Page 5 of A Life Chosen

“Somewhere I can bet it all to earn it back,” Rayan replied.

Mathias looked at his second, surprised by the insight. “No one’s going to carry him. He’s on our blacklist.”

“No one that kicks back to the family.”

“That leaves Franklin, Javier…”

“Belkov,” Rayan added.

Fuck. Of course.The Russians coexisted fairly peacefully with the family in Montreal, though they were champing at the bit to fill any power vacuums family politics opened up. They had to be kept on a short leash to prevent them from overstepping. And Viktor Belkov, the city head, was a loose cannon at best. The Bratva operated, among other things, a gambling syndicate that sucked in the trashthe family threw out. The stakes were higher, of course. And the Russians did not play games.

“Head to Laval. We’ll start with Belkov.” Mathias figured he had enough leverage to convince the man to cooperate.

His second pulled the car back onto the road, and they drove toward the highway, speeding through the darkening city.

There was a restaurant in Laval that Belkov owned, the Château Suzdal. It looked nice enough from the outside—families with kids at big tables—but naturally, out back, he ran any number of rackets, from drugs to prostitution. Mathias and Rayan found him in his back office, feet up on the desk, half-empty glass of vodka in hand, sipping it like it was water.

“Beauvais, to what do I owe the pleasure? We’re not due until next month.”

Belkov always seemed a little drunk, as though he required a minimum amount of booze to function. The Russians paid monthly fees for use of the port, which the mob had controlled for decades. While the family dealt in the local narcotics circuit, the Russians had their hands on the harder stuff, which they shifted south across the border to their contacts in the States. As long as their imports didn’t compete and they paid their dues on time, Russo didn’t have a problem with them.

“I’m looking for Connor Armstrong. Wanted to see if he was on your books.”

Belkov held up his bottle of Green Mark, and Mathias waved him away. He’d had the misfortune of sharing one too many drinks with the man before.

“I’ll help you if you tell me whether the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Mathias asked.

The Russian waggled his eyebrows. “About Russo. How long does he have?”

Mathias looked hard at the man. “That desperate you’re listening to rumors now?”

Belkov laughed and swilled his drink. “You’re hedging.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Russo isn’t going anywhere.”

“Let me ask you one thing, Mathias,” he drawled in his thick Russian accent. “If he keeled over tomorrow, would you be ready?”

The Bratva boss reached beneath the desk and pulled out an antique revolver. In an instant, Rayan appeared in front of him, the gleam of his gun catching the light as it lined up with Belkov’s head. From behind, Mathias could see his second’s body tense in expectation of the shot.

“Bang!” the Russian crowed, dropping the revolver onto the desk and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You got me!” He cackled with laughter then downed the rest of his drink.

Rayan stood between them, still poised to shoot. Mathias glanced at the door, where Belkov’s own lackey stood, fingers resting on the handle of a pistol tucked into his waistband. He put a hand on Rayan’s shoulder, and he lowered his gun, his eyes flicking to Mathias for the briefest of moments before he stepped back.

Feeling red-hot anger sweep through him, Mathias strode up to the desk and placed both palms on the glossy wooden surface. He leaned in close, his mouth curling upward in mock civility. “Just for that, I’m adding twenty to next month’s dues, you crazy Russian bastard,” he said in a low voice. “Pull your gun on me again, and you’re finished. We’ll flush you out of this city like a filthy fucking rat.”

“My apologies.” Belkov leered, leaning back in his chair. This was what he’d wanted—to put on a show and make sure the family knew the Bratva weren’t completely pistol-whipped. “Here I was thinking you could take a joke.”

Mathias straightened, leveling his gaze at him. “Connor Armstrong.”

“Try Le Singe Doré,” Belkov said. “There’s some action there tonight. If he’s on our books, that’s where he’ll be.”

Mathias turned and pulled open the door. The noise from the restaurant filtered through as he strode down the hallway, Rayan at his heels.

“Brasseux de marde,” Rayan muttered as they walked across the parking lot. He was still keyed up, jaw tight, mouth pulled into a scowl.

They got in the car and headed back toward the city. Mathias stared out the window, recalling Belkov’s thinly veiled threat.Who is giving him information about Russo? What exactly is he planning?

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