Page 62 of A Life Chosen

There was a pause. “That’s it.”

“You called me at two in the morning with that hot tip?”

“What else?” Rayan countered. “It’s cold as balls. There’s a drunk kid hurling in the gutter outside my building.”

Mathias snickered. “Why are you up? Can’t sleep?”

Another pause. Rayan didn’t talk about the dreams, but Mathias had watched the man tremble, muttering in a language he didn’t understand. When he’d woken him, Rayan had startled like a cornered animal.

“You know there are pills for that,” Mathias continued.

“I know.” Rayan’s tone was surly. “What’s your excuse?”

Mathias recalled the woman, the ugly slap of their bodies meeting. He closed his eyes. “How cold?”

“Two below.”

“That’s nothing.”

Rayan hated the cold. Mathias always noticed a change in him when the weather turned, a kind of steely trepidation.

“There might be something else,” Rayan began cautiously. “But I don’t know how much you should read into it.”

He stood, walked to the window, and pushed back the blinds. Lake Ontario stretched before him, the water black and glistening. “Go on.”

“Tony was called in to see the boss this morning. He came back to the office, looking grim.”

Mathias sighed, surprised by the twinge of sadness he felt. Giorgio Russo had carved his place into the annals of Montreal history. It was hard to imagine what the city, and the family, would look like in his absence.

“It’s close. Giovanni thinks only a matter of months.”

“What happens then?” Rayan asked quietly.

Mathias stared out the window as the lights flickered across the harbor. “We wait.”

Chapter

Twenty-Three

The sky was gray and overcast, lending a solemn air to a solemn occasion—the weather itself bending to Giorgio Russo’s iron will. It had made the front page of theGazette—“Montreal Mob Boss Dead.” In the end, the man had accomplished what few crime bosses managed: death from natural causes.

As they filed out of the Chiesa Madonna della Difesa, bells pealing overhead, Mathias glanced up at the clouds, which threatened rain. Built by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s—and boasting a remarkable portrait of Benito Mussolini behind the main altar—the church remained a historic landmark in the city’s Petite Italia neighborhood. It had played host to many a high-profile family funeral, but nothing quite like this.

Ahead of him, Mathias could see the bronze casket being carried toward the hearse, Russo’s wife and son trailing behind, arm in arm. The front of the church and the street outside teamed with mourners, members of the family and unaffiliated alike, here to pay their respects to the man who had governed the Montreal underground for over half a century.

Despite what he knew about the boss’s declining health, Mathias had still been stunned to receive the call from Giovanni informing him of his death. The councilman had predicted he wouldn’t make it through the winter, but to not have even lasted the month, he must have been hiding the truth about his condition from them all. Mathias watched as Russo’s family climbed into a black limousine and pulled out behind the hearse, headed for the cemetery. A procession of cars began to form behind them, snaking down the street. If one didn’t know any better, they would think this simply a grieving Italian family sending off their much-loved patriarch. It was hard to miss the cops on standby, though, and the flash of cameras as the national media came out in force. Across the street, the municipal police were lined up as if watching a parade, trying to catch sight of new faces and gauge shifting alliances—any hint of what was to come.

Mathias didn’t join the procession to the cemetery. Earlier that morning, he’d paid his respects to the boss in a smaller visitation held at the family-owned funeral home. There, he’d taken Piero Russo’s hand, formally offering his condolences before a gathering of the group’s elite, the two of them looking at each other, giving nothing away as they performed the required courtesies. Mathias didn’t think Piero was brazen enough to knock him off at his own father’s funeral, but it was anyone’s game at this point.

After the news went public, there’d been little chance to regroup. Mathias had worked swiftly to put the final arrangements in place but could do nothing before receiving word from the Quintino, who’d so far remained silent. Giovanni had assured him it was simply a matter of tribute, to give the weight of Russo’s passing time to settle. It made Mathias uneasy. Time was the one thing they couldn’t afford to lose.

“Even my ma back in Hull has heard of Giorgio Russo,” Jacques marveled as they watched the crowd disperse. “It’s like being part of history.”

He was as bad as the reporters clambering for a spot behind the police blockade, turning it into a spectacle. “Man’s not even in the ground, and you’re looking for a souvenir? Have some respect.”

He started back to the car, taking out his cigarettes, Jacques falling into step behind him. Mathias lit one, spotting a familiar face approaching them.

“Thought you’d be at the burial,” Mathias said to Giovanni as they came to a stop. He offered the old man a smoke and lit it for him.

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