News traveled quickly of what had happened. That first night, while he imagined Alex’s shrapnel-pocked body breathing by machine somewhere, Cain had binged the worst of the anger and pain out of his system. The next morning, a little hair of the dog and cold shower went a long way into soothing his temper, and so he began to thread together a plan. If the Made-Man were to going to enact any kind of revenge upon whoever had put a bullet in her, he’d need testimonials, first. Luckily, he knew exactly where to find one.
Scotty burst through the double doors, boots squeaking on the freshly-polished floors that waited to be anointed by the traces of another night of reckless debauchery. Even with routine cleanings and obsessive upkeep, everyone who worked at The Luxure knew it would still look like a crime scene if put beneath a blacklight. He spied the man on the main floor, ticking through the Ivory’s well-seasoned books at an empty table in the surreal silence of the afternoon. Of course, the Consigliere would be gone before the dancers finished powdering their undergarments.
“Drop the act Wolfie, we both know the martyr role doesn’t suit you.” Scotty tsked impatiently, grabbing an upturned chair off a nearby table, sitting it across from his superior and dropping down into it. “An’ before you get your silk panties up in a twist - I’m not here to throw Alex a fucken’ pity party, nor am I here to ice your sorry arse for not having volunteered as her meat shield, though I get the vibe that you might’ve gotten off on that sort of thing.” There was something about him, a fleeting quality that made him inherently untrustworthy in the Irishman’s mind. In their interactions over the years, he’d found little John Doe to be frustratingly complacent, mild-mannered, and damn near impossible to crack - a good tell of how dangerous a man he could be. Scotty leaned across the table, narrowing his eyes incrementally. “I know you must’ve seen something, though. With that twisted little brain of yours, reckon you must’ve soaked up that shitshow like a sponge. I want names.”
Wolf sat silent in contemplation, absorbing Scotty’s hot headed rant like the sponge he compared him to. Wolf regarded him with a cool stare, impassive. He let the insults slide off him, a practice well honed with living in the senior King’s darkness that had consumed him. And then Scotty asked for what he knew the man would want. Names. He had none, nothing that was useful. Any recognizable face was hidden behind muzzle flash, any names spoken lost in a haze of blood and confusion.
The name was on the tip of his tongue, and he longed to share his rage that simmered deep down in his bones. He wanted to kill all those who raised a hand against his people. And he meant that—his people. Alex was his favored Capo since she broke into the ranks, a woman who was made by the Kings’ hand like him. He felt like she was his responsibility and he wanted to return that bullet.
However, he also knew he had to play the chess game, calculate the fallout, not let his feelings get in the way. Telling Scotty was a risk, and one he wasn’t going to take. He could give it to this man who was starving for any scrap, any hint of blood he could lap up, but then watch him become a wrecking ball through the ranks of Vittori. He didn’t want to unleash a loose cannon, making a cascade he couldn’t control.
“I don’t have any names for you.” He collected the books, standing up. Some days he felt more accountant than anything else, but conversations like this reminded him how the reality collided with the often more mundane aspects of helping run a crime syndicate. “Not in the state you are now. We need a scalpel at the moment, Mr. Scanlan, not a hammer. There will be revenge, but not by your hand, or mine, as much as we might want it. ” He tapped the table lightly. “Are you functional to work tonight? I won’t have any distractions.”
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