The Mafia’s Howl — The Alpha’s Forbidden Daughter

Chapter Three — Present Day

Rose's point of view

Standing by the family’s black armored SUV, Niger waits for me. Class let out thirty minutes ago, but I stayed late to ask the anatomy professor a few questions. The more we dissect cadavers and trace ligaments, the more I want to convince Father to let me study an enemy body, ideally a rival wolf, to compare wolf-human anatomy, to see how bones adapt during a shift or how muscles thicken. It’s a burning curiosity tied to the secret of my lineage, one I can never speak aloud. I’ll prod Niger; if he’s on board, maybe I can persuade Father. There’s usually one or two bodies available before they’re disposed of.

The two guards posted in the lab follow me like shadows. My classmates suspect I’m a politician’s daughter, or the child of some general, maybe even CIA or FBI. After a while they stopped asking why I have escorts on campus.

“Why so late?” Niger opens the car door and I climb in, settling beside him.

“I was looking at an inflamed ligament. It’s fascinating, how it turns red and swells.” I snap my seat belt and laugh at his face.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re a woman or a little monster,” he teases, poking my stomach. “Do you people actually enjoy looking at the inside of corpses?”

I arch an eyebrow. “It’s not enjoyment. It’s research.” The SUV pulls away. I drum my fingers on the leather. “By the way, when you off someone without disemboweling them, can I examine the body? Imagine if it’s a hybrid wolf. I could study differences in tissue regeneration.”

“What the hell!?” Coffee flies from his cup as he jumps.

“You’re just going to toss them anyway. I could put them to better use.” I pout, knowing I get what I want when I act cute.

“Rose, you don’t get involved in family business. We’ve talked about this.” He wipes a coffee stain off his leg. Luckily, it was iced, no idea how he drinks that stuff.

“Studying a body you killed isn’t getting involved. It’s science.” I shrug, seeing the skeptical look on his face. I won’t win this one.

“Don’t even think about asking Father.”

“Boring.” I huff and fold my arms.

“Your med school is for women’s health, not forensics. Remember the deal with the Boss, stay in line or you lose what you have.”

“Whatever.”

I stamp my foot against the floorboard in frustration. When I persuaded Father to let me study medicine, I told him I’d be a gynecologist for the family’s women. I wanted a reason to leave the mansion after high school, to breathe beyond the estate walls. The house became a prison, and I fell into depression and panic attacks that followed me into adulthood.

When Father saw I was dying inside, he relented. But we needed approval from the Tanorra Boss, the Alpha of the main pack. I don’t know what was traded for it, but the permission came through. Break a rule and the freedom is gone, punishments the mere thought of which make my skin crawl, especially if they involve revealing my pure blood.

The Valentines run Nevada: money laundering, casino alliances, favors for politicians. We’re one of the major families; our requests rarely get denied. Back then I only wanted freedom, to meet ordinary people. I never expected to fall in love with anatomy or to want to study causes of death, maybe to understand how wolf-human physiology heals faster or how suppressants alter biology. Being a forensic doctor became a secret dream; it won’t benefit the famiglia and the Boss would never allow it. For now, I must be satisfied with what I have.

We take I-95, the helicopter I usually use is under maintenance, so it’s an hour and a half by road across the desert from Las Vegas. We’ll ride through that empty stretch cramped in this SUV, and I want to shake Niger for not being more helpful.

His long lashes cast shadows on his face, like Father’s. Both are tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed. A light stubble fills Niger’s cheeks; thick brows frame his eyes. He’s handsome, and I love him. Serious when he needs to be, Niger still brightens my days. It’s comforting to have him.

Steve delights in teasing me, he’s more playful, full of ideas that drive Father mad. Because he spends more time at home guarding Mother and me, he taught me self-defense and shooting. Father and Niger supervise training when they can; when Niger’s unavailable, Steve escorted me to school. Steve is cautious in a fight, unlike Father and Niger, who brawl to win and are terrible teachers, no patience when the wolf side of them shows under stress.

I like training with my middle brother. We talk; we look out for each other. Niger always protects me, but I don’t feel I can repay him. It’s my secret that I can hold my own and shoot. Mother would throw a fit if she knew, I’d be confined for life. Mafia girls are born to marry and bear children, not to fight or reveal lupine powers.

Ten minutes into the drive I fall asleep.

The car jerks violently. I smash my head against the window and snap awake. Niger has an MP10 in his hands, window down, half his body out as he fires a deafening burst. I barely turn in time to see a car behind us explode; three more vehicles surge up from the wreckage.

He ducks back in when bullets pepper the side. The lead cars in our convoy go up in flames.

“What the hell?” I hunch in my seat.

“We’re under attack.” Niger reloads. “Stay down.”

“Car four’s destroyed, sir,” Scott shouts, driving like a man possessed, swerving to avoid bullets ripping into the tires. Ulises leans out and returns fire at the cars ahead.

“How did they know our route?” I ask, clutching the seatbelt tight and curling inward. My hearing, sharper than most, catches distant shouts from our attackers: something about “take the girl alive for the Boss.”

“I don’t know.” Niger’s voice is tight before he leans out and fires again.

The firefight intensifies. He pops a Glock from his waist and hands it to me. The exchange is brutal, our escorts against whoever wants us.

The daylight dies into dust-streaked dark. A thunderous crash at the rear freezes my blood. I look at Niger, he’s kneeling, ready to fire, and then he’s slammed into the door, his head striking the glass. The SUV flips. I hit something hard and lose consciousness.

Dangling upside down, I see Niger contorted against the ceiling, his head bleeding, arms pinned to shards of glass, eyes closed.

“Niger,” I call, pain flaring through every cell.

No answer. I can’t see Scott or Ulises, no seatbelts fastened. The windshield is a spiderweb of cracks. A body slumped across the dash. Exposed entrails.

The door beside me is forced open. Boots hit the ground. Hands cut my straps and throw me to the floor. I fumble for the Glock; it slid near Niger’s head. My fingers brush the grip.

A hand clamps my shoulder. A man grins with cruel amusement and pulls me up.

I scream as they drag me out. Darkness closes in.

I wake with a pounding head and a throat full of dust. A stranger’s hand grips my arm like iron. I blink, trying to make sense of the world tilting around me. The man’s smile is all teeth, a predator’s grin that leaves no doubt who these attackers answer to.

And my last clear thought before everything goes black again is the same maddening question circling my mind even as fear consumes me: why would anyone want me alive?