Chapter Nineteen

T he clouds hung low, gloomy. It had been snowing on and off all morning. Mathias eased his new black Bentley into a spot by the river and got out, buttoning his jacket and pulling on his goatskin gloves. A frigid wind blew across the water, buffeting his face as he stepped down the bank. He walked slowly across a powdery carpet of white.

It was a good spot for an ambush, out where no one could hear. He’d told Giovanni he wasn’t a gambling man, yet that was all he’d done since coming to Hamilton. Mathias hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d become to the security of his life in Montreal. Here, people could turn on a dime.

Not for the first time, he considered Rayan’s offer to stay. Yesterday, after Rayan had left for Montreal, Mathias had found a single silver key lying on the foyer table. He’d picked it up and turned it over in his hand before taking out his keys and threading it onto the chain beside them.

Mathias pushed the thought aside. He’d made his choice and would be damned if he backtracked now. But if he wanted to get anywhere, he would eventually have to trust someone. Between the trees ahead, he saw a short man in a faded Blue Jays baseball cap.

The man raised a hand as Mathias approached. “You’re alone,” he observed, amused. “New town—thought you’d have backup.” His accent wasn’t as pronounced as Belkov’s, but the lilt was there.

“Working on it.”

Gurin chuckled. “Not much left to lose, eh?”

Mathias said nothing, caught off guard. The Russian’s insight hit close to home. When he’d called Belkov to arrange a meeting with his Hamilton contact, he’d given him a spare account of what had transpired since their last encounter, but he knew the Bratva boss would have taken great pleasure in embellishing the details.

“This guy, too, cashed in his chips,” Gurin said, shaking his head .

Beside him, a man lay face down in the snow, his hands bound behind his back, a bag over his head. Mathias saw the sack of river stones the Russian had tied around his ankles. Professionally done—a man well-schooled in his craft. Gurin crouched, pulling up the bag to reveal a face beaten beyond recognition.

“Been subbing powder in our supply. Collecting double.” He tutted. “As you know, we hold territory south of the river. Boss tells me he’s feeling charitable, wants to cut you in. As a good-faith agreement.”

He was being generous in calling it territory. The Russians held onto a narrow corridor from the river that reached just south of the border. It wasn’t much on the map but served as one of their key supply lines into the States. Belkov’s proposed cut was small but would be an improvement over the pittance the family currently made behind the scenes at the clubs downtown. Mathias had paid Tony under the table to waive six months’ worth of port fees for the Bratva in Montreal.

Gurin lowered the bag and stood, gesturing toward the man on the ground. “But Belkov wants to be sure of your good faith.”

Mathias leveled his eyes at the Russian. Gurin stared back. Nothing new. He cracked his neck with a sigh. He’d been here before, in his early days with the family—a string of tests designed to cement loyalty, weed out the weak. Mathias had employed the same tactics with Rayan when the man first started.

Mathias pulled the gun from beneath his jacket and racked the slide with a click. Then he raised it and fired one shot clean through the runner’s head. It was so quick the man didn’t make a sound.

“Done with the party tricks?” he asked, stowing his weapon.

Gurin smiled, pulling off a glove and holding out his hand. Mathias took it. “Alexei Gurin.”

“Mathias Beauvais.”

After the Russian had rolled the body into the river, watching as it sank below the swell of water, he collected the spent shell casing and kicked a fresh layer of snow across the ground. Mathias stood to the side, smoking silently.

“I need an introduction,” he said when Gurin was finished.

“Truman?”

“Yes.”

Gurin snorted. “He doesn’t like the mafia. Still hates Russo for running him out of Quebec.”

“I have something to offer. Worth his while.”

“I’ll see what I can do. He doesn’t like the Bratva much either.”

“What a fucking team. ”

Gurin laughed as they walked in the direction of his car. “If you’re looking for good men, I know a few who might be persuaded.”

“Have a Russian watch my back?” Mathias scoffed. “I’ll end up with a knife through it.”

Gurin snickered. “Not ours—unaffiliated. Mostly Anglos, the odd pea-souper. They come in handy when we need the extra muscle.”

Mathias considered it. If there was one thing he’d found a glaring lack of in this city, it was reliable men. “Send them my way.”

Gurin stopped, peering at him curiously. “You’re not like Moretti. Rumor is you had a name for yourself in Montreal. Why are you out here, scavenging for scraps?”

Mathias smiled coldly, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

The phone drilled into Mathias’s semiconscious brain. He rolled over, needing a moment to get his bearings. He didn’t remember falling asleep—or even what it felt like to sleep—but his body must have reached a tipping point and shut down on its own. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and brought it to his ear.

“He’s at the Iguana.” It was Gurin.

“Now?” Mathias sat up, looking down at the screen to see it was three in the morning.

“Yes,” Gurin said. “Says he’ll meet with you.”

Mathias swore under his breath and pulled himself out of bed. Truman was big dogging him, yanking him around like a trained monkey. Moretti had a lot to answer for.

“I’m heading over.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Beauvais,” the Russian warned before hanging up.

Tossing his phone down, Mathias stalked to the bathroom to take a piss and splash cold water on his face. Despite the early wake-up call, he dressed as he would any other day—crisp white shirt and black slacks. He ran a comb through his hair, slicking it back, and strapped his gun to his chest, fixed in a leather holster beneath his jacket. He took it out and checked the chamber, flicking off the safety.

A half hour later, Mathias pulled the car into a spot outside a plain brick tavern on the outskirts of the city. The building bore no identifying features except for a red skull stenciled in spray paint on the steel double doors. He’d have preferred to meet on neutral territory, but he was confident Truman wouldn’t try anything stupid. If his own reputation didn’t precede him, the family’s certainly did. And Truman had been spooked by Russo before.

Walking through the entrance to the club, he was met by two women in thongs and nothing else. The Iguana was a notorious local titty bar, offering a range of extra services for those who could pay—the jewel in the crown of the Red Reapers’ Ontario charter and where William Truman conducted most of his business.

One of the women, eyes dull with dope, asked what he’d like to drink. She tottered over to the bar while the other woman led Mathias through the crowd of patrons. By the look of it, they were mostly members, sporting jackets with the Reapers’ skeleton scythe motif. Truman was seated in a booth at the far end of the club, surrounded by his inner posse, a naked stripper splayed across his lap. He was older—in his fifties at least—his face pale and meaty, eyes red rimmed, stomach straining against a leather jacket swathed in weathered patches. Mathias almost laughed. He looked like a glorified boy scout.

The hostess indicated for Mathias to sit opposite Truman and placed his drink on the table between them. Truman waved a hand, and the throng dispersed, the woman slipping from his lap and wandering aimlessly across the room. Mathias left the drink where it was. He had yet to trust anything about the seedy establishment, present company included.

“You came alone.” The Reaper leered. “Either you’re fucking stupid, or you’ve got balls. Which will it be, I wonder?” His eyes fell on Mathias’s Rolex. “That’s a nice watch. What’s a thing like that worth? Sixty, eighty K?”

Mathias shrugged.

“You ginos like nice things. Think you can swan around, taking what you want, just like the one before.” He downed the rest of his drink. “So, you’re that shithead’s replacement?” He studied Mathias scornfully. “Might be more comfortable with your friends back home. This is Reapers territory. We don’t like your kind here.”

“Is that so?”

“Take your leather shoes and your nice watch, and fuck off back where you came from,” Truman barked, tossing his empty glass at the wall behind Mathias’s head.

It shattered, barely missing his cheek. Mathias placed his hands down on the table. In a blur of movement, he rammed the table into Truman’s gut, pinning him against the booth. Before the Reaper’s entourage could react, Mathias was standing, his gun pressed hard to the man’s temple. Blinded by arrogance and accustomed to Moretti’s cowardice, Truman had clearly underestimated him—hadn’t even bothered to search him at the door. Mathias saw the fear in Truman’s eyes, the glisten of sweat on his fleshy face .

“I deserve more respect than that,” he said in a low voice.

In the silence that fell over the club, Mathias heard the click of weapons.

“You may have known my predecessor, but it seems you know nothing about me. When we talk business, we keep it civil. Do you neo-Nazi cunts understand the word civil ?” Mathias felt the man tremble against the barrel. “I don’t like to make assumptions, but so far, you’re proving me right. Don’t fuck with me, Truman, and I won’t fuck with you. Now, shall we talk some business?”

The Reaper nodded slowly.

“Tell them to stand down.”

Truman raised a hand, indicating for his men to back off. He cleared his throat. “Get the man another drink,” he called to one of the waitresses.

Mathias yanked the table back and sat down, placing his gun between them, fingers resting on the handle.

“You’ve got balls,” Truman muttered.

“You’ve got two million in untapped product languishing on the docks. Port authority won’t grant you shipping rights.”

Truman’s mouth dropped open.

“I can have it green-lit by the end of the week,” Mathias continued. “But I want fifteen percent of everything that touches Quebec soil.”

“Fifteen percent?” Truman scoffed.

“Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing. Which is what you’re making while that stock doesn’t shift.”

The Reaper scowled. The waitress appeared with fresh drinks. Truman downed his and handed it back to her for a refill. “And who’s to say our product won’t end up in the river? It’s happened before. The mob blocks all port access to Montreal.”

“An exception has been made.”

Truman snorted. “For what price?”

“Back off our businesses on the strip. No more raids, no more threats. Consider it an olive branch. We have shared interests, and it’s in your interest to keep things clean.”

“Civil.” Truman smirked.

“Now you’re getting it.” Mathias stood, taking off his watch and tossing it to the man. “Don’t think too hard.”

Truman caught it with a grin and weighed it admiringly in his hand. “I like a challenge. And you, my ballsy friend, are a challenge.”

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.