He’s a Mafia, He’s a Werewolf, and He’s My Boss

The air was sharp with smoke and steel, carrying the bitter scent of blood. Shadows moved restlessly beneath the canopy of Helan Forest, where even the wind dared not whisper.

“They’re weakest tonight,” Roland said, his voice low but burning with resolve. “The new moon strips them of their strength. No claws, no bite worth fearing. This is the night we end them.”

His men shifted uneasily in the undergrowth, silver blades glinting faintly in the darkness. One of them swallowed hard. “Boss… it’s Malaki’s pack. They say even the strongest wolves kneel before him.”

Roland’s gaze cut through the man like a blade. “Fear has no place here. You’re werewolf hunters. If he lives, none of us will. Tonight, we spill his pack’s blood. Tonight, Malaki Dragna falls.”

The men answered with a shaky chorus, but their courage wavered at the name.

When the hunters stormed the clearing, the silence shattered into chaos. Silver pierced flesh, wolves howled in agony, and the ground turned slick with blood. Half of Malaki’s pack was slaughtered before dawn, their bodies left scattered among the trees.

But the Alpha lived.

Bloodied and staggering, Malaki’s golden eyes still blazed with defiance as he dragged the surviving wolves into the shadows. At the edge of the forest, he paused, chest heaving, the flicker of torches reflecting in his eyes.

“Roland…” His voice was a vow carried by the night wind. “You will kneel before me. No man strikes Malaki Dragna and lives to boast.”

With that, he vanished into the dark—leaving Helan Forest behind, but not his hunger for vengeance.

Ten Years Later

Italy’s streets pulsed with life music, laughter, and the scent of bread spilling from taverns into the night. But in the alleys where no light reached, another world thrived. Malaki Dragna ruled it.

No longer bound by wolfskin and wilderness, he wore tailored suits and power like armor. Where packs once bowed, now men did. Silence, blood, and fear built his empire.

Yet whispers followed him like smoke whispers that enemies never forget.

“Drink with me, Malaki,” Dante had said earlier that evening, his smile sharp and easy. The wine shimmered red under candlelight. The laughter had been false, the toast a trap.

The glass was warm in Malaki’s hand. One sip. Too bitter. Too heavy. His chest tightened. Poison.

He rose from the table, a predator hiding weakness behind a grin. By the time he reached the door, his vision had blurred. No guards. No brothers. For the first time in centuries, mortality hunted him.

Rain slicked the cobblestones as he ran, each step heavier than the last. Boots thundered behind him, the men Dante had paid to finish the job.

He stumbled into a yard, forcing his body forward until he collapsed beside a weathered doghouse. His breath came shallow, ragged. He crawled inside, the old wood creaking under his weight. His golden eyes dimmed, struggling to stay open.

“Who are you?”

The voice was small, curious. Malaki turned his head.

A girl stood barefoot in the grass, nightgown brushing her knees, curls damp from the rain. Her eyes wide, unafraid met his.

He pressed a finger to his lips, silently pleading for her to stay quiet. She copied him, her tiny hand pressed against her mouth, then whispered, “Are they looking for you?”

Before he could answer, the clatter of boots echoed through the rain.

“Little girl,” one of the men called, crouching low, his grin sharp. “Did you see a man come through here? Black suit, gold eyes?”

Lyra froze, her pulse quickening. Her eyes darted toward the doghouse, then back to the man. “No,” she said firmly.

He reached out, brushing her hair aside with a gloved hand. “If you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”

She said nothing, her chin trembling but unyielding.

The men cursed and moved on, their voices fading into the night.

When silence returned, Lyra turned toward the doghouse. “You can come out now,” she whispered. “They’re gone.”

Malaki emerged slowly, towering, pale, the rain sliding down his face. The girl looked up at him, fearless despite the danger in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” His voice was rough, strained.

“Lyra,” she said.

He repeated it softly, as if memorizing it. “Lyra.”

“You owe me,” she said with a bold smile. “Promise me that when I grow up, you’ll marry me. I’ll protect you next time.”

A low chuckle escaped him, surprised and genuine. He crouched to her level, taking her small hand in his cold fingers. “Are you binding me with a vow?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod.

He held her gaze, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark. “Then I will wait.”

“Lyra!” a woman’s voice called from the doorway.

The girl’s face lit up. She ran toward the house, shouting over her shoulder, “See you next time!”

Malaki stayed still, watching her disappear into the light. Alone in the rain, he whispered, almost to himself, “I will wait for you, Lyra. No matter how long it takes.”