“There’s no end game and we shouldn’t waste our time looking for one,” Big Mike said. “Vladimir’s angle is easy to figure. We were in his position, we might well be doing the same thing. He’s exploiting a weakness in order to make his foothold stronger. He’s making a gangster move. What these other guys are doing is not as easy to figure.”
“You have a read on their next target?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Big Mike said. “But we’re getting closer. It’s going to be big, though. That much I can tell you.”
“It’s going to be a cultural site,” I said. “Hitting the World Trade Center, that was a shot at our financial core. The next big one is going to go for the heart. And that means Europe. Italy, most likely.”
“Is that why you went in deep on this with the Strega?”
“That’s a big part of it,” I said. “This first battle is crucial. We take down Raza, wipe out his crew and clean out his cash flow, then our allies will step up. I need a win out of the gate, Mike. You and the Strega give me my best chance at that.”
Big Mike was one of the toughest men I knew, and balanced that with being one of the most thoughtful. He was part of the new wave of organized crime bosses who grasped that the twenty-first century would be a turning point for our way of doing business. He always seemed troubled that the other groups were not as quick to grasp the obvious. “You think we can be as ruthless as they are?” he asked. “These guys have no boundaries. They’ll use a kid as a decoy or a target. You can be five or fifty-five, makes no difference to them. You’re in their way, they take you down. For my money, if they have any edge at all, there it is.”
“I know,” I said. “There are things they do we would never consider.”
“But not the Russians,” Big Mike said. “They found themselves a perfect partner with that crew.”
“We just have to be smarter and sharper, and a whole lot luckier,” I said. “There are things we’re going to have to do we’re not going to be happy with. But no war comes without a heavy price.”
Big Mike stayed silent for a few moments, taking in the view. “You’ve paid a big enough price already,” he said.
“I’ve doubled the security on Jack,” I told him. “He’s my primary concern. Did it in ways he wouldn’t notice. He’s been through enough without having to walk around with guys with guns shadowing his every move.”
“I’m not worried about Jack,” Big Mike said. “He’s a good kid and he’ll come out the other end of this in one piece. We’ll all see to that. My concern is you.”
“There’s no need to worry,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re eager to get into a fight,” Big Mike said. “And you’ve tossed caution aside. Now, you always went your own way when it came to safety issues. But this time there’s a different feel to it.”
“I want them dead, Mike,” I said. “And if putting myself in harm’s way helps me achieve that, then that’s what I’ll do. It’s a risk I have to take. For me, there is no other choice.”
“And I need you alive,” he said. “And so does Jack. The Wolf can take all the risks he wants. Jack’s father can’t.”
Big Mike reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black cell phone. He handed it to me. “You need to contact me, this is what you should use. Call or text, doesn’t matter. They don’t have anyone who can clone it. I’ll get one to the Strega and to Jimmy as well.”
“How come they can’t clone it?”
“Because I can’t,” Big Mike said. “And neither can John. That gives it the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.”
I took the phone and slid it into my shirt pocket. “You flying back tonight?” I asked.
“Got a plane waiting at Teterboro,” he said. “Should be back home by early morning. Unless you want me to stick around for the meeting with the Colombians.”
I shook my head. “They’re a suspicious bunch,” I said. “They might flake if I show up with someone they weren’t expecting.”
“Think they’ll play along?”
“Think so,” I said. “The Mexicans have taken a big piece of their pie and they are desperate to get back in. I can help open the door. In return, they keep the Mexicans busy while we focus on the terrorists and the Russians.”
“They strong enough to take on the Mexicans?”
“Not long-term,” I said. “But they’ll buy us enough time to slow the gun supply going out and disrupt the drug flow coming in. Makes it one less thing we have on our plates.”
“Watch your back in there,” Big Mike said. “I don’t like that crew.”
“No one likes them,” I said. “But if they can help us, then we’ll make good use of them.”
“And once we don’t need their help anymore?”
I turned to Big Mike and rested a hand on his right shoulder. “Then we kill as many of them as we can and take over as much of their business as we need to take.”
He nodded. “Can’t wait for that day,” he said. “Be nice to get back to taking care of business. It’s a lot nicer and cleaner.”
“And a lot more profitable,” I said.
Chapter 25
Florence, Italy
Vladimir and Raza walked down a quiet street, the harsh currents of the Arno roiling just below them. Neither was pleased to be in the company of the other.
“We cannot afford to be seen together,” Vladimir said. “I was under the impression I made that clear.”
Raza glanced down at the river, walking closest to the edge of the red brick wall, street traffic drowned out by the rushing waters below.
“I need to ask you a question.”
“Then ask,” Vladimir said.
“How much bad blood is there between you and the American gangster?”
“What makes you think there is any?”
“He’s been on me since I partnered with you,” Raza said. “My men see strange faces wherever they go. Money transfers have been delayed or rerouted. Three of my cash couriers have been robbed at gunpoint. I thought our partnership would make my life easier. Instead, it’s painted a bull’s-eye on my entire organization.”
“There was no need for anyone to pay attention to you before,” Vladimir said. “Your prior targets were enough to bring you to my attention, but none of them placed you under a scope. With a higher profile comes higher risk.”
“Is he hunting me to get to you?” Raza asked. “Or does he suspect me to have been involved in the attack on his family?”
“Does it matter?” Vladimir said. “He’s on the chase and he won’t stop until he’s stopped.”
“The woman, too?”
Vladimir nodded. “Individually, each would pose a threat. I imagine they will be much more of a danger as a team.”
“Many will die before my task is completed,” Raza said. “These two will be lined up next to the other bodies.”
“How many targets have you lined up?” Vladimir asked.
“As of now, two,” Raza said. “Perhaps three.”
“You’re being coy,” Vladimir said. “I despise that.”
Raza shrugged. “I supply the bombers and choose the targets. You supply the finance. That was our arrangement. Our only arrangement.”
“Remember the objective,” Vladimir said. “The body count is secondary to me. What I need is chaos, and the fear that follows.”
“This will give you that in abundance,” Raza said, his words coated with arrogance. “We will both get out of this mission what we sought going in.”
“We’ll know soon if your actions are equal to your words,” Vladimir said.
Raza stopped, turned and glared at Vladimir for several seconds, struggling to maintain his composure. “I can show you one of the potential targets,” he finally said. “If you want.”
Vladimir shrugged. “I would much prefer to enjoy a long lunch. Alone.”
Raza watched Vladimir turn back toward the Ponte Vecchio, disappearing into a crowd of tourists clogging the pat
h to the jewelry center of the city. He shook his head and smiled, realizing that the Russian had no intention of letting him live past the completion of his mission. He was merely a gateway to a goal, and a piece of evidence that needed to be discarded before anyone would look to see if there was a connection between the two.
Raza remained unfazed. He had entered into an agreement with the Russian to fund his attacks, bring them to a level no terrorist could contemplate.
He also knew there was no room in his world for gangsters. They were adversaries, nothing more. These were men and women hardened by the battles they had waged to reach the top of their professions but softened by the demands of family and allies. They lacked the dedication to bring terror to the people, the ability to be free of emotional bonds. They had no cause to fight for and their only concern was the profits they could earn for themselves and their organizations. That desire would take them far in battle, but not far enough.
The taste of victory would belong to him.
It was his destiny.
Chapter 26
New York City
“You’ve been quiet,” I said to Jack, holding his hand as we crossed West 57th Street, making our way to the theater district for an afternoon matinee. “Feeling okay?”
“I’m good,” he said, “just thinking.”
I smiled. “About what?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” he said.
“Now that you put it that way,” I said, concerned about what was on his mind, “you have no choice but to tell me.”
“You keep secrets,” Jack said. “Why can’t I keep some, too?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Fill me in on one of your secrets and I’ll do the same with one of mine.”
Jack crinkled his brow and narrowed his eyes. He was a handsome boy and had many of his mother’s mannerisms, which were both painful and wonderful to see. “How about you go first?” he said, not bothering to stifle a giggle.
“Dads always go last,” I said. “Especially when it comes to secrets.”
“Says who?”
“It’s in the dad book of rules,” I said, “which you only get to read when you become a dad.”
“I think you just made that rule up,” Jack said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But until you can prove otherwise, you go first.”
“I’m worried, Dad,” he said.
His serious tone caught me short. The boy was only a few months removed from losing his mother and sisters in the most horrific way he could imagine. I had sent him to see a therapist I trusted, which helped as much as that sort of thing ever helps. Jimmy took him under his wing and in a few short weeks had Jack playing chess at an advanced level. They almost never missed a Yankees home game and Jimmy made sure Jack and his friends not only had a good time but were heavily guarded as well. He also made sure none of the boys—and especially Jack—didn’t notice the extra security. I had entrusted David Burke with the security hires and he brought in top-level pros as adept at not being seen as they were at protecting their charge.
But I knew I’d been away too long. I was deep in the weeds of the job, but at the expense of time with my son, my only remaining child.
“What about?” I asked.
“You,” he said in a voice barely audible above the heavy midtown traffic.
We turned left on 52nd Street and stopped in front of a hot dog cart, a middle-age man working the wagon, ignoring the steam coming up from the tins and warm coal fire near his waist. “You still like your pretzels hot and with plenty of mustard?” I asked Jack.
“Yep,” he said, “same as you.”
“Give us two,” I told the man, “the darker, the better. And two cold bottles of water.”
Within seconds the man handed us each a hot pretzel covered with yellow mustard followed by two sweaty bottles of Poland Spring. He palmed a fistful of thin napkins and passed them to me. I dropped a twenty on the slot next to the mustard and nodded my thanks. “Keep the rest,” I said to him.
Jack and I stood against the wall of a large office building, eating our pretzels, drinking our water, and watching the faces of the crowd rushing past us. “They always taste better off the cart,” I said. “Better than at a ballpark or at the Garden.”
Jack nodded as he wiped a line of mustard from his lower lip. “Mom liked them, too,” he said. “Remember?”
“I remember,” I said.
I swallowed a long cold gulp of water. “You don’t want you to worry, Jack,” I said.
“Mom worried,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “And I told her what I’m going to tell you. I may not have been the best husband or father. I may not have always been there when you guys needed me to be. And I’m sorry for that.”
“Mom was always cool about it,” Jack said. “It bothered Paula and Sandy a lot more, I think. They missed having you around. Me, too.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, the pain of the truth spoken as sharp and as sudden as the blade of a knife.
“I did my best, Jack,” I said, holding my composure, not wanting to expose the boy to my grief and guilt. “You need to believe that.”
“I know, Dad,” Jack said.
“But where I never come up short, where I never drop the ball, is with my work,” I said. “I am very good at what I do and there’s no need for you to worry about me when it comes to that. I can take care of myself and I will take care of you. I went against my gut with Mom and the girls and let them talk me into something I felt wasn’t right. That will never happen again. Nothing is going to happen to you. You have my word on that.”
“But something can happen to you,” Jack said.
I nodded. “It’s the world I live in, Jack,” I said. “But it’s a world I know well, and I’ve survived in it for a long time. It’s going to take a lot to keep me from coming back and being with you.”
Jack stared at me. The pretzel and the water were long since finished and his small body was shielded by the shade of the imposing building. We ignored the passersby and bumper-to-bumper traffic. None of that mattered now. It was just the two of us.
“You have my word, Jack,” I repeated. “You will be safe.”
Jack held the look for a few seconds and then put his small arms around my waist and hugged me. I bent forward, lifted him into my arms and held him close, as tight as I could. “I love you, little man,” I whispered into his ear.
“I love you, too,” he whispered back.
“We good?” I asked.
Jack nodded.
I put him down, his right hand buried inside mine, and we started walking toward the theater to see a matinee of Jack’s favorite Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon.
“You know who does need to worry?” I said to him.
“Who?”
“Your Yankees,” I said. “No bench, weak outfield, no A-Rod, old rotation, even older bullpen. Maybe you should think about rooting for another team.”
“I never worry about the Yankees, Dad,” Jack said, shrugging aside the teasing. “They’re gonna be fine.”
“Okay, “I said, “then you’re worry free.”
Chapter 27
Naples, Italy
The restaurant at the heart of Forcella was half filled with late evening diners. The four young men at a corner table relished the fine food, drinking more than their share of high-end red. They grew louder as the wine continued to flow, on occasion even drowning out the middle-age woman in a form-fitting dress singing Neapolitan ballads from a small stage next to the bar a few feet from the narrow entrance.
Two men sat at the bar, quietly nursing glasses of Fernet Branca with ice and a lemon twist. The taller and younger of the two, Luigi Manzo, was in his early thirties and a member of the Camorra since his late teens. In that time, he had worked as a runner, a driver for Don Vittorio Jannetti, and as a loan collector, up to his current position as one of the Strega’s most trusted triggermen. In his free time Manzo collected vintage Fiat
s and portraits of the streets of the toughest and poorest city in Europe. He was trim, hard-wired, and slow to anger but quick to act.
The man next to him was older and calmer but equally as dangerous. His name was Bartolo Vinopianno, but he was known to all the locals as Brunello, due to the fact that he owned a piece of a vineyard in the North that produced his favorite wine.
Manzo gazed up at the large clock above the bar and noted the time. “Lock the front door,” he told Brunello. “We don’t want any late night arrivals. Have the waiters let the ones at the tables know it’s closing time. And do it without attracting attention.”
“All of the tables?” Brunello asked, catching the eye of the headwaiter.
“All but one,” Manzo said.
“And what are we going to do with that one?” Brunello asked.
“Offer them an after dinner drink,” Manzo said. “And leave the bottle.”
“I was wondering when she was going to make her move,” Brunello said. “At least they got to finish their meal.”
“That’s when she’s at her best,” Manzo said. “After dinner.”
Within fifteen minutes the restaurant had emptied. The departures were evenly spaced out and seemed nothing more than a normal end to an evening meal at a favorite local restaurant. The four men at the corner table, immersed in their drinking and storytelling, barely took note of the patrons leaving. They were probably younger than they appeared to be, aged somewhat by the full beards on three of them and a scruffy growth on the one with the loudest laugh and high-pitched voice. The clothes didn’t help either—knockoff designer jeans topped by wrinkled J. Crew long-sleeve T-shirts and ankle-high boots with worn-down heels. They barely acknowledged the waiter as he placed four frosted glasses in front of them and a bottle of Limoncello in the center of the table. “With our compliments,” the waiter said.
“Clear out the staff,” Manzo said to Brunello. “She’ll want to be alone with them.”
“You’re not worried they’ll pull a gun on her if they feel cornered?”
“These are not the guys who strap on guns,” Manzo said. “These are the ones who strap on bombs and blow themselves up. That’s all they know. But tonight they are bomb free.”
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