desperate need to fix this thing she maybe almost possibly is starting to care about.

The extraction tears a sound from my throat that would embarrass me if I wasn't half-dead. But then it's out, silver clattering on concrete like a dropped coin. Noriko's ice flows deeper, beginning the healing process that will take hours to complete.

"You absolute i***t," Akiko breathes, but her hands cup my face with something that transcends tenderness and approaches worship. "You beautiful, reckless fool. You could have died."

"Takes more than silver to kill a Morelli." The joke falls flat when my voice shakes.

"Stop." Real anger now, making her eyes flash gold like a predator catching light. "Stop acting like your life means nothing. Like you're expendable. Like losing you wouldn't—" She cuts herself off, but the unfinished sentence hangs between us like a blade.

"Wouldn't what?" I press, because apparently near-death makes me stupid.

"Wouldn't matter," she finishes, but we both know that's not what she was going to say.

"It doesn't matter," I tell her with honesty that tastes like copper. "Not compared to yours. Not compared to keeping you safe."

She goes perfectly still except for the rise and fall of her chest. The bond thrums between us like a struck chord, heavy with everything we're not saying. Her thumb traces my cheekbone with reverent care, leaving a trail of fire despite Noriko's ice turning my blood to slush.

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said." Her voice drops to whisper that carries the weight of mountains. "And you've said some remarkably stupid things in the week I've known you."

I laugh though it sends agony through my shoulder. "Only around you. You make me stupid."

"Exactly my point." But she's leaning closer, drawn by the same gravity that's been pulling us together since that first night. Her breath ghosts across my lips. "How many more times will I have to watch you bleed before you learn you're not expendable? That you matter?"

"How many more times will you save me?"

"Every time," she says without hesitation, then seems to realize what she's admitted. Pink floods her cheeks as she pulls back slightly. "Because you're pack. And pack—"

"Protects pack." I finish, tasting the lie in it. "I know."

But it's more than pack. We both know it in our bones. The way her hands linger on my skin like she's memorizing the texture. The way my wolf settles at her touch despite silver poisoning. The way the bond sings hymns of recognition for what we're becoming, even if neither of us has the courage to name it yet.

"Can you stand?" She shifts to professional concern, though the blush still stains her cheeks like watercolor.

I let her help me up, leaning more than strictly necessary because I'm weak and she smells like home. She smells like jasmine and cordite, death and salvation, an intoxicating combination that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and just breathe. The yokai hover around us—my temporary guardians, drawn by bonds that transcend the physical.

"There's more coming," I tell her as we move toward the car. Each step sends silver-edged agony through my system, but her presence makes it bearable. "This was just the opening salvo."

"I know." She adjusts her grip, taking more of my weight against her side. The press of her body against mine is torture of the sweetest kind. "The twins heard chatter on the supernatural networks. Someone's organizing the crews, promising bonuses for live capture. They want me breathing."

"Vivienne?"

"Has to be. She always liked using proxies, playing chess with other people's lives." Her jaw tightens enough that I hear teeth grind. "Twenty years of planning won't disappear just because I'm not locked in her convent anymore."

We reach the car where Eddie waits, his massive form vibrating with barely contained violence. He takes in our blood-soaked state without comment, though I catch the ghost of a smile when Akiko refuses to let go of me even after I'm settled in the backseat.

"Back to the penthouse," I order through gritted teeth. "And Marco? Double the security. Triple it. Anyone who doesn't belong gets a single warning shot to the knee."

"Just one?" He sounds personally offended by my restraint.

"Akiko needs more practice with moving targets."

She makes a sound between laugh and outrage but doesn't deny it. Her hand finds mine in the darkness of the car, fingers interlacing like they belong there. The ride home passes in charged silence. Noriko continues her work, ice battling silver's poison with the patience of glaciers. The other yokai maintain guard positions, treating me as an extension of their mistress.

Which I am, in ways that terrify and thrill with equal measure.

"You need a proper shower," Akiko says as we enter the penthouse. The familiar scent of home does nothing to calm my racing pulse. "And medical attention. Real medical attention from someone with an actual medical degree."

"Isabella's en route." I can feel my cousin through pack bonds, her anger at my recklessness preceding her arrival like a storm front. "Though she'll lecture until my ears bleed."

"Good. Someone should." She helps me to the couch, hovering like she can't decide whether to stay or flee. The uncertainty makes her look younger, vulnerable in ways she usually hides. "You can't keep doing this. Taking unnecessary risks. Acting like you're invincible when you bleed red like everyone else."

"I'm not acting." I catch her hand before she can pull away completely. "With you, I am invincible. Or close enough to count."

"That's not how biology works."

"Isn't it?" I study our joined hands—hers small but deadly, currently trembling slightly. Mine larger but currently useless, silver-weak and depending on her strength. "You saved me. Again. The yokai guard me because I'm yours whether you admit it or not. The bond makes us stronger together than apart. That sounds like invincibility to me."

She stares at where we touch like she's seeing the future written in the lines of our palms. Conflict plays across her features in a symphony of want and fear. "Giancarlo..."

"I know. Not ready." I release her hand though it feels like tearing off my own skin. "But when you are—"

"When I am, you'll be the first to know." The promise hangs between us heavy as lead, sweet as honey. "Now stop bleeding on the couch. Isabella says it's worth more than most people's cars."

I laugh despite the silver still eating at my insides. "It's worth more than several cars. Imported from—"

"I don't care if it was imported from the moon." But she's fighting a smile as she helps me stand again. "Everything about you is excessive. Your cars, your suits, your need to throw yourself into danger like you're auditioning for an action movie."

"You like my suits."

"I—" She stops, caught. Because she does like them. I've felt her appreciation through the bond when I dress each morning, the way her pulse quickens when I adjust my tie.

"I like your appreciation of them," I admit, because near-death makes me honest.

The blush that paints her cheeks is worth the silver poisoning.

The yokai twitter agreement, already making themselves at home in my space. Rei drapes herself over my favorite chair like smoke. Yui perches on the bar, making the bottles sing with proximity to her light. And maybe that's progress—her guardians accepting me, protecting me, treating me as theirs.