the ivory wolf

where: chapel inside the hospital.

who: @zephyrjcksn

Wolf got the text message as he was walking into the hospital. Meet me in the chapel. Short and to the point, just like Zephyr. They shared a lot of traits, the Underboss and the Consigliere, and one of them was the concern for the Syndicate as a whole. And on the whole, the Syndicate was struggling.

There was no way around it, he thought as he found the room he needed on an evacuation map on the wall. The Syndicate was reeling from the warehouse fire and an attempt on Emilia King’s life. The last one in particular grated on his nerves. Shooting the Vittori boy was a mistake but mistakes had dire consequences and this ones was that the heir of the Syndicate was fair game now as well.

He finally arrived at the chapel, clenching his hand to quel the shake in it. Churches and other places of worship had an odd affect on him, made him feel uneasy. He use to be Russian Orthodox, but of course, he left that behind. Once you devoted yourself to the Syndicate, no God held sway over you, only the Kings. Zephyr was waiting for him inside.

The Vittori, the beating heart of their rival crime outfit, was the last place the Ivory Syndicate Consigliere wanted to be. Yet the firehouse was filled when he got there, and Wolf hadn’t received word that he was welcome in the King’s residence. Maybe word from the meeting with Zephyr had reached Milena’s ears, and she was punishing him for the doubt he had excised with the Irish Underboss. Or maybe Wolf had simply been overlooked and forgotten, as he often was. Either way, he was made to go to this viper’s pit.

He was currently sitting at one of the dining area’s tables, watching the burning of the warehouse unfold through frantic texts sent to him by Cassidy Page. He could only seethe from afar, a tick developing in his jaw from each further text. All those doubts had come back again, and Wolf felt powerless stuck in here, watching his back for any Vittori aiming to make a retaliation. Feeling eyes on him, he looked around, before finding the source. 

“Is there something I could help you with?” It was said in a cool tone, clearly screaming, don’t bother me.

Wolf: Are you on your way to your mother's?

Cass: John something's happening

Cass: John where are you

Wolf: I'm at home. There's a storm warning.

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. 

All except one.

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.”

This felt a long time coming, sitting down with Zephyr Jackson with a bottle of Glenfiddich between them. A bar in the basement of an apartment, affiliated with the Ivory Syndicate, and cleared so Wolf was the only one in the room. The bar was closed to the public tonight, so they could have this conversation without prying ears or eyes. Wolf valued Zephyr too much (and his own life) to want to have this conversation outside of closed doors. 

He had his questions, his doubts, things that couldn’t be exposed to anyone without causing the entire Syndicate to suffer. He had his angers, at the poor execution, how if it was done correctly they would be five steps ahead of the Vittoris instead of going on a blitz to keep them beaten into submission. A submission he had a feeling was going to expire soon. He just wanted to ensure Zephyr and him were on the same page again, that they would be prepared if things broke apart.

He had called the Underboss, made sure the room and it’s exits were secure, and then uncapped the bottle. He had hardly gotten the first pour into his glass when the man slipped through the door. Slipped.... wasn’t the word. Sauntered. Zephyr had too much of a presence to slip. Wolf held up his high ball, gesturing to the wall. “Whiskey, though—. Drink what you like, I suppose. We own the bar for the night.” He looked at the liquid swirling in his glass, moving it lazy on the bar top, taking a deep breath to settle the swirl of emotions under his neat suit, before he looked at other man pouring his drink. 

“So, the campaign party. You were there, and—I hear, only after the fact—preformed the hit.” He got the hearsay from Alex, and it burned in the back of his mind, eating away at him with worms of confusion. “Zephyr, is that true?”