The Mafia’s Girl With Wolf Blood

Chara The man across the table wouldn’t stop sweating. Not the normal kind; the kind that comes from fear you’re trying very hard to hide. It beads at his temples, darkens the collar of his shirt, makes his fingers slick as they curl around his glass. He keeps smiling anyway. That’s the mistake most people make. They think smiling buys them time. It doesn’t. I don’t interrupt him while he talks. I let him finish explaining why the numbers don’t add up, why money that should have come in didn’t, why a delay turned into a disappearance. He uses words like miscommunication and unexpected losses. He laughs once, softly, as if this is a shared inconvenience. I wait. When he finally stops, the silence stretches long enough for him to notice. His smile falters. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat, suddenly aware of how still I’ve been the entire time. I fold my hands on the table. Calm. Still. “You were paid to move product through this route,” I say. “You didn’t.” “We ran into some resistance,” he says quickly. “Local interference. It wasn’t......” “Don’t,” I cut in, not raising my voice. “If it wasn’t intentional, you would have told us sooner.” That’s when his eyes flick at the door. Another mistake. People always look for exits when they realize they’ve misjudged the room. They don’t understand that by the time I’m sitting across from them, exits do not matter. I stand, smooth and unhurried, and button my jacket. The room smells like stale alcohol and cheap cologne. A place men like him choose because they think it makes them invisible. It never does. “I’m not here to punish you,” I say. “I’m here to fix the problem.” Hope flashes across his face. Too fast. Too bright. “You’ll repay what you owe,” I continue. “You’ll be banned from ever using this route, permanently. And you’ll forget you ever worked with us.” His mouth opens. Closes. “That’s it?” I meet his gaze. Letting him really look at me this time. “If you make me come back,” I say, “that won’t be the conversation.” He nods. Too hard. Too eager. I leave without shaking his hand. Outside, the air is cooler. Cleaner. My driver opens the door without speaking, and I slide into the back seat, already reaching for my phone. There’s a message waiting. Hakan: Where are you? I type back as the car pulls away. Chara: Finished. The reply comes almost immediately. Hakan: Don’t return yet. We have another matter. Location sent to the driver. Of course, we do. I lock the phone and rest my head briefly against the seat. I don’t ask questions. I never have. That’s part of why I’m trusted. I was raised to understand that loyalty isn’t loud, it’s consistent. You show up. You do what’s asked. You don’t hesitate. You don’t wonder who benefits as long as the family does. The city begins to thin as we drive. Streets I recognize give way to roads I don’t. I register it absently at first, more as a shift in rhythm than scenery. Then my body reacts. The tension settles in my shoulders first. A tightness behind my eyes. The sense that something is… off. The road narrows. Trees press closer. The buildings change, older, farther apart, land that feels less owned. Less claimed. I glance at the driver. “This isn’t one of our usual sites.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “Hakan said you’d handle the conversation.” That tells me enough. I nod and look back out the window. Orders are orders. Still, I roll up my sleeve, absently brushing my thumb over the faint mark on my arm. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Not a scar. Not quite a bruise. Just a shape my skin never outgrew. Doctors never had answers. Neither did Hakan. Eventually, everyone stopped asking. I don’t know why I touch it now. The car slows near a large property set back from the road. Security is visible but understated, men who know how to blend in, who don’t reach for weapons because they don’t need to. This isn’t one of ours. I step out anyway. The meeting was supposed to be simple. A negotiation. A warning. Territory is being tested, and Hakan wants to know why. I’m here to deliver the message because I’m good at delivering messages without turning them into messes. As I walk toward the entrance, the pressure in my chest sharpens. Then it happens. It’s not dramatic. No lightning. No voice in my head. Just a sudden, undeniable pull; as if something inside me has shifted direction without asking permission. My breath stutters. My stride falters. I stop. Across the open space, a man is stepping out from between two others. Taller than the rest. Broad-shouldered. Calm in a way that has nothing to do with politeness. His attention lifts and locks onto me. The world narrows. My skin heats, sudden and intense, radiating from my arm. I gasp before I can stop myself, fingers curling reflexively over the spot beneath my sleeve. The sensation is wrong. Too sharp. Too aware. Like nerves waking after being numb for years. He sees it. I know because his gaze drops. Fixes. Sharpens. And then I see it too. The same mark. Barely visible where his shirt sleeve rides up. The same shape. The same impossible familiarity. My heart stutters. This isn’t coincidence. I’ve handled men who kill without blinking. I’ve stood in rooms thick with threat and blood and never once felt unsteady. But now my balance feels wrong, like the ground has tilted and forgotten to settle back into place. The men around him are talking. I can tell by the movement of their mouths. I can’t hear a word. He steps closer. Not aggressive. Not cautious either. Just… certain. “Who are you?” he asks. The question shouldn’t matter. I’ve answered it a thousand times. I open my mouth... but hesitate. For the first time in my life, the answer doesn’t come easily. “I’m here on business,” I say instead. His eyes flick back to my arm. “So am I.” The air between us tightens, charged with something I don’t have language for. Instinct, maybe. Recognition. Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel learned. It feels remembered. Someone clears their throat sharply. The moment breaks, just enough. I lower my sleeve, forcing my hand to stop shaking. I hate that he noticed. I hate that I noticed more. “This territory is being encroached on,” I say, defaulting to what I know. “That stops now.” He studies me for a long beat. Then, quietly, “You don’t know where you are.” The words shouldn’t bother me. They do. “I know exactly where I am,” I say. He doesn’t smile. “No,” he replies. “You really don’t.” A voice calls his name—Leo—from behind him. The sound of it hits me like a second blow. Leo. Something inside me answers. I take a step back, pulse racing, every instinct screaming for distance and answers at the same time. This meeting is over. I can feel it unraveling, slipping out of the neat control I’m used to. I turn toward the car, already planning what I’ll tell Hakan. What I won’t. Behind me, Leo speaks again. “You should check where that mark comes from,” he says. “Because it doesn’t belong to you.” I don’t turn around. But I know, with a certainty, that scares me more than any threat ever has... He’s wrong. It belongs to me. And whatever it’s tied to has just found me.