Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Within fifteen minutes, they were in Boulogne. Rayan navigated the car toward the city’s old ferry port. Behind them, Marsela shifted restlessly, taking a series of short, panicked breaths. She’d been compliant enough that they’d done away with the scarf.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Mathias,” she hissed, her forehead shiny with perspiration. The sultry smugness had been replaced by an unfamiliar terror. “Burim is not a forgiving man.”
“Neither am I.”
But her obvious distress made his stomach tighten. Who is this Burim, and why is she so nervous?
He glanced over at Rayan, who was waiting for the light to change, and felt the sudden crushing weight of responsibility. “Hey.”
The man turned to him, but Mathias seized up, the words catching in his throat.
If something happens, I want you to know…
Then Rayan gave him a knowing look. “Don’t you start with that shit.”
Mathias snickered. “Eyes on the road, kid.”
Boulogne-sur-Mer had served as France’s first commercial link with England and, up until the turn of the millennium, had remained an important transport hub between the two countries.
The construction of the Channel Tunnel and the rise of the Port of Calais had put an end to that, and the rapid decline in traffic resulted in the closure of the city’s maritime station.
In the dark, the station—which combined both a ferry terminal and a railway depot—was an eerie graveyard of mold-stained concrete.
There were no barriers blocking the entrance, making it possible for them to drive up to the abandoned railway terminus and park behind the boarded-up building.
Mathias ushered a reluctant Marsela from the car, and together, they waited for Burim to arrive.
Before long, two white Land Rovers appeared and continued through the deserted complex toward them. Mathias tempered a flash of irritation as the cars pulled up. Arriving with a convoy of cronies amounted to funny shit, in his book.
The Albanians emerged like clowns at a circus and formed a cluster around an imposing man with an artfully manicured goatee on his tanned face. He wore a collection of gold rings and chains, the currency of a low-tier gangster. All that was missing were the designer sneakers.
The man stepped forward to fix Mathias with a beady glare. “You the one called Beauvais?”
“That would be me,” Mathias said evenly. “Where’s my money?”
“It’s here. But first, I have questions.”
“Questions weren’t part of the deal.”
The man folded his arms. “I made a few inquiries about you, Mathias Beauvais. You’re not some clueless antiques dealer. You’re with the Sicilians in Canada.”
Was.
“And not just a soldier either. Sounded pretty high up.”
Where is he going with this? “If we’re making introductions, mind telling me who the fuck you are?”
The man’s face soured. “Burim Osmani. Maybe you’ve heard of my father? Most people this side of the channel have.”
Mathias gave a shrug. “So your daddy’s famous.”
Burim scowled. “More than that. He’s a fucking legend.”
Mathias fought the urge to roll his eyes. Burim wasn’t the first man he’d encountered who worshipped the legacy of his father.
“Do you know we work closely with the ’Ndrangheta? You’d be surprised how much the Italian families dictate the flow of activity in Europe.”
“What’s this, a history lesson?” Mathias scoffed. “When did questions turn into a sermon?”
“When you tried to fuck my wife.”
Mathias froze. God dammit. His gaze flicked to Marsela who was pale as a ghost beside him. She had to be his fucking wife.
Marsela let out a stream of panicked pleas in Albanian, but Burim cut her off with a sharp rebuke.
“It seems my wife has grown bored of her pampered life,” Burim went on. “First, she wanted more responsibility in the business. And I thought, why not? If it keeps her happy, where’s the harm? Turns out that wasn’t the only thing she was bored with.”
The woman who’d had her tongue down Mathias’s throat was married to the head of the Osmani family. That threw a wrench into their wager.
“It’s been brought to my attention…” Burim said, looking at one of his men standing by the car. Mathias recognized Scarface, his face a broken, bloody mess. “That you’re not the first man my wife has taken a liking to.”
The mood took a sudden turn, and the other soldiers shot each other wary glances. Beside him, Rayan stiffened.
“Is that what this is?” Burim addressed Marsela. “A lover’s arrangement? You take the cash, and the two of you disappear into the sunset?”
“No, I dashur! ” Marsela cried.
Burim gave a scornful chuckle. “ I dashur? You have some fucking nerve.” He began speaking in a flurry of Albanian, his voice rising in fury. Marsela cowered, her tone keening when she replied.
Mathias ground his teeth. Here he was, caught in yet another lover’s quarrel. This was getting old fast.
“I didn’t try anything with your wife,” Mathias said.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“That’s exactly right.”
Burim glared at him. “Do you know what happens when someone lays a hand on what’s mine?”
“Please, Burim, it’s the truth!” Marsela cried.
“Enough,” Mathias barked, resting the heel of his hand on the handle of his gun. “I want my fucking money, or we’re done here.”
The ringing of a phone cut through the tense silence that followed. The melody, grating and insistent, filled the still night air. Burim reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his eyes widening when he looked down at the screen. He answered in a hushed murmur, suddenly reverent.
The call went on for some time, with Burim saying little and nodding as he was given what appeared to be a harshly worded dressing down.
“Mathias…” Rayan murmured beside him. His eyes were trained on the wall of Albanians as a hand rose to his holster.
Mathias knew what Rayan was thinking. If they were going to act, it would have to be now, unless they wanted to give this Osmani bastard a chance to follow through on his threat. But before they could make a move, Burim hung up and looked over at Mathias with unconcealed disbelief.
Then he gestured to one of his men. “Give him the money.”
His subordinate walked over the trunk of the first car and pulled out a large black duffel bag.
“Seems you have friends in high places,” Burim said as the Albanian soldier dropped the bag at Mathias’s feet. “You should have told me you knew Leo Campini.”
Mathias scanned his knowledge of Italian family politics.
As far as he was aware, Leonardo Campini was one of the ’Ndrangheta’s top brass.
The Calabrian group wasn’t on the best of terms with the Sicilians—which included their North American offshoots.
How Campini had come to know about Mathias and his business, he had no idea.
Mathias certainly wasn’t acquainted with him personally.
Even during his time with the family, he’d never had much to do with the ’Ndrangheta.
Mathias said none of this to Burim. He wasn’t about to let an opportunity to one-up the Albanian slip through his fingers. Rayan retrieved the bag, and Mathias watched as he zipped it open to reveal layered stacks of bound five-hundred-euro notes.
Rayan flicked through the stacks then closed the bag and gave Mathias a quick nod. “It’s all there.”
It’d better be.
“Had I known…” Burim’s tone had turned noticeably more cordial.
“I wouldn’t have let the woman near your business.
And we wouldn’t have shown you such disrespect.
For that, I offer my apologies. We have a longstanding arrangement with the ’Ndrangheta, one I’m in no hurry to lose.
We stay clear of the Sicilians to avoid stirring up trouble—something you both seem to do well enough on your own.
That being said…” His eyes darkened, and he gestured down at the bag of cash.
“I don’t take kindly to people stealing from me. We had a deal. I want my drugs back.”
Mathias withdrew a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Everything’s here. A friend is holding it for safekeeping. I’ll call ahead and let him know to expect you.”
Burim’s subordinate moved to take the slip of paper and handed it to his boss, who peered at the address contained within. “And if we show up and it’s miraculously gone?”
“I’m a man of my word,” Mathias said. “It’ll be there.”
Burim muttered something unintelligible.
“Or by all means, call Campini back,” Mathias goaded him.
Burim pocketed the piece of paper and pointed to Marsela. “You, get in the car.”
Rayan removed the restraints from Marsela’s wrists, and she took a moment to compose herself, righting the hem of her dress and fluffing her hair.
Then she strode over to the car Burim had emerged from.
One of the Albanian soldiers opened the rear door and placed a hand on her arm to guide her inside, but she slapped it away.
Burim stood observing the interaction, his expression unreadable. When Marsela was safely stowed in the back seat, he turned to Mathias. “A man of your word, was it?”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. You have my sympathy.”
Burim’s lip curled viciously. “Don’t let me catch you near her again.”
“Interfere with my business again, and this”—Mathias kicked the bag at his feet—“is just the beginning.”
Mathias and Rayan watched the Albanians pile back into their cars. They stood in silence until the taillights of the two Land Rovers had disappeared into the distance.
“You had to try it on with his wife,” Rayan muttered.
Mathias smirked. “Marsela couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Rayan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck just happened?”
“Looks like you got your funding.”
They both stared down at the bag of cash, and Rayan gave a quiet laugh. “There’s no way the mayor will approve.”
“I’ll take care of Durand.”
“Thought you weren’t going to kill him,” Rayan teased.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Rayan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Was this your plan all along? Call in a favor with the ’Ndrangheta?”
Mathias shook his head, still puzzled by the unexpected turn of events. “I have no idea what happened there.”
Rayan’s face grew serious. “Promise me, no more trouble. I’m sorely out of practice.”
Mathias reached out to brush a lock of hair from Rayan’s forehead. “No promises.”