Page 54 of A Life Chosen

Gurin snorted. “He doesn’t like the mafia. Still hates Russo for running him out of Quebec.”

“I have something to offer. Worth his while.”

“I’ll see what I can do. He doesn’t like the Bratva much either.”

“What a fucking team.”

Gurin laughed as they walked in the direction of his car. “If you’re looking for good men, I know a few who might be persuaded.”

“Have a Russian watch my back?” Mathias scoffed. “I’ll end up with a knife through it.”

Gurin snickered. “Not ours—unaffiliated. Mostly Anglos, the odd pea-souper. They come in handy when we need the extra muscle.”

Mathias considered it. If there was one thing he’d found a glaring lack of in this city, it was reliable men. “Send them my way.”

Gurin stopped, peering at him curiously. “You’re not like Moretti. Rumor is you had a name for yourself in Montreal. Why are you out here, scavenging for scraps?”

Mathias smiled coldly, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

The phone drilled into Mathias’s semiconscious brain. He rolled over, needing a moment to get his bearings. He didn’t remember falling asleep—or even what it felt like to sleep—but his body must have reached a tipping point and shut down on its own. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and brought it to his ear.

“He’s at the Iguana.” It was Gurin.

“Now?” Mathias sat up, looking down at the screen to see it was three in the morning.

“Yes,” Gurin said. “Says he’ll meet with you.”

Mathias swore under his breath and pulled himself out of bed. Truman was big dogging him, yanking him around like a trained monkey. Moretti had a lot to answer for.

“I’m heading over.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Beauvais,” the Russian warned before hanging up.

Tossing his phone down, Mathias stalked to the bathroom to take a piss and splash cold water on his face. Despite the early wake-up call, he dressed as he would any other day—crisp white shirt and black slacks. He ran a comb through his hair, slicking it back, and strapped his gun to his chest, fixed in a leather holster beneath his jacket. He took it out and checked the chamber, flicking off the safety.

A half hour later, Mathias pulled the car into a spot outside a plain brick tavern on the outskirts of the city. The building bore no identifying features except for a red skull stenciled in spray paint on the steel double doors. He’d have preferred to meet on neutral territory, but he was confident Truman wouldn’t try anythingstupid. If his own reputation didn’t precede him, the family’s certainly did. And Truman had been spooked by Russo before.

Walking through the entrance to the club, he was met by two women in thongs and nothing else. The Iguana was a notorious local titty bar, offering a range of extra services for those who could pay—the jewel in the crown of the Red Reapers’ Ontario charter and where William Truman conducted most of his business.

One of the women, eyes dull with dope, asked what he’d like to drink. She tottered over to the bar while the other woman led Mathias through the crowd of patrons. By the look of it, they were mostly members, sporting jackets with the Reapers’ skeleton scythe motif. Truman was seated in a booth at the far end of the club, surrounded by his inner posse, a naked stripper splayed across his lap. He was older—in his fifties at least—his face pale and meaty, eyes red rimmed, stomach straining against a leather jacket swathed in weathered patches. Mathias almost laughed. He looked like a glorified boy scout.

The hostess indicated for Mathias to sit opposite Truman and placed his drink on the table between them. Truman waved a hand, and the throng dispersed, the woman slipping from his lap and wandering aimlessly across the room. Mathias left the drink where it was. He had yet to trust anything about the seedy establishment, present company included.

“You came alone.” The Reaper leered. “Either you’re fucking stupid, or you’ve got balls. Which will it be, I wonder?” His eyes fell on Mathias’s Rolex. “That’s a nice watch. What’s a thing like that worth? Sixty, eighty K?”

Mathias shrugged.

“Youginoslike nice things. Think you can swan around, taking what you want, just like the one before.” He downed the rest of his drink. “So, you’re that shithead’s replacement?” He studied Mathias scornfully. “Might be more comfortable with your friends back home. This is Reapers territory. We don’t like your kind here.”

“Is that so?”

“Take your leather shoes and your nice watch, and fuck off back where you came from,” Truman barked, tossing his empty glass at the wall behind Mathias’s head.

It shattered, barely missing his cheek. Mathias placed his hands down on the table. In a blur of movement, he rammed the table into Truman’s gut, pinning him against the booth. Before the Reaper’s entourage could react, Mathias was standing, his gun pressed hard to the man’s temple. Blinded by arrogance and accustomed to Moretti’s cowardice, Truman had clearly underestimated him—hadn’t even bothered to search him at the door. Mathias saw the fear in Truman’s eyes, the glisten of sweat on his fleshy face.

“I deserve more respect than that,” he said in a low voice.

In the silence that fell over the club, Mathias heard the click of weapons.

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