Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Seventeen

GIANCARLO

Navy Pier rises from Lake Michigan like a steel and glass middle finger to subtlety, its Ferris wheel dark against dawn sky. My pregnant brother sits somewhere inside, taken by men who think blood ties give them ownership over my mate. The irony tastes bitter as old coffee—Harrison Carver using family as leverage, the same currency he's traded in for decades.

"Visual confirmation on Rafael." Quinn's voice crackles through the earpiece, their tone carefully neutral. "Grand Ballroom, northeast corner. Eight guards, mixed supernatural. He's... intact."

Intact. Such a clinical word for my brother's survival. Through the mate bond, I feel Akiko's rage mixing with mine, her need for violence a match striking against my own. She stands at the pier entrance, playing bait while our forces move into position like pieces on a chess board I've been arranging since I was twenty.

"Harrison?"

"Not visible. But his lieutenant Kyle Brennan is running point. The one with the scar across his throat."

I know Brennan by reputation—ex-military turned supernatural enforcer, the kind who follows orders without questioning morality. Survived a werewolf attack that should have killed him, came out the other side harder and meaner. Perfect for Harrison's theatrical approach to intimidation.

"Vivienne?"

"Still at the warehouse. Dimitri's people have eyes on her. She's... busy. Candles, circles, the whole production."

Busy preparing to rip my mate's birthright from her body. The ninth tail Akiko carries between heartbeats, hidden by a mother's dying magic. But that's the secondary game. This morning is about something else entirely.

"Positions?"

"Marco has north covered with fifteen of our best. Eddie's in the water beneath the pier—says the shadows down there taste like old murder and rotting fish. Isabella's on medical standby with trauma kit and blood bags." Quinn pauses, and I hear something shift in their voice. "Boss, there's something else. Heat signatures in the ballroom that don't match any known species. Too cold for vampire, too hot for human."

Before I can respond, Akiko's voice cuts through the comm. "Going in."

I force myself to stay positioned three blocks north in the parking structure's top level, watching through military-grade binoculars as she surrenders obvious weapons to Harrison's muscle. She moves like water finding its course, like death wearing designer jeans and one of my shirts. The mate marks on her throat catch morning sun, purple-red bruises advertising exactly who she belongs to now.

Trust, she sends through the bond. Let them think they've won.

The next ten minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. I count heartbeats, measure breaths, feel the wolf pacing beneath my skin demanding action. Then Dimitri materializes beside me from shadows that pool wrong in morning light, and I nearly put silver through his heart on reflex.

"Apologies." He doesn't look apologetic. He looks like violence given aristocratic form, fangs fully extended, eyes burning red as fresh arterial spray. His usually perfect suit hangs wrinkled, blood spots on the collar. "I couldn't wait. He's carrying our child."

"I know."

"Do you?" His control cracks like ice under spring sun, showing something ancient and terrible beneath. "Seven months. We've made it seven months keeping him safe, navigating pregnancy politics and vampire council bullshit, and now—"

"Now we get him back." I hand him an earpiece, noting how his hands shake with suppressed violence. "Channel three. Stay positioned until—"

Glass shatters in the distance, the sound carrying across morning air like a scream. Not the plan. Through the bond, Akiko's killing calm floods my system, tasting of copper and calculated fury.

"Go," I command, already moving.

We cover three blocks in seconds, supernatural speed making the world blur into impressionist streaks. The Grand Ballroom's windows gape like broken teeth, Noriko's frost spreading from the frames in patterns that spell warnings in dead languages. Inside, chaos has already erupted.

Akiko stands over two corpses, blood painting her hands to the wrists. The bodies lie in spreading pools, throats opened with surgical precision. But my attention fixes on Rafael—bound to an ornate chair that belongs in a museum, Kyle Brennan's serrated blade pressed to his throat while Harrison watches from behind a wall of mercenaries.

"Ah, Giancarlo." Harrison doesn't look like a man whose plan is falling apart. His silver hair catches light like a halo, three-piece suit immaculate despite the violence. He looks satisfied, like pieces are moving exactly where he wants them. "Right on schedule."

"Let him go."

"Of course. As soon as my daughter comes home where she belongs." He studies Akiko with paternal disappointment that makes my teeth itch. "You've let her run wild. Look at her—covered in blood like some common killer. Her mother would be appalled."

"I prefer exceptional killer." Akiko's voice carries winter's edge, each word precise as her blade work. "And Mother would understand. She always did."

Movement in my peripheral—our people flowing through broken windows with practiced silence. Eddie rises from shadows that pool in corners where they shouldn't exist. Marco flanks from the north entrance, wolf already showing in his movements. But Harrison just smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes.

"Did you think this was about retrieval? That I'd orchestrate something so... simple?" He adjusts his cufflinks, every inch the corporate puppetmaster who built an empire on broken children. "Kyle, show them what else we prepared."

Brennan's scarred face splits in a grin. His free hand produces a detonator, the kind with too many wires and a digital display counting down from nowhere. "Sixteen pounds of C4 wired through the pier's support structure. Dead man's switch. I let go, we all go swimming with the fishes."

"You'll die too," Marco points out, always practical.

"Price of doing business." Brennan's scarred throat works as he swallows. "Mr. Carver pays well for loyalty. Set my family up for three generations."

Through the bond, I feel Akiko calculating angles, distances, probabilities. Her mind works like a computer running combat algorithms. But Dimitri moves first.

The master vampire blurs across space faster than thought, fangs aimed for Brennan's throat. The mercenary reacts with supernatural reflexes born from survival, blade slicing across Rafael's shoulder as he spins away. Blood sprays in an arc that makes time slow to honey-thick crawl.

Rafael's scream cuts through everything. Not just pain—terror for the child he carries. The scent of omega blood, pregnant omega blood, fills the air like a dinner bell for every predator instinct in the room.

Dimitri goes absolutely feral.

I've seen old vampires lose control. Seen them become the monsters humans write stories about to scare children. But this transcends simple bloodlust. This is a creature watching his mate and unborn child bleed, and all pretense of civilization evaporates like morning mist.

He tears through Harrison's mercenaries like they're made of wet paper. Bodies come apart in ways that violate basic anatomy. A head rolls past my feet, eyes still blinking in confusion. Blood paints the walls in Jackson Pollock patterns while Brennan tries to maintain his grip on both Rafael and the detonator.

"Holy f**k," Marco breathes beside me. "Remind me never to threaten Rafael."

"Kazuki." Akiko's voice cuts through c*****e with eerie calm. "Show my father what waits in our blood."

The oni materializes fully—not just visible but present in ways that make reality reorganize itself to accommodate him. His mask cycles through faces of the damned, each one a Harrison crime given form. The temperature plummets until breath fogs, until frost crawls across marble floors. Something ancient turns its attention to the puppet master, and even I feel the weight of its regard.

"No." Harrison backs against his remaining guards, genuine fear cracking his composure for the first time. "You're bound to her. You can't—"

"Can't what?" Kazuki's voice carries the weight of centuries, of crimes that echo across generations. "Can't show you what awaits those who spill kitsune blood? Can't demonstrate why the wise fear yokai justice?"

The mask settles on a final face—Matsuki, Akiko's mother, as she looked while dying. But wrong. Features twisted by poison that ate her from inside out, by betrayal sharper than any blade, by the knowledge that her mate sold her suffering for power he'd never possess.

Harrison screams.

Not from pain—Kazuki hasn't touched him. But from seeing, truly seeing, what he'd done. The mask reflects not just the crime but its weight across time. Every moment of Matsuki's agony drawn out for months. Every tear Akiko shed in a convent that smelled of wolfsbane and lies. Every future stolen by his greed. The compound interest of cruelty, all due at once.

His perfectly styled silver hair bleaches white in seconds. Pure white from root to tip, as if something fundamental has been burned out of him by truth's unflinching light. He drops to his knees, manicured hands clawing at his eyes.

"Make it stop. Make her stop looking at me!"

But Kazuki isn't finished. The temperature drops further as other yokai manifest. Not just Akiko's court but others, drawn by the promise of justice served cold. They circle Harrison like sharks scenting blood in water, whispering in languages that predate human speech. I catch fragments—promises of what waits for those who betray kitsune trust.

Meanwhile, Dimitri has reached Brennan through a path carved from corpses. The mercenary tries to maintain his threat, but fear makes him sloppy. The blade wavers from Rafael's throat for one crucial second.

Akiko moves. Not toward Brennan—toward the detonator. Her hand passes through his grip like it isn't solid, like she exists in spaces between spaces. Suddenly she's holding it, the device secure in her blood-slick grip. The ninth tail flexes between heartbeats, letting her sidestep reality's rules.

"Impossible," Brennan breathes.

"Improbable," she corrects, then breaks his arm in three places with casual efficiency.

He drops screaming notes that harmonize with Harrison's ongoing breakdown. Dimitri catches Rafael as the chair tips, cradling his mate with desperate gentleness. Blood soaks through Rafael's designer shirt but the wounds are shallow—painful but not life-threatening. The baby's heartbeat remains strong, a rapid flutter I can hear from here.

"Kyle Brennan." I approach the broken mercenary. "You have ten seconds to tell me where the other explosives are."

"There aren't—" He screams as I apply pressure to compound fractures. "f**k! South pier, maintenance tunnel, blue wire is the disarm sequence!"

Eddie flows away without needing orders. Around us, Harrison's forces surrender or die based on how quickly they drop weapons. The smart ones are already on their knees. But Harrison himself remains broken, white hair stark against expensive suit, eyes staring at something only he can see.

"What did you show him?" I ask Kazuki.

"Truth." The oni's mask returns to neutral, though something satisfied lurks in his voice. "Nothing more, nothing less. He sees now what he is. What he's always been. Some minds break under that weight."

Dimitri snarls something in Old Vampire that makes the air taste of copper and centuries. The remaining windows frost over despite morning sun. Rafael grips his mate's hand, color slowly returning to his olive complexion.

"The baby?"

"Strong. Moving." Rafael presses Dimitri's hand to his belly, tears cutting tracks through blood spatter. "Takes after their father—already causing drama."

"This isn't over." Harrison's voice cracks like dried parchment, each word seeming to age him further. He looks at Akiko with eyes that have seen too much truth. "Vivienne has your blood. Seventeen years of samples. She knows the old ways, the bindings that even yokai must honor."

"Let her come." Akiko helps Rafael stand, gentle despite the violence still painting her hands. "I have something she doesn't expect."

"What's that?"

Her smile could freeze hell and make demons beg for warmth. "I have pack. Family. A mate who'll burn the world before letting her take what's mine." She looks at me, and the bond thrums with shared purpose. "And I'm done being reactive. Done letting others set the terms."

"The warehouse—" Harrison starts.

"We know where it is. Know what she's planning." I crouch before him, letting him see the winter wolf in my eyes. "The question is: are you going to watch your wife fail, or are you going to warn her we're coming?"

He laughs, broken sound from a broken man. "Warn her? She stopped listening to me the day we put Matsuki in the ground. I'm just... I was just another tool. Like the convent. Like the suppressants. All to get to that." He points at Akiko with a trembling hand. "The ninth tail. The power that could reshape reality if wielded right."

"Good thing I have no interest in reshaping reality." Akiko presses the detonator into Eddie's waiting shadows. "Just in protecting what's mine."

We leave Harrison to his madness and Kazuki's continued attention. The oni seems content to let him stew in revelations, occasionally adjusting the mask to show new angles of his crimes. There are wounds to tend—Rafael needs Isabella's healing touch, though he insists he can fight. Dimitri hovers like a protective shadow, fangs still extended, shirt painted with mercenary blood.

"Phase two?" Marco asks, eager for more violence.

"Phase two," I confirm. "Vivienne thinks she has seventeen years of advantage? Let's show her how much can change in three weeks."

Through the bond, I feel Akiko's power stirring. Not just the ninth tail but something deeper. The recognition that she's no longer alone, no longer fighting from a position of weakness. Pack bonds layer over mate bond, creating something stronger than either alone.

"Together?" she asks.

"You bet your sweet ass." I kiss her.

We move toward the warehouse district, toward whatever ritual Vivienne has prepared. But now we move as pack, as family, as forces united by blood and choice and bonds that can't be broken by corporate puppetmasters or bitter witches.

Harrison's white hair gleams in the morning sun as we leave him to contemplate what Kazuki showed him. Some prices can't be paid in money or power.

Some prices are paid in truth, reflected back until the mind breaks under its weight.

And some prices haven't been set yet, but Vivienne's about to learn what it costs to threaten what belongs to us.