Page 53 of A Life Chosen

“I don’t have time for your shit today, Sylvester,” Mathias warned, a surge of anger rising in his throat.

Sylvester laughed, finally giving him his full attention. “I’m sure we can be friendlier than that, seeing as we’ve been rather disappointed with the service of late.”

He raised a hand, reaching for the lapel of Mathias’s jacket. Before he could touch him, Rayan shoved the man back, spilling his drink. Sylvester’s grin only widened.

“Where have you been hiding this puppy, Mathias?” he murmured. “I will pay you a fortune to let him bite me.”

Mine.The word surfaced red-hot, searing through his brain. “Here I was thinking I’d be generous and negotiate this month’s fees,” Mathias said, keeping his voice even. “But it’s generous enough that I leave without breaking your arm.”

Sylvester looked at him, the smugness not leaving his face. Mathias had run out of time. He couldn’t keep trying to placate with no teeth. “I’ll talk to Truman.”

Sylvester’s lips curled, eyes glinting as though he knew better. “I’m sure you will.”

Chapter Nineteen

The 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.”

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