Frantoni spoke to me but his eyes and grip stayed on Raza. “I’m a antiterror cop based in Rome,” he said. “But I was born and raised in Naples. He will be arrested. But he will be arrested Neapolitan style. You have my word.”
Chapter 60
The Bridge of Angels, Italy
I walked with Angela arm in arm across the bridge, statues of angels on each side of us, lights casting the early evening in a warm glow, a platoon of police and Camorristas milling behind us in front of the Castel entrance, the river flowing past us on both sides.
We were about three angels deep into our walk when we heard the implosion of body against stone, Raza landing with a thud on the ground in front of the Castel, his ruined body silent and still.
Frantoni had avenged his brother’s death.
“Do you have a favorite angel?” Angela asked me, ignoring the commotion behind us.
“Michael,” I said. “A fighter from start to finish. You?”
“I always had a soft spot for Lucifer,” Angela said. “He was the Lord’s favorite, as you know.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I said, spotting her car waiting on the other end of the bridge.
I turned and looked back at the Castel, lit up and glowing in the night, police lights twirling in all directions.
We crossed the bridge and headed for her waiting sedan. Three of her men rushed over, doors open, helping us both to the car. “When my father hears about this, he’s going to want to kill you,” Angela said with a smile. “All over again.”
I shrugged. “I would be disappointed with anything less.”
We both got in the backseat, the driver pulling out at fast speed, heading for the hospital. Angela leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
I looked out at the passing scenery and then at her. Her face and hair were matted with dried blood and her wound was deep and still bleeding. The cut on her face had darkened and was smudged with dirt.
I reached for her hand and held it in mine.
I saw her smile and felt her grip tighten. She turned her head and looked at me. “That’s all I have to give you,” she said. “At least for tonight.”
“It’s all I need,” I said, and closed my eyes.
The first battle, waged across a long and brutally hot summer, was now at an end.
Chapter 61
East Hampton, New York
I walked into the library, my leg bandaged, a crutch under my left arm helping me move about. Jimmy had his back to me, staring out into the garden and the ocean below. He turned his wheelchair when he heard me come in. He knew why I was there, sensed it. He was, despite his disability, the son of a Don and understood better than anyone why I could not allow him to live.
It was the most difficult decision I’ve ever made.
Uncle Carlo had only balanced out a portion of the betrayal—Jimmy feeding information to the Russian. But there was another part of it, one that only I could avenge. His actions endangered my son’s life, and I could never let that stand.
I moved closer to Jimmy, his eyes never leaving mine, neither of us speaking. I was now inches from his chair, and placed my left hand on his shoulder. He made a slow gesture with his hands and I nodded.
“It will be fast,” I said. “I promise.”
I pulled the ventilator tube from his mouth and let it drop to the floor. I reached for the oxygen machine attached to the back of his wheelchair and turned it off. Jimmy, now straining and gasping for air, looked up at me and made a final hand gesture.
“I love you, too,” I said, reached for his right hand and held it tight in mine.
Jimmy lurched back, chest muscles straining to breathe, his face flushed, his upper body trembling, legs twitching.
I stared out at the ocean, my face smudged with tears, feeling Jimmy’s body slowly lose its grip on life, his hand still clutching mine.
Chapter 62
East Hampton, New York
FALL 2013
I was on an empty beach, ocean waves to my left, my son Jack chasing Hugo across wet sand, both getting wetter than they should.
Angela walked next to me.
It had been eight weeks since the skirmishes in Rome and Florence, and while our wounds were slow to heal, we were getting stronger by the day. The once tiny puppy Angela had given Jack was closing in on sixty pounds and followed my son everywhere.
“How big did you say they get?” I asked her.
“Anywhere from 125 pounds to 160,” she said. “Hugo is going to be a bruiser.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jack this happy,” I said.
“Hugo will help him heal,” Angela said. “And be a friend he can count on.”
I looked at Angela. “It’s good to have one of those,” I said.
“How are Burke and his crew doing?” Angela asked.
“They took some hits,” I said, “but should all be back in action in another month or so. They’re resting up in Capri, getting tanned and drunk.”
“You made some points with a few of the crews,” Angela said. “The potential for what could have been in Florence and Rome helped convince the Triads and the Yakuza to go all in on the fight.”
“And the Greeks are in the game now, eager to avenge Big Mike’s death,” I said.
“And all the Sicilians need is a nudge,” Angela said. “They would hate to see the Camorra get the credit for taking down the terrorists and the Russians.”
“What about you?” I asked.
Angela walked on, her bare feet kicking up sand with each step. “I will be there if you need me,” she finally said. “But … it’s complicated.”
“I need time,” I said to her.
“There’s no rush,” she said. I put my left arm around her and held her close to me, her head resting on my shoulder.
We walked the rest of the beach in silence. The only sounds around us were waves splashing against sand, the laughter of a boy, and the barking of a dog.
We were each of us, for these few moments, at peace.
Epilogue
Central Park, New York
FALL 2013
I sat on an old wooden bench across from the Great Lawn, watching the last inning of a softball game played by middle-age men. It was closing in on evening and a cold wind was starting to whip through the park, kicking up leaves and loose debris.
I kept my eyes on the game, ignoring Vladimir as he sat on the bench, a few feet to my left.
“You did well,” he said. “You and the Strega. And I chose poorly. Raza was not equipped to take on the two of you.”
“You asked for a meeting and you got one.”
“I need a favor,” Vladimir said. “And in return I’ll do one for you.”
“What is it?”
“Our fight this summer cost me a great deal of money,” he said. “And Raza wasn’t the only terrorist I’m funding.”
“If you’re looking for a loan, you can forget about it,” I said.
“I paid them out of my own funds and I’m running low,” Vladimir said. “All that can be rectified, but I need your help to make it happen.”
“How so?”
“I need to launder $50 million in Russian currency and turn it into American dollars,” Vladimir said. “The only one who can do that is your friend Kodoma and his Yakuza bankers. It can all be done in twenty-four hours, maybe less. Sadly, he refuses to do business with any of the Russian crews, mine especially.”
“And you think if I ask him he’ll change his mind?” I said.
“That’s correct,” Vladimir said. “You’ve always been close to him and now appear to be even closer, with his nephew attached to your team.”
“Kodoma’s a respected boss and a friend,” I said. “He would never do anything that goes against Yakuza tradition regardless of who’s doing the asking.”
“You can convince him,” Vladimir said.
“Why are you so sure?”
“You started this war to find out who it was that ordered the attack on the plane that killed your wife and daughters,” Vladimir said. “You can rule me out since you know that if I want to hurt someone, I hurt
him
and not his family. And you know Raza was not the one.”
I turned and looked at him. “But you know who it was,” I said.
Vladimir nodded. “With these terrorists, attaining full accuracy can prove to be difficult. So many of them lay claim to attacks they had no play in. It takes a lot of time, and once again, large sums of money to even get close to the truth. But yes, I know.”
“So, I get a name if I agree to reach out to Kodoma and get him to launder your money?” I said. “That’s the deal you’re putting out?”
Vladimir nodded. “A onetime offer. Once we part company, the name stays with me.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “But there is no guarantee he will agree to it. I’ll give it my best shot. On that you have my word.”
“That makes it valid,” he said.
Vladimir reached into a side pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a thin white envelope and rested it on the bench between us. He then stood and walked toward the east side of the park, his hands in his pockets, his head down against the growing strength of the wind.
I reached for the envelope and held it firmly in my hands.
I ripped it open and pulled out a folded sheet of white paper, then read the two words typed in the middle of the sheet.
Victorio Janetti.
The head of the Camorra.
Angela’s father.
I folded the paper, put it back in the envelope and jammed it into my jacket pocket.
I sat on that bench until late into the night, gazing past the Great Lawn at the majestic Manhattan skyline.
I knew on that night there were many more battles to be fought.
I knew there would be more opponents to be defeated.
I knew there was a good chance I would not win them all.
I knew that my son, my organization, could be lost if I failed.
But what I knew more than anything else was a truth I had always feared.
I knew now I would need to confront and destroy someone I trusted and perhaps even someone I loved.
I knew now the name of my enemy.
I knew now that my war had only just begun.
Acknowledgments
This book was written during a difficult and emotional time and took much longer than expected. Its completion is owed in great part to the many hands that guided me along the way. It would be impossible for me to thank them all or to do justice to what they each mean to me. Suffice it to say that every one of them has a very special place in my heart.
To Mark Tavani, this book is as much his as it is mine. He pushed, prodded, and edited with a surgeon’s skill and didn’t stop until the story we wanted to tell was told. In the process he also became a valued friend. Gina Centrello has always had my back and my respect. In my darkest days, she went a step further and showed why she is more than my publisher—she is part of my family.
They all are, everyone mentioned in these few pages—Libby McGuire, who has made Ballantine my home and was always at the ready with a kind word; Kim Hovey, whom I have known forever; and Betsy Wilson and all the wonderful, hard working, caring, and thoughtful folks who give their all for me at the only publishing house I have always called home.
To my team—Suzanne Gluck, who (along with her dynamic duo) was always there to guide, who always found the words to help me get through one more day; Erin Junkin, a terrific agent with a golden heart; Rob Carlson, with whom I’ve grown up (and shared many a laugh in the process); and to all the others at WME, for all that you do.
To Lou and Berta Pitt—you loved us both and care for me daily. If that’s not the definition of family, I don’t know what is. To the great Jake and Ruth Bloom. I owe you so much and can never repay what you’ve done for me. But most of all, I will never forget the two of you coming over to visit us toward the end and bringing a smile to the face of a woman who loved you both as much as I do.
To the rest of my family—Andy K; Dr. George and Joyce; Christopher and Constantino; Maurice and Mamma; Vincenzo, Ida, and Anthony; the magical Irene; the amazing Tina J.; Steve Allie; Liz “Wine Lady” Wagner; Hutch; Hank G.; Eddie F.; Mikey; Peter G.; Rocco; Captain Joe; Sonny G. and Chris; Lorenzo Di; Deb; Alan Carter; Keith Bellows; Dan Bova; Dr. Lori; Dr. Ingerman; Dr. C.; Dr. Schlegel; Dr. Loo; Otto P.; Zoglin; the entire Murino clan of Milan; the gym rats—Sid, Steve, and Kevin; Tracy; Gethers and the Rotis gang; Lisa S.; Angela and the Ischia crew; Mr. G.; PJ Barry; Frank Selvaggi; the team at West Chelsea Vets, for keeping my Gus healthy for another go around; Fred “Full House” Bass; Ida and Geri; the Book Club posse; Richard and Augusta T.; Kate White; Jeremy Conrady; Leah Rozen; Danny Watts; Danny Aiello; Judy P.; Gilbert from the Visiting Nurses Service; Grace from The Haven; Rebecca; Sarah and James—it is truly an honor to know and love each one of you.
To Dr. Gregory Reily and the beloved Michele of Sloan Kettering—you are indeed miracle workers and the best at what you do. I could never thank you and your great team enough.
To my children—Kate and Nick. You did all you could to help get your Mom through the most difficult battle of her life. And you did it the right way—without complaint, with dedication, with care, and with the bolt of humor that was always needed. We are judged by what we leave behind and you are your mother’s greatest gift and proudest achievement. I love you both.
Finally, to Susan Jill Toepfer, who left us all way too soon. Everything I am, anything I might have accomplished, none of it, not one thing, would have ever happened without you. It was an amazing thirty-three-year ride, and one I will always treasure.
I miss you, my dearest friend, and I always will.
—Lorenzo Carcaterra
January 28, 2013
About the Author
L
ORENZO
C
ARCATERRA
is the #1
New York Times
bestselling author of
Sleepers, A Safe Place, Apaches, Gangster, Street Boys, Paradise City, Chasers,
and
Midnight Angels.
He is a former writer/producer for
Law & Order
and has written for
National Geographic Traveler, The New York Times Magazine, Details,
and
Maxim
. He lives in New York City with Gus, his Olde English Bulldog, and is at work on his next novel.