Page 49 of A Life Chosen

Rayan blinked. He knew then why Mathias had left him here. It wasn’t because he didn’t need him in Hamilton. He was severing their association to throw Piero off the scent. Back in Collections, down at the bottom of the heap, he would once again be invisible. He felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest. Mathias, in his strange way, was protecting him.

“I expect the pay to reflect my responsibilities,” Rayan said.

It was ballsy, but he knew Tony would keep him on a second’s wages if he could. From the beginning, Mathias had given Rayan his earnings in thick brown envelopes. It was only when he’d overheard Mikey complaining about how little Franco passed on that Rayan realized his capo was padding his cut, doubling what someone in his position earned. It was one thing no one could fault Mathias on—he shared his money. He was scrupulous about earning it, but after that, it was as if all enjoyment was gone.

Tony’s face began to redden. “I’ll give you fucking responsibilities. I’ve a good mind to throw you back to Guillet. See how much you’d make running again.”

“Then who would you get to do all this work?” Rayan countered, silencing him.

Tony sucked his teeth. “One month, you get bare minimum, lackey’s pay. Think of it as probation. You prove to me what you’re worth, and then we’ll talk.” He wagged a finger in warning. “But I see anything I don’t like, any little fuckup, and you’re down in the dirt for the rest of your career. Got that, kid?”

“Got it.” Rayan didn’t care about the money. He barely knew what to do with what he already had. But in the family, money was the language of respect, and he wanted it to be clear, from the outset, that was what he expected.

“Good,” Tony said, the unnerving grin sliding back onto his face. He leaned over and picked up a pile of contracts at least an inch thick then dropped it on the desk in front of Rayan. “I want these done, cash in hand, by the end of the week.”

Rayan’s jaw clenched. A stack like that was at least two weeks of work. He flicked through the pages and saw that several were months in arrears. Every job assigned, no questions—Tony was every bit the old bastard he remembered. Rayan thought of how easily he’d been stitched up in one of the crooked deals the Collections boss pushed on their unsuspecting clients.

“Better get busy,” Tony snapped.

Rayan stood, picking up the stack of jobs. He knew better than to argue with him. If anything, Tony got more vindictive when he detected defiance. Rayan moved toward the door without another word.

“Nadeau,” Tony called out, and the next thing he heard was the jingle of metal hurtling toward his face.

Rayan snapped his hand up and caught the offending object a second before impact. Tony crowed with laughter.

“He said you were quick. Take this—it’s yours now. A parting gift from your old boss. Might help get your work done faster.”

Rayan looked down at the keys to Mathias’s Mercedes in his palm.

Despite the frigid temperatures, the raceway was packed with punters on a Sunday afternoon. The snow had been ploughed neatly to each side of the oval track. If Friday’s paycheck hadn’t already disappeared along Hess Street or at some of the more questionable establishments downtown, it came here to die.

The family once had a private box at the old Blue Bonnets racetrack in Montreal. Mathias had been there a few times before it closed—the owners had declared bankruptcy after the city refused to bail them out, something Russo maintained he had nothing to do with. The displaced racing crowd funneling into family-owned betting houses was just a happy coincidence. The boss often found himself the beneficiary of happy coincidences.

Glenwood Downs, home to the country’s fastest half-mile harness course, was a short drive from Hamilton, sitting on a couple hundred acres of land. Which might have been impressive if Mathias gave a fuck about horse racing. But this was where Giovanni had come to meet him, making a brief detour while in Toronto on family business.

He spotted the councilman in the stands, a tip of his gray fedora signaling that Mathias had also been seen. He made his way through the crowd, scaling several rows of stairs before taking a seat on the bench behind him. This high, the track stretched out before them. Mathias could see the drivers in their sulkies wrangling the horses into position behind the motorized starting gate.

“This is where you want to watch the action, not some glass box with overpriced canapés,” Giovanni said, barely audible over the general chatter in the stands. Mathias knew now why he picked the place, and it had nothing to do with the view.

The old man turned his head, catching his eye. “You handled it well. Russo’s not a fan of drama. Your composure was appreciated.”

Mathias snorted, preferring not to dwell on his public humiliation, however composed it might have appeared.

“If I recall, your father managed some of our race betting in the off-track houses.”

“Good for him.”

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget where you come from, Mathias.”

“Where I come from is a fucking rope around my neck,” he muttered.

“Maybe.” Giovanni paused. “It’s also your meal ticket. Whatever the man was as a father, he came from the old blood. And he’s given half to you. It will come in handy—you’ll see.” The councilman took off his hat and placed it on the seat beside him. “You a gambling man, Mathias?”

“You know I’m not.”

“Working Collections, no doubt you’ve seen the worst of it. I dabble here and there but prefer to rely more on smarts, strategy.” He folded his arms, peering at the spectacle before them. “If what you’re saying is true, about what Piero’s got planned, we’re talking open rebellion, a division within the family. We’ve got ourselves a problem—not enough smarts or strategy going to get us through what comes next. So we nongambling men got to do a little gambling.”

Mathias looked past him to the track, where the horses broke into a trot as the pickup towing the mobile barrier led them toward the starting line.

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