Chapter 158 – Kitsune Circle

Chapter 158 – Kitsune Circle

Vittorio’s POV
“Line them up.”
My voice echoed through the warehouse, low and sharp.
The guards dragged the men forward—heads of the media outlets who’d filmed outside my house that morning. Their suits were rumpled, their faces pale. Some had piss stains on their pants. All of them were blindfolded.
The air smelled like cold metal and sweat. Cigarette smoke curled above the concrete floor.
Salvatore stood beside me, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“Take off their blindfolds,” I said.
One by one, the guards ripped them off. Eyes blinked in the harsh white light.
“Gentlemen,” I said, walking slow. “You know why you’re here.”
No one answered. Just breathing—shaky, uneven.
I stopped in front of the first man. His name tag still hung crooked on his jacket. “You were at my villa this morning. You took pictures. You uploaded them. You made my home your circus.”
He stammered. “S-sir, it was just news—”
“News?” I repeated. “You call disrespecting my family news?”
He shook his head, mouth trembling. “It wasn’t meant—”
I lifted the gun from the table and set it down in front of him. The sound echoed—clean, heavy metal.
“Call your office,” I said. “Right now. Tell them to delete every file, every post, every headline about that story.”
His hands shook as he dialed. Speaker on.
“H-head office? Delete everything. The De Luca piece—yes, right now. Orders from—” He glanced up at me. “From above.”
I moved to the next one. “You too.”
He nodded quickly, pulling out his phone. “We’ll wipe it all, sir. I swear.”
The third man hesitated. “Sir, if we take it down, it’ll raise questions. People will notice—”
I grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the table. The sound cracked through the room.
He screamed.
I leaned in close. “Then they’ll notice your missing fingers first.”
My hand twisted his until the bone popped. A clean break. His scream turned into choking sobs.
The others went white. Phones came out fast. Calls were made. Orders were shouted.
Within minutes, my guards confirmed. Every post. Every video. Gone.
“Good,” I said, releasing the man’s wrist. He cradled it, crying quietly.
Salvatore watched, eyes tight. “You think this fixes the mess?”
“It controls the narrative,” I said. “Now, when people search, they’ll find nothing but my version.”
I turned to my men. “Ghost.”
Ghost stepped forward, his coat shifting like smoke.
“Check it.”
He nodded, already typing into a tablet. “Feeds are clean. All clips replaced with your interview cut. We used the backup script Salvatore wrote.”
I nodded. “Play it.”
The speakers in the corner buzzed to life. My voice filled the room from the test recording earlier:
‘Fiorella and I are grateful for the public concern. The misunderstanding this morning has been handled. My focus remains on business, on family, and on the truth.’
The men in the chairs nodded fast, terrified.
“Perfect,” I said. “Now upload it everywhere.”
Salvatore sighed. “They’ll think you’re hiding something.”
“Let them.” I walked to the center of the floor. “Better they fear me than pity me.”
Silence. The sound of fingers typing. Phones buzzing. The warehouse hummed with tension.
Then I turned back to the group of men. “If any of you leak a single frame of what really happened this morning—if I so much as hear my woman’s name whispered by your people—” I picked up the gun again and aimed it at the floor.
One shot. The bullet hit the concrete inches from the first man’s foot. Dust flew up.
They all jumped. One fainted.
“Next time,” I said quietly, “I don’t miss.”
“Take them home,” I told my guards. “And tell them to pray I forget their faces.”
As they were dragged away, Salvatore exhaled hard. “You’re making enemies you don’t need, Vittorio.”
“They were already enemies,” I said. “I’m just reminding them.”
He walked closer. “The ministers still want to see you. They’re waiting downtown.”
“Let them wait,” I said. “I just cleaned up their political mess for them.”
Ghost turned his tablet toward me. “Sir, no trace of the boy yet. Whoever kidnapped Luca knew what they were doing. No cameras, no chatter. It’s too clean.”
“Too clean,” I repeated. “Means organized. Not local.”
“Professionals,” Ghost said. “They are tied to the Japanese syndicate. They call themselves the Kitsune Circle.”
“Kitsune,” I said quietly. The word itched in my mouth.
Salvatore looked confused. “Foxes? What do they want with art?”
“They don’t want art,” I said. “They want something inside it.”
He raised a brow. “And how does that involve us?”
I turned to Ghost. “You said something before. A mark?”
Ghost hesitated. “Yes, sir. The file we dug from their network — they mentioned a mark shaped like a fox tail. Kitsune symbol. Said it’s connected to a woman.”
Ghost looked down. “Katarina.”
The air in the warehouse seemed to stop.
“What did you say?” I asked quietly.
“The mark on her shoulder. The one shaped like a curve of flame? It’s a kitsune sigil. Matches their records exactly.”
My pulse slowed, heavy and cold. “And you’re telling me this now?”
“We weren’t sure,” Ghost said. “We thought it was a coincidence until today.”
I stared at the floor, the image of her skin flashing in my mind. That mark. 
Salvatore spoke cautiously. “Maybe it’s nothing, Vittorio. Just a coincidence. Maybe she’s not—”
“Everything about her has been a coincidence,” I cut in.
I turned to Ghost. “Find out why they want her. I don’t care what it costs. Use Pietro. He’s recovered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put him on it.”
I paced once, hands on my hips. “If they’re after her, I’ll find them first.”
Salvatore rubbed his temples. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re mixing prophecy, superstition, and mafia business—”
I snapped my head toward him. “You think I care what it is? There’s something coming. And if that prophecy about killing one twin and saving the other ever tries to play out, I’ll make damn sure I choose the outcome myself.”
The room went quiet. Only the echo of the last words stayed.
Then my phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
I almost ignored it — until I saw Ghost’s face pale.
He handed me his phone, voice flat. “Sir… it’s the track.”
“What track?”
“The car race. Valentino’s race.”
I frowned. “What about it?”
“Sir…” His voice cracked for the first time I’d ever heard. “There’s been an accident.”
My hand clenched around the phone. “Who?”
Static on the line. Then a panicked voice: “De Luca! It’s bad! The car—he lost control—he crashed into the barrier—Katarina was right in front—”
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the concrete floor with a sharp crack.
For a full second, I couldn’t move. The warehouse spun around me — lights, smoke, the smell of oil and fear still hanging in the air.
Salvatore said my name, but I didn’t hear him.
I turned toward Ghost, my voice barely a whisper. “Get the car.”
He blinked. “Sir?”
“Get. The. Car.”
Every man in the room froze.
I grabbed the gun from the table, tucked it in my belt, and walked for the door. My voice came out low, steady, and dangerous.
“If she dies,” I said, “every one of them dies too.”
And then I was gone, the echo of my steps chasing me into the night.