Chapter Fourteen
E lise was at an estate sale in Dunkirk—some fashion heiress who’d spent her life collecting Baroque portraits. She’d left that morning, giddy at the prospect of picking through the woman’s house for a bargain. Mathias had given her a generous upper limit and told her to use her best judgment.
It was amusing to see how flustered she got when he took his hand off the wheel.
He had no doubt she’d come back with a decent set of purchases, but she didn’t seem to share his faith.
Her confidence had been knocked by the Indonesian-sculpture debacle, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
If feelings of guilt helped secure her silence about the contents of the crate, then that worked in his favor.
Mathias was at the office, relishing the silence his appraiser had left in her wake, when the phone rang. He steeled himself for another pitch from Heylen.
“Changed your mind yet?” It was Marsela.
“Not something I’m in the habit of.”
“I heard you ran into some administrative trouble. Such a shame when the government makes things difficult for hardworking businesses.”
“Paperwork is easy to straighten out.” Like he was going to give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d spent days jumping through hoops.
“I wanted to thank you for the gift,” Mathias went on.
“You really shouldn’t have.” Even after Vicente had disposed of the gory delivery, the smell had lingered like a bad omen.
“Quit being coy, Beauvais. You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“I think you’ll find it does. I have the bill of sale to prove it.”
Marsela’s teasing tone turned cold. “The product in the crate—we want it back.”
“And by ‘we,’ you’re referring to your small group of investors?”
“They’re not as small as you think. And they’re not afraid to throw their weight around.”
“So who’re we talking? The Bergs, Osmani?”
There was a long pause. “What do you know about the families?” she asked.
“Only what I’ve heard in passing.”
“Then you’ve heard enough to know you’re messing with the wrong people. If you don’t return what’s ours—”
“Then what?” he challenged, not about to be cowed by this woman and her crew of Balkan gangsters.
“You don’t want to find out.”
The line went dead.
Mathias thrummed his fingers against the desk. Despite her threats, Marsela’s maneuvering felt toothless, almost tame. She was getting something out of their back-and-forth, and he couldn’t put his finger on what.
Preoccupied, he was taken off guard when the office door swung open and Rayan strode in. He was wearing a suit, and his face was set in an angry frown. Mathias blinked, briefly transported to the past, as though Rayan had transformed back into his second.
“Didn’t know it was dress-up day,” he remarked, covering his surprise.
Rayan unfolded the piece of paper in his hand and splayed it out across Mathias’s desk. It was a map of continental Europe that had been marked up in several places with black pen. “I went to see the mayor.”
“And you two are planning a vacation?” Mathias asked as he peered at the scribbles Rayan had made across the map. Rayan scowled at him, and Mathias relented. “I take it things didn’t go well with Durand.”
“I’m here for a favor.”
Mathias stilled. The man wasn’t asking to borrow the car.
What he wanted involved something from before.
Rayan wasn’t an idiot—he knew there were activities Mathias still dabbled in that stretched the definition of legal .
Mathias was too pragmatic to let needless regulation get in the way of his success.
They’d never directly discussed the topic, but Mathias had known to keep Rayan out of his affairs.
And Rayan—for the most part—had chosen to look the other way.
That was, until now. He’d been witness to enough of Mathias’s negotiations during his time—IOUs carefully distributed and later meticulously collected.
If he wanted something off the menu, Rayan would have to be willing to pay for it.
“You know how this works. I don’t give them away for free. Even to you.”
“I know. I intend to repay it.”
“How, I wonder?” Mathias asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Let me worry about that.”
“I’m not going to knock him off.”
“Jesus,” Rayan hissed, glancing at the door and lowering his voice. “I’m not asking you to whack the mayor.”
“So, what is this favor?”
“There are smaller gangs—hustlers who prey on migrant encampments. They pick up men and take them to work illegally out east on construction sites, in mines and factories. The groups negotiate contracts with these businesses and profit from the forced labor.” Rayan indicated to the points he’d marked on the map.
“We’re aware of several places in Poland and the Czech Republic, but there are many more.
And without knowing which group is involved, it becomes almost impossible to find them. ”
Mathias could see where this was heading.
“I need to track down someone who’s been picked up. I thought you might still have connections out east who’d have more information.”
“You mean the Russians,” Mathias said. The Bratva had a fair amount to do with smuggling people into Europe through the eastern borders and would no doubt be familiar with the groups that operated inside the continent.
Rayan nodded.
“Who is this someone?”
“Farhan Taleb.” Rayan paused. “The man from the beach. He and his daughters ended up at the camp. He was taken from the Jungle earlier today.”
“And you’re going to go out there and bring him back?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re being stupid, Rayan.”
“No, I’m taking action.”
Mathias exhaled in frustration. Trust him to twist my words. “He’s not your responsibility.”
“He wanted me to thank you for saving the girls. Amina and Zahra are their names. And they need their father. They can’t be alone in this world.”
Mathias remembered the clench of those tiny arms around his neck. He clicked his tongue. “You’re too soft.”
Rayan fixed him with a steady gaze. “But you knew that already.”
Mathias stared back. He’d been mistaken. Rayan might have looked like he had before, but this man was different. He’d come here not as a lackey, not as a lover, but as an equal.
Mathias stood and folded up the map then slipped it into his pocket.
“I may still be in contact with the Bratva,” he admitted finally.
“I’ll see what I can find out. But think carefully before you decide to get involved.
There are more factors than you realize at play here.
You don’t get to dip your toe in only to pull it back out again. ”
“Don’t worry,” Rayan said tightly. “I have no intention of backing out.”
Mathias kept his old phone in the safe in the study. He took it out later that evening and plugged it in to charge. It was like unearthing a little black book of Canada’s seedy underbelly. Rayan’s former number was the only one not saved. He’d had that memorized, dialed by heart each time.
He scrolled through the list of contacts, all coded so that at first glance, they appeared a strange mashup of unintelligible aliases.
Police personnel identified by the last digits of their badge number, councilors by the name of their arrondissement, family members by physical features or famous fuckups.
Belkov’s number was simply saved under Connard .
When he got to it, Mathias stopped. He hadn’t spoken to the Russian since he’d left Montreal. But he still remembered the man’s promise: “The Bratva will answer.” Perhaps it was time he tested that out.
The phone rang several times before Belkov picked up. “To what do I owe the honor?” He sounded amused and predictably inebriated.
“What do you know about the trafficking groups operating in central Europe?”
“Not even a ‘hello, how are things’?” the Russian mocked.
“Not like you to waste time on pleasantries.”
Belkov laughed. “Direct as always. Is this your new vocation, Beauvais? People smuggling? I figured you’d be running a resort in Cabo.”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
“That you are.”
“I’m after information on who’s shopping migrants around the industries for free labor.”
“I’d say damn near all of them. You’ve got the Polish gangs, the Lithuanians…
don’t even get me started on the Bulgarian mafia.
We don’t have much to do with them once we get the people into Europe.
We collect our fee and hand them over. But I know someone who oversees dealings along the Balkan corridor.
He should be able to steer you in the right direction. Why the sudden interest?”
“I’m looking for someone who was picked up in Northern France within the last twenty-four hours.”
“I pity the poor sucker if he’s found himself in your sights.”
“How easy will it be to track him down?”
Belkov sucked his teeth. “Not easy, but not impossible.”
Mathias leaned back in his chair. “How about you tell me what you want in exchange.”
There was a low chuckle in his ear. “You should have started with small talk. Buttered me up a bit. Then you’d have a better idea of what it is I want.”
“Fine, I’ll take the bait. What’s going on in the city?”
“It’s going to shit, Beauvais.” The amusement was gone from his voice and replaced by a steeliness palpable through the receiver. “Russo kept the ship afloat for fifty years. Bianchi won’t make it to five.”
“What are you saying?” Mathias asked, his stomach tightening.
“He’s started purging, from the bottom up. The numbers have gotten thin and morale even thinner. Rivals are circling the family like vultures with a dead carcass.”
“You among them?”
Belkov paused. “If there’s ground to be gained, it’s in the Bratva’s interest in staking our claim. My alliance with the family disappeared when you did.”
Mathias’s jaw clenched. Giovanni was a fool—muscling Mathias out, for one, and then letting paranoia inform his strategy.
Even Russo had weathered pushback when he started trimming the fat.
No one took it well when they thought they were next on the chopping block.
Cutbacks had to be carefully executed, and by the sound of things, Giovanni had been far from judicious.
With Mathias gone and the Quintino content to sit back and watch, no one had told the boss where to draw the line.
“So, what’s the game plan?” Mathias asked.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
“Why? You think I still report to them?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you do. All I hear is that you’re a ghost. Here one minute, gone the next. Some say you knew the ship was sinking, so you took your spoils and left. Others say you’re a coward who couldn’t stand up to Bianchi.”
“A coward?” Mathias growled.
“Less are saying that now, what with how poorly the big boss has performed. The former seems more plausible.”
“It was neither,” Mathias snapped, somehow needing to put the record straight.
It stung even now. He’d known there would be talk after he left. Theories and rumors that spread like wildfire. But to be branded a coward? That was a special kind of humiliation.
“Bianchi tipped off the Feds to push me out. It was either leaving or prison.”
“Or dead,” Belkov added. “Don’t pretend that wasn’t waiting around the corner for you, Beauvais. I know how your kind works. Loyalty is everything until it isn’t.”
The Russian wasn’t wrong. Giovanni had said as much that day in the cemetery before Mathias left Montreal.
“And what—you’ve joined the hordes trying to cut off a piece?” Mathias scoffed.
“All I’m saying is, if the opportunity arises, I know which side we’ll be on.”
Mathias stared out the window at the dusky night sky, struck by a sense of detachment. He would have solutions, ideas for how to turn the situation around, if he’d still been willing to put his life down for Giovanni, for the sake of the family. But none of that was true anymore.
“I have no sway with the family,” Mathias said. “I can’t help you there. What else?”
Belkov was quiet as though considering. “Then I’ll leave my options open. Who knows how things will pan out? Can’t hurt to have a favor from you in my back pocket.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll reach out to my man, and if I find anything, we’ll be in touch,” Belkov said. But instead of hanging up, he remained on the line. Static stretched between them. “What happens when the whole thing topples over? Will you come back and rise from the ashes?”
Mathias shook his head to dispel the possibility. “It will never fall. The family is too entrenched. The worst you can do is carve off the edges.”
“It’s not the edges we’ll be carving.”
Mathias ended the call, a heaviness weighing on him. He walked over to the window and yanked it open, letting the cool air brush his face. He could hear the faint crash of waves in the distance, a rhythmic whoosh that punctuated the evening silence.
He should feel nothing, yet it was as though he was staring down the face of looming disaster.
He had lived through it once, and even now, cut off from his former life, he could conjure the feeling—the rising panic as the walls closed in.
He knew what Giovanni was up against and could see the full extent of the mess he’d made.
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.
Mathias had invested too much in the family to feign indifference as he watched it teeter on the brink of collapse.