The Lonely Wolf

by Monica La Porta

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You said so already. Get it over with.”

  “It’s not something that can be discussed on the phone.”

  “Again—”

  “I am outside.”

  “Ludwig—” Quintilius closed his eyes and breathed in and out. “You have no right to play with my feelings. You have no right to take me for granted and come over whenever you feel like.” And yet, he was relieved Ludwig had taken the first step, and his body was already tensing in anticipation of his lover’s touch.

  “It’s not about us. What I’m here to tell you regards only you. It’s something I’ve discovered today.”

  Ludwig’s serious tone had the immediate effect of dousing Quintilius’s ardor and worrying him at the same time. “I’ll meet you at the pond.” He walked the whole length of his house, increasing his speed as he entered the gardens and hurried toward the natural basin of water he had populated with koi fish and lily pads.

  Even before seeing Ludwig, he sensed his presence calling him. His wolf whined and paced in a meadow lit by the angel’s brilliant white aura. Then he cleared the small hill and descended toward the pond where the magnificent winged figure waited for him. Ludwig sat on the rocky edge, trailing his finger across the water. To Quintilius’s disappointment, Ludwig didn’t acknowledge him, although his senses were sharper than his and he had heard and smelled Quintilius the moment he had stepped out of the main door.

  Ludwig’s behavior slowed Quintilius’s steps, filling his mind with dark scenarios and his heart with dread. Only when he stopped in front of Ludwig, did the angel raise his head to meet his gaze. “Out with it.” He had meant it like an order, but to his own ears it sounded like a plea.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but—” Ludwig’s chest heaved once, twice.

  Quintilius was used to always having to look up to talk to Ludwig and found it unsettling to look down at him. So, he sat beside the angel, careful of maintaining a safe distance and not be tempted to reach out and touch him. “Just tell me.”

  A long moment of silence followed, then Ludwig let out a breath and said, “I found your son.”

  ****

  “I don’t understand this place.” Lupo was having breakfast in Drako’s kitchen. “I don’t understand those people. What’s in it for them?”

  Raphael and Luisa had almost finished eating a whole loaf of fresh baked bread and were about to go to school.

  “They just want to help.” Luisa buttered a thick slice of the still warm bread, then spread a whole tablespoon of homemade orange jam on it.

  “I don’t get it.” Lupo followed Luisa’s example and fixed a butter and jam sandwich for himself. “They invited me in, let me sleep under their roof, and gave me food, even clothes. What for?”

  The night before, since Drako was remodeling the guest quarters, Raphael had shared his bedroom with Lupo. Upon entering the werewolf’s den, Lupo couldn’t help to whistle low at the sight of what looked more like an arcade room than a place where people slept. Conveniently, Raphael’s bedroom had two beds. When he had asked why, Raphael explained that the triplets liked to nap in his room when he worked on his homework, and Drako had ordered a second bed for the kids.

  “I’ve been telling you, but you aren’t listening, brother.” Raphael laughed. “They’re nice people. No secret agenda. No nothing.”

  Even though Lupo had not been close to Raphael back at the Reds’, he remembered him well enough, and he had never seen him smiling, let alone laughing with such a mirth. The werewolf had never sought friendship among the other prospects, but had kept to himself and barely spoke to anyone. Looking at him now, it was hard to see any resemblance with the boy who had fled the Reds. What a miraculous transformation a few months with the Drako family had made.

  But Lupo wasn’t one to believe in miracles. He was the one nobody had wanted.

  The night before, Luisa had come to visit Raphael for a short while, and Lupo realized she would have stayed longer if he weren’t there. They didn’t do anything to make him feel uncomfortable, but he preferred to give them space and busied himself with reading one of the many comics Raphael had drawn. By reading his stories about dragons, knights, and princesses in high towers, Lupo wondered how Raphael had survived a day at the compound. And yet, the tattoos that marked Raphael’s chest and back attested to a reality that had nothing to do with fairy-tales.

  “We’re late for school,” Luisa announced, looking at her cell phone.

  “Hope I’ll see you later.” Raphael grabbed Lupo’s hand for a handshake.

  Not knowing what to say, Lupo nodded, then tilted his head to Luisa.

  “Later,” she said with a smile, and they both left.

  Once alone, he finished drinking his cappuccino—Marta had prepared their breakfast then hurried to the nursery to help Ravenna with the kids—then he ate a big chunk from the second loaf resting on the cooling grate.

  Drako entered the kitchen a few minutes later, holding three bottles he proceeded to rinse and wash. From the sink, he looked over his shoulder and asked, “Nervous?”

  “Should I be?” Lupo sat straighter and pushed away his empty mug.

  “No. Quintilius is a nice person.”

  “I bet he is.” Lupo couldn’t help the venom in his words. He loathed the idea of having to confront the alpha, if he even deigned to make an appearance.

  Drako focused on cleaning the bottles for a few seconds, then placed them on the draining tray over the sink, and turned to face Lupo. “I don’t know you, and I might speak out of turn, but remember that there are many truths to any story.”

  “Okay.” He rolled his eyes at the platitude. Rich people had all the answers.

  “Anyway, Ludwig and Quintilius will be here shortly,” Drako said before drying his hands with a dishcloth. He then gave him a mock salute with a finger to his temple and left.

  Although Lupo would have enjoyed some time alone, Ravenna entered the kitchen a moment later, carrying with her the two boys, while Marta held the girl in her arms. He wondered why people that affluent didn’t employ full-time nannies to take care of the kids, but instead the whole household seemed to revolve around the little ones’ whims and desires.

  Used to the orphanage’s treatment of infants and toddlers, he only knew that kids must sleep, eat, and poop all at the same time to avoid disrupting the daily schedule of the adults. He had never thought the orphanage was a cruel place, but seeing how the famous Enforcer let her boys regurgitate on her expensive clothes with nothing more than a chuckle and a request for a wet cloth, he asked himself what else was different outside the four walls of the orphanage.

  “Do you need anything?” Ravenna addressed him as she placed the kids into their highchairs, then proceeded to wipe milk from her black blouse.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He had kept repeating he was fine anytime someone offered to help him.

  “Have you eaten enough?” Marta asked, while she single-handedly removed a warm tray from the oven and kept the girl balanced on her side.

  “Let me.” He took the girl from the woman’s arm.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Marta said, taking Lupo by surprise.

  Never in his life had he been called with an endearing name. It was a small thing, yet it filled his heart with joy.

  “Woofie, beau!” The girl passed a chubby hand over Lupo’s face, touching his eyes, nose, and lips, and smearing him with something that might have been milk but felt much denser.

  “Arianna, behave.” Ravenna walked toward Lupo with her arms open to receive the toddler who beamed a big toothless and quite wet smile at her mother.

  “Mamma, beau!” Arianna bounced up and down on Lupo’s lap then she threw herself at Ravenna.

  Nothing more than a leap of a few centimeters, but to Lupo it signified much more than that. He had just witnessed the trust between a parent and her offspring, a display of blind love he had never had any opportunity to wit
ness before.

  “Do you like Lupo, Arianna?” Ravenna asked, covering her kid with loud kisses.

  Amidst giggles, Arianna turned and pointed at Lupo. “Woofie, beau beau!”

  “Papa is beau beau!” Drako called from the door. “I can’t believe it. First Raphael, now Lupo. What is it with this kid and shifters?”

  “Get used to it, my love.” Ravenna released Arianna into her father’s embrace. “There’s a certain were-bat she seems much attached to—”

  “Mark my words.” Drako interrupted his companion with a raised finger. “I won’t have Marcus as my princess’s father-in-law. It won’t happen.”

  Ravenna slightly shook her head and laughed.

  Lupo had to avert his gaze, uncomfortable with the familial scene. In a heist, he would have pulled his weight, but the sweetness in that room had reached a level he couldn’t stomach anymore.

  “Anyway, I came back for Lupo.” Drako gestured for Lupo to follow him outside. “Let’s go to my studio. There, you’ll have some privacy if you want to collect your thoughts.”

  Grateful for the chance to leave the kitchen, Lupo sprang out of his chair and followed the Greek into the hallway.

  “Ready to meet Quintilius?” Drako was walking a step ahead of him, but paused and turned when Lupo didn’t immediately answer.

  “I’ve met him already.” To the man’s puzzled expression, Lupo added, “It was several years ago, at the orphanage where he dumped me.”

  The rest of the walk through the immortal’s mansion was conducted in silence. The day before, Lupo’d had a glimpse of the house, but his mind was elsewhere. Now, anger was replacing his previous bewilderment and a disembodied kind of lucidity overtook him. Details like Japanese vases alongside Roman pottery stood out. Everything in the house had an ancient and expensive aura.

  Never having visited a museum, Lupo had no idea what the inside of one such place would look like, but he thought that Drako’s could have hosted several exhibits.

  At the arched junction with two well-lit smaller hallways, Drako took the one on the right, then stopped before a dark door decorated with an Art Deco scene and let Lupo in. He knew what Art Deco art was because he had watched a TV show where rich Romans opened their houses to a filming crew for a few days. One of the houses he had liked the most had been built at the end of the nineteen twenties. The purist girl’s building is a good example of Art Deco, he thought, and his mind went to her. What is she doing? Will I see her again? The memory of her scent and her eyes so powerful, his wolf whined.

  “Lupo?” Drako called him back to Earth as he held the door for him. “Please.” The studio was small and cozy with a few pieces of Art Deco furniture, and among them two sofas angled to face the big window and the French doors overlooking the immaculate Italian garden.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Hovering at the entrance, Drako waited for Lupo to take a seat, then strolled before him and leaned against the windowsill, crossing his ankles, one hand caressing his chin and jaw. “May I ask you something?”

  Not used to talking to strangers, Lupo let out a suffered breath and sank into the sofa. “It depends.”

  With a small laugh, Drako whispered, “Alphas,” then said, “For all your tough attitude, you’re still here. Why?”

  Lupo straightened, his wolf senses on alert. “What do you mean?”

  “This is not a prison.” Drako pointed his chin at the door to his right. “You had plenty of chances to simply walk away last night. Yet, you didn’t.”

  “I thought about it.”

  While Raphael had been sleeping, Lupo had listened to his soft snoring, unable to relax. He had wondered why there were no guards outside the bedroom, but, in truth, he didn’t make any attempt to leave. Not willing to let Drako lead the conversation, he asked instead, “Why do you want to know? Why do you care at all?”

  Drako smiled at his outburst, his lips curving up and his gaze softening as he had done when looking at his baby girl, annoying Lupo even more. “Because I’m a father and it breaks my heart to see how much you’ve suffered—”

  “You know nothing about me. So stop assuming.” The hair on his back stood up on end, and his fangs elongated in his mouth, but Lupo kept his wolf at bay. A moment later, he leaned against the back of the sofa and crossed his right leg over his left knee, hands linked behind his head. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “And you don’t have it.” Pushing himself away from the windowsill, Drako stepped forward, and on his way out he lingered a moment to say, “What you have is my respect.” At the door, he added, “I’ll leave you alone, but if you need anything just use the phone. Dial one to call Pietro.”

  As soon as the man’s steps echoed in the hallway, needing a breath of fresh air, Lupo stood and walked to the French doors, opened them then exited the room altogether. Like the immortal had said, Lupo could escape from there in a second. All he had to do was to keep walking the whole length of the garden and reach one of the gates at the perimeter of the estate. It should have been an easy decision. The only decision that made any sense, when he thought of the consequences of not having reported to the Reds’ compound yet.

  He could have explained his night out to Rock, somehow. When you live in an orphanage, lying becomes second nature if you want to get out of unwanted chores. It would be trickier to lie to his big brother, but Lupo was confident that making up a wild night of drinking and chasing skirts would grant him a mild punishment and possibly a wink from Rock.

  Despite all the reasons why he should have headed back to the Reds, Lupo remained well inside the property, pacing back and forth on one of the many paths intersecting the greenery.

  Eventually he had to admit to himself, he wanted to see his father more than anything else, and consequences be damned.

  Chapter Ten

  I found your son.

  Ludwig’s words echoed in Quintilius’s mind, and unable to say anything he stared at the angel.

  “Quin, are you all right?”

  A life as long as his shouldn’t have surprised Quintilius anymore, yet a simple statement like the one he just heard and his whole world spun out of control. The notion that he could be a father was not only unexpected, but he was hard pressed to remember who could have been his offspring’s mother.

  “When you see the boy, you’ll recognize him as yours at first glance. He looks like you, and even moves like you. It’s uncanny how similar you two are.”

  Quintilius heard Ludwig, but he was stuck at, “I found your son.”

  Throughout the centuries, dozens—probably hundreds—of casual lovers had warmed Quintilius’s nights. Every time Ludwig left him, he would seek pleasure in willing arms. Others would imbibe to forget their sorrow, but alcohol alone wasn’t enough for him. And yet, despite the endless parade of men and women, no one had ever come close to stirring in him more than momentary enjoyment, and he would soon forget their names and their faces. No one had ever made his heart sing and his wolf howl by his mere presence like Ludwig did.

  “Quin, look at me.”

  When a hand was waved before his eyes, Quintilius blinked and finally focused his attention back to the present. “Who is he? And how did you find him?”

  “Serendipity led me to him.” Ludwig smiled, and the act changed his face, illuminating him with a radiance and a lightness that lifted even Quintilius’s stark mood. “It’s Lupo.”

  “Lupo?” His heart dropped to his stomach. “That Lupo?”

  A renegade. A delinquent. An assassin belonging to the most brutal gang in Rome. A cub. Blood of his blood. His son.

  “I know it sounds impossible, but it’s him. And he confirmed he’s the one who lost the pin at Claudio’s nest.” Ludwig’s wing bristled and brushed Quintilius’s arm, spreading warmth throughout his body. An intimate gesture, the equivalent of a chaste caress usually reserved for the afterglow of lovemaking, when words weren’t needed anymore, but now conveyed a mixture of longing and comfort.

&nbs
p; The temptation to give in was strong, especially when his wolf demanded he surrender, yet Quintilius resisted the urge to lean into the caress and didn’t inch forward. His back ramrod straight, his hands on either side of him, he grabbed the rocky edge of the pond. The sharp surface of the uneven slabs of granite pressed against his flesh, giving him just enough pain to refocus his mind on what was important. “How old is he?” I might have created a life. Inadvertently for sure, but still a concrete possibility. Although he had always been careful, in the majority of his one night stands he had also been drunk. Only highly inebriated could he forget the lips he was kissing weren’t Ludwig’s.

  “Around eighteen.”

  With renewed clarity, flashes of a drunken night came back to Quintilius. A few decades ago maybe, he wasn’t sure about the timeline but eighteen years seemed right, after yet another row with Ludwig, he had spent a night with a woman, one of the girls employed at Casolare del Lupo. The only recollection of that encounter was that the morning after he had regretted bedding one of his employees, and resolved to never engage in sexual activity with anyone working for him. He also promised himself to drink less when he felt lonely. To this day, he had kept both promises.

  “How do you know he’s my son?” A foreign sense of warmth took hold of him, as sweet and unexpected as sunrays on a December morning.

  “He told us.” Although Ludwig’s wings were now fully extended at his side, subtly but swiftly rising and lowering—a telltale sign he was disappointed by Quintilius’s resolve—his smile became softer.

  “He told you I’m his father, and you believed him because he looks like me.” Any memory of the possible mother eluded Quintilius. As much as he racked his brain for clues, it was as if the woman was nothing more than a vague shadow that had once shared his bed.