Palumbo coughed out a laugh. “That’s a good bet. Three life sentences served concurrently? The discipline’s in my nature, though. The future? Who can know for sure about these things?”

“Who can know? One time I escaped from a gulag on the arctic circle. I told a cop in Moscow, ‘I spent time in a gulag; you think you can scare me?’ What else do you do in here? Besides exercise and eat Healthy Choice?”

“I try to take care of my business back in New York. Sometimes I play chess with a sick madman down the hall. He used to be in the FBI.”

“Kyle Craig,” said the Wolf. “You think he’s crazy like they say?”

“Yeah, totally. So tell me, pakhan, how can this alliance you suggest work? I am a man of discipline and careful planning, in spite of these humbling circumstances. From what I’m told, you’re reckless. Hands-on. You involve yourself with even the smallest operations. Extortion, prostitution. Stolen cars? How can this work between us?”

The Wolf finally smiled, then shook his head. “I am hands-on, as you say. But I’m not reckless, not at all. It’s all about the money, no? The bling-bling? Let me tell you a secret that no one else knows. This will surprise you and maybe prove my point.”

The Wolf leaned forward. He whispered his secret, and the Italian’s eyes suddenly widened with fear. With stunning quickness, the Wolf grabbed Little Gus’s head. He twisted it powerfully, and the gangster’s neck broke with a loud, clear snap.

“Maybe I am a little reckless,” said the Wolf. Then he turned to the camera in the room. He spoke to Captain Ladove of the guards. “Oh, I forgot, no touching.”

The next morning Augustino Palumbo was found dead in his cell. Nearly every bone in his body had been broken. In the Moscow underworld, this symbolic kind of murder was known as zamochit. It signified complete and total dominance by the attacker. The Wolf was boldly stating that he was now the godfather.

Part One: THE “WHITE GIRL” CASE

Part One

THE “WHITE GIRL” CASE

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

THE PHIPPS PLAZA shopping mall in Atlanta was a showy montage of pink-granite floors, sweeping bronze-trimmed staircases, gilded Napoleonic design, lighting that sparkled like halogen spotlights. A man and a woman watched the target—“Mom”—as she left Niketown with sneakers and whatnot for her three daughters packed under one arm.

“She is very pretty. I see why the Wolf likes her. She reminds me of Claudia Schiffer,” said the male observer. “You see the resemblance?”

“Everybody reminds you of Claudia Schiffer, Slava. Don’t lose her. Don’t lose your pretty little Claudia or the Wolf will have you for breakfast.”