The crack of distant gunfire shattered the morning peace. The sound ignited something primal in Stefano's blood—not fear, not concern, but savage territorial fury that threatened to overwhelm rational thought. His canines ached with the need to tear throats, to taste the blood of anyone who dared threaten what was his.
"I want maximum force," Stefano commanded, voice dropping to that deadly register that had made hardened criminals soil themselves. "No survivors unless I personally designate otherwise."
"Understood," the tactical team commander confirmed, loading his weapon.
The convoy screeched to a halt at the outer perimeter. Stefano was moving before the SUV stopped rocking, weapon drawn, blood roaring in his ears. The cottage stood a hundred yards away, morning sunlight glinting off windows that had never been meant to witness such violence.
"Marco, east entrance. Matteo, secure the perimeter," Stefano ordered, the three of them moving in perfect synchronicity born from years of operating as a lethal unit. "I'll take the front. Leo is priority one."
The alphas separated, each moving toward their designated target. Stefano advanced toward the front door, every sense heightened by adrenaline and alpha rage. The scent of gunpowder and blood already tainted the morning air, minglingwith the distant hint of winter jasmine that called to something primitive in his chest.
A hostile emerged from behind a garden shed, weapon raised. Stefano's bullet caught him between the eyes, brain matter splattering across Akiko's carefully tended hydrangeas in a macabre arc. The man's body crumpled like discarded paper, already forgotten as Stefano advanced.
Two more attackers appeared at the cottage's side entrance. Stefano dispatched them—one shot, two shots, both finding lethal homes in vital organs. Blood sprayed across the white siding, bright crimson against pristine paint.
With each kill, the alpha bloodlust intensified, feeding on itself in a primal loop of violence and possession. These weren't just enemies—they were threats to his mate, to the omega who belonged to him, to the future he'd planned for three long years.
In the distance, Marco's distinctive three-shot pattern echoed through the trees, followed by Matteo's single, precise report. His brother and cousin were claiming their own body count, their own trail of destruction leading to the same prize.
Stefano reached the front door, finding it already ajar, evidence of forced entry that made his vision swim with killing rage. Someone had violated the sanctuary he'd established for Leo. Someone had dared to breach what belonged to him.
Another attacker appeared in the doorway. Stefano's bullet caught him in the throat, silencing whatever warning the man might have shouted to his companions. Blood fountained from the ruined windpipe, spraying across the entryway as the body pitched forward at Stefano's feet.
Stepping over the twitching corpse, Stefano entered the cottage, weapon raised, senses hyper-focused on a single goal: finding Leo. The scent of winter jasmine called to him now, stronger inside despite the competing reek of gunpowder anddeath. It pulled at something primal in his chest, guiding him through the chaos like a beacon.
A hostile emerged from the kitchen, weapon already firing. Bullets whined past Stefano's head, splintering wood behind him as he dropped into a crouch, returning fire. Three shots in rapid succession—chest, neck, forehead. The man's face dissolved into a red mist, body collapsing in a boneless heap.
The staircase beckoned, and Stefano took it three steps at a time, following the strengthening scent of winter jasmine. Leo was close. Leo was upstairs. Leo was his, and nothing would keep Stefano from reaching him.
At the top of the landing, an attacker appeared, weapon raised. Stefano's bullet caught him under the jaw, the exit wound spraying bone fragments and brain matter across the hallway behind him. The body tumbled backward, arms flailing like a broken marionette.
Distant screaming reached his ears—Akiko's voice, high and panicked, calling Leo's name. The sound only intensified the killing rage pumping through Stefano's veins. These animals had frightened his omega's caretakers, had brought violence into Leo's sanctuary. Their deaths would be the least of the punishment Stefano would inflict.
Steam seeped from beneath the bathroom door at the end of the hall, carrying Leo's winter jasmine scent, now spiked with unmistakable fear. The recognition that Leo was frightened—that his little prince was cowering, vulnerable and alone—sent Stefano's alpha nature into overdrive, vision bleeding completely crimson around the edges.
Without hesitation, Stefano delivered a powerful kick that exploded the bathroom door inward, wood fragmenting across the tiled floor. Steam billowed out, momentarily obscuring his vision before clearing to reveal a sight that turned his blood to molten rage.
Leo—his Leo—was curled against the shower wall, trembling violently, naked body folded into itself like a terrified child. Those amber eyes Stefano had dreamed about for years were wide with primal panic, tears streaming down his face. His little prince was hyperventilating, each breath a shallow gasp that barely filled his lungs.
The sight of Leo reduced to this state of terror triggered something primitive and violent in Stefano's chest. His vision went completely crimson, a roar building in his throat as every alpha instinct screamed to protect, to kill, to destroy anything that had caused his mate such fear. The knowledge that strangers had violated Leo's sanctuary, had made him feel this helpless, ignited a bloodlust so intense it nearly overwhelmed rational thought. In this moment, Stefano was no longer the calculated mafia don—he was pure alpha predator, driven by the most primal instinct: protect mate, eliminate threats. And God help anyone who stood between him and what was his.
twenty-one
. . .
The funeral was over. Had been over for three days, in fact, and I was still trapped in this goddamn cottage while my father rested in peace—or whatever passed for peace when you died knowing your only son wasn’t welcome at your grave.
“For your own safety, Leo-kun,” Aunt Akiko had said when I’d demanded to be taken to the cemetery. “The clan situation is… complicated right now.”
Because even in death, dear old dad couldn’t bear the thought of his omega disappointment contaminating his final send-off. Eight years of hiding me away, and he couldn’t even let me say goodbye properly.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the orange pill container in my palm. Three suppressants rattled around inside—a pathetic remainder of what had once been a full supply. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was rationing medication while grieving a man who’d never bothered to visit me once in eight years.
Maybe he’d have been proud to know I’m still managing my inconvenient biology responsibly. ‘Look, son followsinstructions even when abandoned!’ Too bad he’s not around to see this stellar example of omega compliance.
But the medication shortage was the least of my problems. The real question haunting me was what came next. Who inherited the Yamamoto clan now that the old bastard was worm food? And more importantly, what happened to his omega son who couldn’t inherit shit according to traditional yakuza law?
Let’s review my options, shall we? Because they’re all fucking delightful.
