The Wolf: A Novel

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Jimmy could only stare back and nod in agreement.

  “Here’s what I’m guessing is the line of shit they sold and you bought with your eyes wide open,” Uncle Carlo said. “That the Russians would steer clear of the terror business if we cut them in on some of our action. And they would let you broker that arrangement. Which would make you a player. You, a kid in a wheelchair, helps broker a peace and bring an end to a war without speaking a single word. After that happens, how could I not make you a boss? Did I land close to the truth?”

  Jimmy lowered his head and nodded.

  “Now,” Uncle Carlo said, “someone needs to die for what you did, and it is the boss of the family who is the only one who can order someone to be killed. Am I right, Vincent?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “I handed the reigns over to Vincent, let him run things for the organization while I moved back a few feet,” Uncle Carlo said. “But no mistake, I’m still the official boss of this outfit and will be until the day they toss dirt on me. Either one of you feel different on that score?”

  I had a gut feeling as to where all this was going and was tempted to step in and see if I could bring it to a stop, but I knew Uncle Carlo, and no words were going to bring about a shift in his thinking. He had made up his mind long before he walked into the library and was set on seeing it through.

  “The betrayal happened under my watch,” Uncle Carlo said. “Hell, it happened with me in the same damn house and I didn’t come close to smelling it out. That tells me I’m losing my touch. There was a time I could smell a flip across the ocean, now I can’t even sniff it when it happens down the hall from my bedroom. You look at it that way, then I’m as guilty as Jimmy. I may not have connected with the Russians or whoever the hell he slid information to but I didn’t do anything to stop it, either. Now since somebody’s going to go down for this, then that somebody had better be me.”

  Jimmy shook his head and nearly bolted out of his chair, straining to reach his father, hands shaking, veins in his neck bulging.

  “I’m the boss and I decide who lives and who dies,” Uncle Carlo said. “But there’s something I want in return from you for my death, and you better damn well give it to me.”

  Jimmy jabbed his right hand into his chest, his eyes stained with tears, willing his father to change his mind.

  “Yes it was you,” Uncle Carlo said. He was calm now, no need for him to display any show of anger, his words all the force he needed to make his position known. “And you’re going to make it right. My death will settle the score with Vincent. But in return, I want your word, Jimmy, that you will never do anything to bring shame to this organization again. It’s something I helped to build, and I will never allow anyone, blood or otherwise, to do anything to cause it harm. So I want your word. Your word as my son, as a man, and as a member of this syndicate, that you will always treat what I made strong with the respect and honor it deserves. You think you have guts enough to give me that?”

  Jimmy struggled to gain his composure, taking slow and deep breaths, ignoring the cold sweat forming across his brow, his dark hair wet and matted to his forehead. He cast a glance in my direction and I looked away. I felt like an intruder on an intense father and son conversation. Though I played a key role in the outcome of the dispute, for the first time since I came to live with them I was an observer and had little say about how the situation would be resolved.

  After a time, Jimmy nodded.

  Jimmy and I both realized that when Uncle Carlo made a decision, there was nothing that could be done or said to change his mind. He had lived by gut and instincts all this time, surviving in a business where only the toughest and hardest of the bunch are left standing, and he was not about to alter his ways, especially not now, in the face of a betrayal.

  “It’s settled, then,” Uncle Carlo said. “Now the both of you can set aside your differences and keep them buried. You have each other, and you have a war to fight, one you need to win, and you’ll need each other to do it. It won’t work any other way.”

  He looked at Jimmy and then at me. “I love you both,” he said.

  “There anything you want me to do?” I asked.

  “You know that spot on the hill, the one just past the house?” he asked. “The place we used to go when you were kids, sneak some wine past Jimmy’s nurses and sit and look at the ocean?”

  “It’s where you used to tell us stories about the start of the Camorra and the Mafia,” I said, my mind flashing back on those simpler days that now seemed so deep in the past. “And taught us the difference between Fernet Branca and Averna.”

  “That’s the spot where I want you to bury me,” Uncle Carlo said. “Facing the smell and sound of the ocean. That’s the best place to end up for an old hood like me.”

  He reached over and grabbed each of our hands and held them tight, his grip still coal miner strong. “Those were happy times, just the three of us, talking, laughing, our own special place,” he said. “But here now, today, seeing the two of you together, is the way I meant for it to be. And that’s the memory I’ll take with me.”

  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 s
tretch 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 dra
wing.

  “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.