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The Godfather and the Gray Wolf – Part 02

“We’ve come to see Garbo Boss!”

A deep voice, hoarse and as elderly woman’s, reverberated in the establishment. The gangsters stirred at the sound coming from such a petite and lovely woman.

“Who are you?”

“Identify yourself, you bitch!”

Italian curses rained down.

Victorique snorted. As a show of composure, she took out a golden pipe, lit it, and took a puff.

“The private detective your boss is looking for—the Gray Wolf.”

The gangsters grew even louder.

She removed the pipe from her glossy, cherry lips and smirked. “I received a rather aggressive invitation, you see. Of course, I have no obligation to your boss, but I came here anyway. Worthless gangsters! If you don’t want to be torn apart by my fierce fangs and fall straight into fiery hell with your next breath, put away those idiotic banana machine guns right away. And tell your boss with great joy about the arrival of the greatest mind ever.”

A puzzled silence filled the room.

Eventually, the gun muzzles lowered one by one, except for a few still pointed in their direction. Kazuya, sweating profusely, feigned calmness, standing upright beside Victorique.

Cautiously, Victorique took a step forward. No gunshots. It seemed safe.

Step by step, she went up the simple yet massive staircase. Kazuya followed suit. Still no gunshots. Victorique advanced confidently, puffing on her pipe with arrogance as if she were a queen receiving an audience.

Second floor. Still unharmed. Third floor. And onward to the fourth floor. Alive and unscathed.

Gangsters in black suits perched on tables, chairs, and alongside sculptures, flashing their favorite banana machine guns with menacing grins. They appeared eager to shoot at the slightest suspicious movement.

Kazuya suddenly realized they were just kids, about his age. The victims of the gang wars he covered daily, the gangsters he met through interviews for their serialized articles—they were all ordinary Italian youths resembling Nico in appearance. Now armed with weapons, they dreamed of a life as night gangsters in the new world.

Nico’s words echoed in Kazuya’s mind.

“Young people of this city dream of doing the same thing. There has to be a better dream out there, and that’s why I joined a newspaper company.”

“Kujou!”

Victorique’s deep voice snapped him back to reality. They had reached the fourth floor, still alive.

In the center stood a miniature fountain with statues of goddesses and angels. Buffalo and deer heads lined the walls. Small chandeliers and rose-shaped lamps hung from the ceiling, prickling the eyes.

The giant buffalo head seemed to come closer. Kazuya realized the wall was a large wooden door, and from within emerged a man in a black suit.

“Oh, if it isn’t the insolent, lazy, stubborn, and clueless receptionist. Did you bring the great detective Gray Wolf with you?”

It was the man who had introduced himself as John Smith back at the Gray Wolf Detective Agency. Yesterday, he was taciturn and emotionless, but today, he wore a smile.

“Is that Asian boy the one with the Greatest Mind?” he asked with a grin.

“No.” Victorique shook her head slowly. “I am the Gray Wolf.”

The man raised his shoulders with amusement. “So you finally confessed. Our boss already knew, though.”

“I, too, quickly discerned his true identity. Go inform your boss that this match is a draw.”

“Well, aren’t you the stubborn and fierce little squirt?”

“L-Little squirt?!” Victorique snapped.

Kazuya placed a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

John Smith flashed a devilish grin. “Do you know why the boss bothered to go all the way to that rundown place?”

“How should I know? Maybe your great boss has more free time than one would think.”

“Still trying to act tough, eh? You’re quite the interesting little girl.”

The man put a cigar in his mouth and cackled. The gangsters surrounded them, watchful. Victorique clenched her tiny pearly teeth.

“Rumors are circulating in New York’s underworld about the emergence of an exceptionally talented private detective,” John Smith said.

“Rumors, you say?”

The man chuckled. “For the past two months, it seems that whenever an incident occurs, it’s promptly resolved by someone. We’ve heard whispers about this mysterious figure operating in the shadows. They’re described as a modest private detective who never reveals their own name.”

“…”

“According to the rumors, this person, dubbed the Greatest Mind, is a newcomer to the New World, having arrived after the end of the second storm. They’re a poor immigrant hiding out in the shabby apartments of the Jewish Quarter, living with a friend. And according to our boss…”

“Hmm?”

“They possess a remarkably brilliant mind brought from the Old World.”

Victorique snorted. “What a load of rubbish.”

Kazuya tried his best to keep his expression still.

“I’m just one of the countless private detectives on Manhattan Island,” Victorique said, puffing on her pipe nonchalantly. “But humans sometimes dream of invincible helpers, especially those in strong but unstable positions. After all, people can’t strengthen their mind to match their standing.”

Smoke rose from the pipe, wobbling as it drifted towards the ceiling.

John Smith remained silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Whatever power you use to solve cases, we don’t care. But one thing is certain: if you ignore our request, you will face terrifying consequences.”

Victorique’s breath caught.

“Have you realized it yet? You’ve already made one mistake. Garbo Boss went all the way to your office, but you had the audacity to turn him away with your insolent attitude! Did you think we’d just let that slide? You fool. Now you promptly suffered the consequences of your arrogance. In other words…”

“Rokushou!” Kazuya leaned forward.

Instantly, the gangsters surrounding them pressed their guns against Kazuya’s shoulders, chest, and back.

Unperturbed, Kazuya continued, “Please give him back! Involving a little child is not something a respectable adult would do!”

“A respectable adult?” The man laughed. “Do you even know anything about the Mafia code, young man?” Keeping his face head still, he turned his eyes alone towards Kazuya.

“Mafia code?”

“Once, we were just a group of nameless immigrants. Just like you are now. Poor people who came to a great country, scattered and weak. So we created Little Italy and formed a Mafia organization as a pseudo-family. We help each other when a comrade faces difficulties. If someone is killed, we risk our lives for revenge. We’re family, after all. In exchange for protecting each other’s rights, we also bear obligations. If anyone betrays the organization, we don’t just kill them. We also kill their parents, siblings, wives, children, everyone, immediately.”

Kazuya’s eyes widened.

“Welcome to the dark world we’ve created after the storm, new immigrants. Enjoy yourselves.”

Kazuya bit his lip, fists trembling. “Wh-Where’s Rokushou? Where’s the little boy?!”

John Smith bit down hard on his cigar. Victorique stayed perfectly still.

“Garbo Boss wants to see the Greatest Mind’s skill at work. If you want the child back, it’s simple. Catch the culprit behind the Gang Serial Murder Case.”

“…”

“Let’s set a time limit. Sunset today.”

“What?”

“The child lives until then. If the culprit isn’t identified, you’ll just have to give up. After all, the code is absolute.”

“What are you…”

“We’ll assign you escorts.”

“Escorts? We don’t need that.”

“If you act on behalf of the Italian Mafia, you may also attract the attention of other organizations. It’s a precaution. They will also keep an eye on you. Oh, Carlos? You want to do it?”

At the mention of that name, Kazuya turned around. A small young man stood with a blank expression, raising his hand. He was staring intently at John Smith.

“Carlos Coppo? The fourth guy I interviewed?” Kazuya murmured.

Victorique turned her head, casting a cold gaze at the young man.

Carlos leaned forward eagerly. “I’ve met this guy before!” he explained. “He’s a newspaper reporter. I know his personality, so he’ll be easy to monitor. I’ll do it! Leave it to me, Mr. Smith! I’ll show you what I’m made of.”

John Smith nodded slowly.

Descending the stairs of the warehouse building, Victorique walked with an air of excessive arrogance, despite the gang members’ eyes and guns on them. Kazuya walked cautiously beside her.

Carlos, hands stuffed in his pants pockets, followed with a swagger.

As they stepped out of the entrance onto the eerily empty street, Victorique curled up, resembling a small bundle of navy blue and burgundy frills and laces.

“Victorique,” Kazuya whispered.

Victorique’s porcelain face turned pale. “We only have until sunset.”

“We’ll find the gang serial killer together and get Rokushou back. First, we need to call Ruri and explain the situation.”

Carlos stood beside them, listening intently. Nicholas Sacco, partially concealed behind a red fire hydrant, came running towards them, waving his long arms.

“Wow. I did not expect you to come out alive,” he said. “There’s not even a hole on you.” He turned to face the church. “Thank you, God! I still can’t believe it.”

Then, he noticed Carlos and furrowed his brows. “What, Carlos? Long time no see. What are you doing here?”

Carlos lifted his gaze and spotted his childhood friend. He smiled awkwardly.

The sounds of children playing and cars passing by rolled in from the side streets.

Only the main street in front of the Italian Furniture Sculpture Importers Association was eerily quiet, devoid of people and vehicles.

The chilly wind shook the roadside trees.