Page 55 of A Life Chosen

“You may have known my predecessor, but it seems you know nothing about me. When we talk business, we keep it civil. Do you neo-Nazi cunts understand the wordcivil?” Mathias felt the man tremble against the barrel. “I don’t like to make assumptions, but so far, you’re proving me right. Don’t fuck with me, Truman, and I won’t fuck with you. Now, shall we talk some business?”

The Reaper nodded slowly.

“Tell them to stand down.”

Truman raised a hand, indicating for his men to back off. He cleared his throat. “Get the man another drink,” he called to one of the waitresses.

Mathias yanked the table back and sat down, placing his gun between them, fingers resting on the handle.

“You’ve got balls,” Truman muttered.

“You’ve got two million in untapped product languishing on the docks. Port authority won’t grant you shipping rights.”

Truman’s mouth dropped open.

“I can have it green-lit by the end of the week,” Mathias continued. “But I want fifteen percent of everything that touches Quebec soil.”

“Fifteen percent?” Truman scoffed.

“Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing. Which is what you’re making while that stock doesn’t shift.”

The Reaper scowled. The waitress appeared with fresh drinks. Truman downed his and handed it back to her for a refill. “And who’s to say our product won’t end up in the river? It’s happened before. The mob blocks all port access to Montreal.”

“An exception has been made.”

Truman snorted. “For what price?”

“Back off our businesses on the strip. No more raids, no more threats. Consider it an olive branch. We have shared interests, and it’s in your interest to keep things clean.”

“Civil.” Truman smirked.

“Now you’re getting it.” Mathias stood, taking off his watch and tossing it to the man. “Don’t think too hard.”

Truman caught it with a grin and weighed it admiringly in his hand. “I like a challenge. And you, my ballsy friend, are a challenge.”

Chapter Twenty

From the twelfth-floor window of the Tour de la Bourse, Rayan could see the first smattering of leaves changing color on Mont Royal. Behind him, Christophe Renault—heir to the Centrale Générale construction empire—swayed in his chair. One eye was already beginning to close, his torn lip dripping onto the collar of his expensive silk shirt, leaving behind a flurry of red. His eyes widened as Rayan turned away from the window, cracking the knuckles of his right hand, stiff from having made impact with the Frenchman’s thick skull.

He preferred not to use his hands, but Renault’s swanky corner office was sorely lacking in serviceable tools. He smirked at the mental image of setting upon him with a stapler, and Renault recoiled, letting out a low wail. Rayan noticed a darkening stain on the cream carpeting beneath the man’s chair.

By the door, Lorenzo hacked loudly, hurling a mouthful of phlegm to the floor at his feet. He stood hunched over, arms crossed, head tilted toward his chest, as though fighting sleep. Rayan eyed him warily. It was best they finish up soon. The old man wasn’t known for his stamina.

“We clear?” Rayan’s voice was smooth, modeled on his former capo after years of observing him at work.

“O-Oui,” Renault stuttered. This was a man used to things going his way, but before two of the family’s famed foot soldiers, he was proving a fast learner.

“We’ll be back Friday,” Rayan said.

Renault slumped forward, gingerly lifting a hand to his battered face. Rayan retrieved his jacket and walked to the door, which Lorenzo held open, a cigarette already between his teeth.

“Don’t go scaring that pretty little secretary of yours,” Lorenzo called out with a chuckle as they closed the door behind them and made their way past the executive’s wide-eyed receptionist.

The last half decade had seen the family make a significant profit from providing construction companies like Renault’s with tender guarantees for large-scale city projects. With a reach that extended all the way to the mayor’s office, it was easy enough for Giorgio Russo to determine who the municipal government entrusted with their multimillion-dollar contracts. And in return, the family enjoyed a sizable kickback. Five percent was standard, but Rayan had worked jobs with cuts as large as fifteen. Renault had gotten greedy, taking on too many projects at once. When construction delays tied up precious capital, he’d started missing payments.

Collections handled these contracts, and all things construction had always fallen to Mathias, so Rayan knew what was involved when it came to a white-collar client like Renault. A touch of friendly intimidation, the odd personal threat—enough to reduce the likelihood and inconvenience of a second visit. Each visit was a lesson in restraint, a psychological push and pull. If you appeared too lenient, it gave the wrong impression. If you got too excited about smashing a client’s face in, you had a different set of problems on your hands.

Rayan had learned from the best. When it came to intimidation, Mathias could have taught a master class. But in the last six months, Rayan had taken on far more responsibility than he’d bargained for, and he missed the days when all he had to do was follow orders. With Mathias gone, the job had gained a heaviness he couldn’t seem to shake. Before, his loyalty to Mathias had acted as a barrier, a justification for the ruthless nature of the work he performed. Now the brutality ate at him, chafing against something long buried, his conscience resurfacing with a vengeance. Rayan faced each morning with a growing sense of unease, the years stretching before him sullied and empty. He thought of Mathias’s question that day in the kitchen of his apartment, Rayan’s response tasting more and more false.

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