Uncle Carlo looked at each of us one final time and then let go of our hands and turned to walk out of the room. Jimmy and I stayed silent as he crossed the oak wood floor in bare feet. He opened the library door and closed it softly behind him, never turning to look back.
Carlo Marelli, an organized crime boss for more than half a century, was gone, off to die the death of a warrior.
Chapter 43
I sat on the empty beach and stared at the angry waves pounding the surf. There was a full moon overhead, and behind me the lights of a dozen houses reflected across the vastness of a dark ocean. I took a drink from a bottle of Bordeaux and wedged the bottle in the sand next to me. The last few days had been long and tragic ones, and the weight of them felt heavy on my shoulders.
The death of Big Mike hit me hard.
He was a true friend and there are few of those in my line of work. He was also a trusted ally and good at what he did. I was proud of the way he died, going down gangster hard, taking every shooter with him, behind the wheel of that car he loved so much. I would miss his comforting presence, his no-nonsense approach to business, and his dedication to be the best at what he did. We shared a lot across a short span of years, good and bad, but as with most things in the crime world, it all ended sooner than either one of us would have liked.
And that end is always bloodstained.
There’s a part of me that wonders how much Jimmy had to do with helping the Russians orchestrate the setup that killed Big Mike. I have not asked him to spell out the information he fed to the Russians, nor will I. That’s for him to either tell me or keep to himself. I gave Uncle Carlo my word I would work together with Jimmy and fight this war I started with him by my side. But how can I ever trust him again, trust him the way I did Big Mike or my Silent Six or even Angela, as deadly and as treacherous as she can be? And how can I know Jack will be safe under his care, believe he would not do anything that would put my son’s life in jeopardy? I know what Jimmy did was out of anger and jealousy, but it was a move made against me, and it led to Uncle Carlo’s death, and that’s a truth that is difficult to bury. It will always be there between us.
I will always love Jimmy. But there will be a barrier that will keep us apart, and one I need to ensure is never breached. Jimmy proved to be weak, and it had nothing to do with his disability but with his character. I don’t know how long the bitterness he felt toward me lingered before he acted on it, and I have no way of knowing if Uncle Carlo’s death washed away all remnants of it or further fortified it.
But I would take no chances. Jimmy’s every move would be monitored. He would be given no access to computer or phone. He would be left isolated and alone. And his future would rest now in my hands.
Uncle Carlo’s decision to sacrifice his life so his son could live was much more than an act of courage by a tough, brave old man in the home stretch of his days. It was also a direct link to our criminal history. For centuries the heads of families have made the critical decision of whose life would be taken and whose spared. But no indiscretion can be left unpunished, especially one so egregious as a betrayal by a member of the family. Under those circumstances, a crime boss can offer a life sacrificed in return for a life saved. I had heard stories of crime bosses taking their own lives in place of that of a brother, a daughter, and even a wife. In return, the survivor swears fealty to the organization for the rest of his days, working closely with the new head of the crew.
I respected such traditions and was in awe of the men who had the courage to give up their own lives as payment for the treachery or indiscretions of either blood relatives or trusted criminal partners. I’m not certain I would have the bravery to make such a move. I doubt very much I would have spared Jimmy’s life as the price for mine. But then again, I would not hesitate to do for Jack what Uncle Carlo did for his only son, but that’s a price any father, regardless of occupation, would readily agree on. Part of my reluctance may rest in the fact that I was not born into the criminal life like Uncle Carlo. I fell into it through circumstances beyond my control. Maybe, in some respects, that allows me to look at it from a different perspective and also makes me a more effective crime boss.
But right now, gazing out at loud, aggressive waves slamming against a white sandy beach, I knew I had been weakened in my battle against Valdimir and Raza. The deaths of Big Mike and Uncle Carlo stripped me of a powerful partner and a valued advisor, and those are deeper losses to sustain than any on-the-field casualties. I would miss their skill and counsel. My position had been weakened just as I was about to venture into unknown zones where the difference between success and defeat came down to who had the more precise information and was better prepared for any eventuality. “Go in with your best and be prepared to do your worst,” Uncle Carlo had told me in the days leading up to the last skirmish we fought together, against a rogue faction of our organization. “And leave behind no prisoners. They have memories, and that will only lead to more battles down the road.”
I still had Angela and David Burke and his team working with me, and I controlled the most powerful branch of organized crime this side of the Atlantic. But even with all that, what loomed ahead would be my toughest test since I took over the reins of the syndicate. I was concerned about the outcome, but not afraid to confront it. There was one factor fueling my desire, made even stronger now by what had happened to Big Mike and Uncle Carlo.
My hunger for revenge was at its zenith.
The next days would mark the first steps in my quest to destroy those who had killed my family and now had left my friend’s body ruined and bloodied on the front end of a car. My uncle Carlo needed retribution as well, his own life put on the line because of his son’s treachery.
The time had come for them to pay. It was the moment to show them the side of the Wolf they had heard about but never seen. I looked away from the waves, up toward the sky, and stared at the full moon above. What the Gypsies call a “wolf’s moon.”
It was a call to battle.
It was a call for revenge.
Chapter 44
Florence, Italy
The room was dark and quiet. Ruslan Holt sat in the middle of a peach-colored couch, head resting against his chin, sound asleep. On the oak coffee table was an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a crystal ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts, and a semiautomatic handgun. To his left was a room service cart filled with the remains of a late evening meal.
I sat on the bed and watched as Holt slept. The intel that had been gathered by my New York crew pointed to him as the man who planned the operation against Big Mike. John Loo picked up enough chatter from cloned cell phones to further back up that fact. Now, it would have been easier and probably safer to send David Burke and the Silent Six to deal with Holt or even one of the crew’s top-line hitters. All that mattered was that he would die for what was done to Big Mike. But I didn’t see it that way.
Big Mike was my friend and that made it personal. If Holt were going to die, it would be by my hand.
I stood and pressed a switch to turn on the overhead light, an old chandelier that sparkled when lit. I walked toward the couch, on the other side of the coffee table, waiting for Holt to feel my presence and slowly open his eyes. He wiped a hand across his face and gazed up at me. “This is a five-star hotel,” he said. “You would think they would have adequate security and not let just anyone into your suite.”
“I’m not just anyone,” I said.
Holt nodded. “The minibar is near the television,” he said. “Why don’t you get us both a drink?”
“I’m not here to drink,” I said. “And you’ve had enough.”
“You had your chance to kill me when I was asleep,” Holt said. “You should have taken it.”
“That would have let you off easy,” I said. “The Greek deserves better than that.”
“So that leaves you against me,” Holt said, smiling. “Old-world way.”
“I don’t know what they call it in Russia,” I said, “and I don’t care. We call it a Brooklyn beat-down. It’s just you and me, and only one of us is going to walk out that front door.”
Holt jumped and reached for the gun laying on the coffee table. I grabbed the empty Jack Daniel’s bottle and slammed it against the side of his head, sending the gun to the carpeted floor. I held the back of Holt’s head, fingers gripping strands of hair, and pounded his face onto the glass coffee table. I kept at it until the glass shattered, sending shards into the air and cutting the front and sides of Holt’s face. He reached for a thick chunk of glass and swung it against my arm, slicing through my leather jacket. I reared back and landed three fast, solid punches to his face, the force of the blows tossing him back onto the couch. I grabbed a fork off the dining cart and jammed it into Holt’s right leg, pushing down as hard as I could, watching the blood flow from the open wound and onto the couch.
Holt jumped to his feet and swung a series of wide hooks against my rib cage. I head-butted him and then tossed him over the coffee table. I started kicking him with my right boot, landing hard shots against his chest, stomach, groin, going at him with full fury.
I had an advantage from the start. He was still groggy from the sleep and the drink and had been caught off guard by my appearance. It was all the edge I needed.
Holt rolled to his side, blood flowing out of his mouth and nose, trying to regain his footing, gasping for breath. I rained blows against the side of his head and neck and then dropped to my knees and replaced the kicks with closed fists. I hit him again and again and again, losing all track of time, wanting nothing more than to inflict punishment on the man who had ordered the death of my friend.
I finally stopped, my upper body drenched in sweat, my hands and boots thick with blood and bits of bone. I looked down at Holt, beaten beyond recognition. I turned him on his stomach and lifted his head. I jammed one knee against the center of his back. I then pushed his head toward me with both hands, leaned down and whispered into his left ear. “For Big Mike,” I said.
I then pulled Holt’s head back until I heard his neck bone snap.
Chapter 45
East Hampton, New York
I walked into the library, coming in through the garden door, and saw Jimmy in a corner, a large pile of his father’s art books strewn around a nearby table. It was the first time I was alone with him since Uncle Carlo’s funeral, and I hesitated before I moved deeper into the room. We had kept a distance in the days since the incident, and I was unsure how involved he should be in my plans.
I stood next to him and gazed down at the open art book resting across his legs. “You got something?” I asked.
Jimmy pointed to a large photo in the art book. It was a fresco of
The Last Supper
by Raphael, a full-length rendering of Jesus Christ sharing his last meal with the twelve apostles. I picked up the book and studied the drawing.
“What am I looking for?” I asked.
Jimmy closed the book and handed it to me.
“The Vatican,” I said.
Jimmy nodded. Then he moved his wheelchair over to the big table in the center of the room. He reached for an open book and handed that one to me as well. I picked up the thick paperback and looked at the cover. It was a biography of Michelangelo.
I rested both books on the big table. “We’re on it,” I said. “We’re checking every museum in Italy that has the works of either artist. But until we pinpoint a location, we’re doing nothing more than guessing.”
I walked over toward the large window and looked through the glass at the dark ocean outside. “I’m taking you off the phone monitoring operations,” I said to Jimmy. “John Loo has been put in charge of that.”
I turned and looked at Jimmy, who gazed back at me. “Don’t worry about Jack,” I said. “I moved him out last night. So you’ll be left here on your own, free to do what you please. Now, am I taking a risk by doing that?”
Jimmy moved his wheelchair to a small coffee table next to a large lamp. He picked up a framed photo of Uncle Carlo that was on top of the table. The photo was in black and white, my uncle as a younger man in the early years of his reign as a crime boss. Jimmy pressed the photo against his chest.
He looked at me, tears in his eyes.
I walked over to Jimmy and put my hand on top of his, both our fingers resting on Uncle Carlo’s photo.
“Let’s get this done,” I said.
Chapter 46
Vatican City, Italy
I stood next to Angela and stared at Raphael’s fresco.
“I’ve looked at this fresco dozens of times,” I told her. “Of all his works, it’s the one that stands out. It stays with you.”
“Imagine, then, what impact the work has on an art student,” Angela said. “A young man wishing to emulate the master.”
“And if you can’t emulate him, then destroy him. What could be more memorable for an art student turned terrorist than to ruin what he most loves?” I asked.
“This room?” Angela said.
I shook my head. “Not this one, but close to it. Raza admires Caravaggio, likes the streak of rebellion as much as he does the paintings. But in his world, he’s more like Raphael, a talent who looked up to a greater talent.”
“Michelangelo,” Angela said.
“Put it in terrorist terms,” I said. “Raphael would be Raza, and Michelangelo would be Bin Laden. And that’s Raza’s goal—to topple Bin Laden. To wear the crown. What was it they called Michelangelo?”
“The Divine One,” Angela said.
“You break it down and brush talent aside, Caravaggio’s nothing more than a street thug.” I said. “Raza sees himself under a bigger spotlight than that.”
“And Raphael was a womanizer who died of an STD,” Angela said. “That won’t play well with the followers, regardless of how many wives these guys bring into the family.”
“But the Divine One,” I said. “All these centuries later, he’s still the biggest player in the room. If you don’t know square one about art, you still know his name. And that’s what matters most to a guy like Raza. To be remembered.”