Page 6 of A Life Chosen

Rayan and Mathias made their way through the crowds at Place d’Armes. It was well into the evening, and people were spilling from the various bars and clubs along the strip. Rayan couldn’t help but feel strange as they passed through the melee. How different their Friday night activities were in comparison.

Rayan noticed two women with their eyes fixed on Mathias, whispering excitedly as he strode past. He gave his boss a sidelong glance. Mathias was dressed as he always was—impeccably, his muscular frame filling out his designer suit, dark-brown hair combed back, his strong jaw betraying no hint of stubble. No wonderthey were staring. He was imposing, exuding a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Rayan blinked, quickly looking away.

They turned into Chinatown, where red lanterns framed the streets. Music blared from a karaoke bar on the corner. Le Singe Doréwas located along a side alley, a nondescript brick building with a hairdressing salon fronting the street and a small speakeasy round back. Behind the bar and through a maze of narrow corridors was a series of rooms where the Russians ran various betting rings.

Mathias strode down the alley and pulled open the door to the club. It was dark, with a low ebb of music in the background. Black leather booths dotted the room. It must have been early, because the place was practically empty. Mathias walked to the staff entrance and pushed through the doors into a brightly lit corridor.

They approached the first room, and Mathias turned. “The fuck does he look like?”

Rayan shrugged. He’d never heard of the man before that night.

“Goddamn wild-goose chase,” his boss muttered and stalked into the room.

Three large screens lined the walls. There were several tables packed with men glued to the games on television. In the corner, someone was mixing drinks.

A short bald man stepped in front of them. “What do you want?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

“We’re looking for Connor Armstrong,” Mathias replied, his eyes sweeping the room.

The man looked them up and down. “Who’re you with?”

“Who do you think?” Mathias shot back.

Rayan could tell he was losing his patience. Bad things happened when his capo lost his patience.

The Russian glowered. “What makes you think I can help you?”

Mathias retrieved a wad of bills from inside his jacket, peeled off a few, and held them out. Baldy grinned, taking the money and pocketing it.

“He’s over there. Table on the right, red jersey.”

They walked over to the table. Armstrong’s eyes were fixed on a screen where a hockey game was playing. He gripped the table hard, muttering something, maybe a prayer. He was going to need it. Mathias stepped in front of him, blocking the screen.

“Hey, man—” Armstrong started.

Rayan stood behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and pushed him into the chair. Armstrong went rigid.

“Fuck,” Armstrong whispered.

“My associate and I would like to talk to you outside,” Mathias said.

“Are you with Sonny?” he asked quickly, his words tripping over one another. “Y-You can tell him I’ve got the money.”

Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “Do I look like Sonny’s messenger?” His voice was measured, but Rayan could hear the malice beneath. “If you’ve got the money, we don’t have a problem.” He placed a hand on the table between them. “But we both know you don’t.”

Mathias met Rayan’s eyes, inclining his head toward the door. Rayan yanked Armstrong up by his arm and led him out of the room. They emerged into the alley, the sound of the karaoke bar filtering through from down the street. He pushed Armstrong up against the brick wall, Mathias stalking behind him like a tiger.

Armstrong gave them a winning smile, but it wasn’t enough to hide the slight tremor of his lips. “This is all a misunderstanding.”

He looked like the kind of man used to talking his way out of trouble. It was a shame Rayan’s boss didn’t like to talk.

Mathias glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist, his frown deepening. “I don’t take kindly to my time being wasted.”

Rayan moved forward, but Mathias held up his hand, his eyes darkening like a gathering storm. A pile of wooden pallets sat stacked to one side of the alley. On top were several severed panels, the nails still embedded. Mathias stepped over, picked one up, and tested its weight in his hand. He advanced toward Armstrong, taking his time, making him sweat.

Armstrong visibly paled. “I’ll get you the money, I swear. I'll have it by the end of the week.”

Backed against the wall, he had changed his tune. Mathias rolled his neck. Then he raised the plank and slammed it against Armstrong’s knee with a crack, violence flashing like lightning across his face. He screamed, pitching over and falling to the ground. He clutched his leg, looking up in disbelief. Mathias raised the board once again.

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