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Praise for WOLF'S Vendetta "An intricate tale of intrigue that stretches from Kazakhstan to California and beyond." -LT COL Lawrence Johnson, USA (Ret.), Defense Intelligence Agency and former UN chief of security/peacekeeping for Angola. “Ripped from the pages of Putin's secret diary! Packed with back-stabbing and dirty-dealing, this firecracker yarn will make the siloviki smile. - Paul Kozemchak, Special Assistant to the Director, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) and former research advisor to President Reagan's Commission on Long-Term Strategy

WOLF'S Vendetta

Impatience was one of Dimitri Ivanov’s faults. His other flaw was a cruel delight in carrying out killings assigned to his crew. Not one to delegate, Ivanov was “hands on” when it came to eliminating enemies. An avtorityet—akin to a mafia capo—Ivanov ran a crew of boyeviks, street soldiers. Wielding such authority, he could have assigned the bloody side of business to any one of his underlings but he had a perverse desire to get his hands dirty.

Rescued from a life of obscurity in a New York City sweatshop, Ivanov owed his position to one of Little Odessa’s most powerful godfathers, Ukrainian Jew Boris Levich. In gratitude for being taken in and eventually anointed a “made man,” Ivanov served Levich well. A surrogate son to the older man, he had risen through the ranks, earning his reputation the hard way—often over the bodies of enemies and peers. Looking more angelic seminarian than gangster, the slight, blond Ivanov was no bull-necked, slow-witted rival like those he had dispatched in any number of gruesome ways. 

Ivanov’s reputation was that of an executioner, a man to be feared. Like other battling crabs in the bucket that was Brighton Beach, he lived on borrowed time in a seaside city swarming with russkaya mafiya.

Today, much to Ivanov’s disappointment, he and an associate would be delivering a message—not a fatal shot to the head—to Mikhail Drogenev, a pensioner and gambler who owed an unpaid sum to Ivanov’s boss. 

Levich called his avenging angel to his fifth-floor fortress in a brick apartment building in the heart of Little Odessa. Hands clasped behind his back, the gulag veteran cautioned his mercurial aide about tactics in private.

“It is important Mikhail Drogenev is put on notice. You are to tell him that this slight pains me. He will repay me within a fortnight. But hear me, Dimitri Ivanov, I say to you what God said about Job to Satan. Do you know the story?”

A blank face. “I do not.”

Throwing up his hands, Levich said, “Ach, I suspected as much. You forget your roots, Dimitri. Ah, your generation. Very well. So, God says to Satan, ‘Job is in your hands, but you must spare his life.’ You understand?”

“I understand, Boss.”

  “What are you to do?” 

“I am to spare Drogenev’s life.” 

“Good,” rasped Levich. “Go. Pay your visit but remember my words.”