Page 67 of A Life Chosen

“For now,” Mathias said, the blankness yawning, swallowing his insides.

“That’s something, at least.”

Something.

“Piero’s formally announced his succession, denouncing any verdict by the Quintino. He’s sending men to the other groups in the city, demanding their loyalty,” Giovanni said, tossing his cigarette into a half-full tumbler of scotch. “I’ve instructed the council to lay low.”

Mathias reached out, his hand closing around Tony’s abandoned glass.

“Tony was a declaration of war,” Giovanni said, his voice hard, lined with grief.

Mathias lifted the glass and hurled it against the wall. He gripped the edge of the table and upended it, sending everything to the ground, broken glass scattering across thehardwood floor like marbles, the anger finally working its way through his blood, saving him from the void.

The councilman met his furious gaze. “You’ve waited long enough, Mathias,” he said quietly. “Consider yourself off leash. How soon can the Reapers get here?”

“They’re on their way.” Mathias had called Truman on the drive over, and he’d sounded unnervingly enthused.

If Tony was the target, had Rayan simply been caught in the crossfire? He doubted it. Piero would have had the two of them in his sights because of their proximity to Mathias, ensuring that it was personal—a knife to the gut.

“We were due to discuss this earlier. Might as well get it settled now,” Giovanni said with a frown. “Russo did not name his son as successor. Leadership passed to the Quintino, with the express purpose of selecting the new family head. The council was in the room when Giorgio relayed his last wishes. Piero, too, but he’ll deny it. He’s already refuted any ulterior claims as mutiny.”

“And the council’s decision?” Mathias asked.

“The Quintino have elected me as the newcapomandamento.”

A look passed between them. It was as though months of furtive discussions had culminated in an outcome that was both predicted and at the same time astonishing. There was no man better suited for the position. He walked to Giovanni and kneeled as the man extended his arm.

Mathias brought his lips to the signet ring on his right hand. “I swear to be faithful,capomandamento,” he pledged, as he had to the boss before. Mathias had been younger then, with blood already beneath his fingernails—a small price to pay for entrance into a family where he was more than an omission. “If I betray, my flesh shall burn.”

Then Mathias stood, touching cheeks with the old man, cementing his loyalty.

“I’m sure Tony would’ve had a few choice words to say about this,” the new boss remarked, fixing Mathias with a look of cold-blooded fury. “Make the fucker pay.”

The empty parking lot beside the Resto Lafleur in Pointe-Claire was as good a place as any to stage a gathering of the country’s three largest criminal organizations. It had been Truman’s suggestion. He’d traveled up with twenty of his men and set up camp in the lot between the fast-food chain and a neighboring steel-distribution center, awaiting instruction. Mathias had arrived to find the Reapers milling about their bikes, stuffing their faces with burgers and poutine.

Belkov had reluctantly agreed to join them, making his distaste for William Truman clear over the phone. But the Russian was willing to put that aside for the pleasure of long-awaited payback. He had Silvano Paterlini’s name on a bullet and, as promised, had proven extremely patient while waiting for their collective gamble to pay off.

As they waited for Belkov to show, Mathias eyed the group of soldiers Giovanni had assembled. Loyal to Russo and his final wishes, they had heeded the call of the Quintino, pledging their allegiance to the new boss. De Luca was in attendance, along with several familiar faces from Narcotics. So, too, were Franco, Sonny, and the rest of the Collections team. Domenico Lombardi, the Bettings head who’d recently pushed back on Piero’s unending line of credit, was noticeably absent. Mathias heard he’d been whacked on the way home from hisgoomah’s shortly after Tony’s hit. Many of the men here had targets on their backs, had heard about Tony, and wanted to strike first.

Mathias was exposed without Jacques, but there was no way he could leave Rayan alone. There was still a chance Piero would send someone to finish the job. He took out his cigarettes, realizing how much he needed one to suppress the tremor beneath his skin. He’d spent months planning, orchestrating his revenge, only to be outmaneuvered from the start. He was barely functioning, acting on pure instinct, the remainder of him retreating within.

He watched as Belkov pulled up in his black Lincoln Town Car, followed by a second identical vehicle, out of which scrambled a team of thick-necked Russian soldiers. The man stepped down from the car, his driver shadowing him cautiously, taking in the surrounding activity.

Belkov appeared unusually sober, his eyebrows creased into a frown, mouth wrapped around a thick cigar. It had been a while since Mathias had seen the Bratva boss in person, most of his interaction with the Russians having gone through Gurin. Mathias couldn’t say he missed him as he steeled himself for the antics Belkov’s presence would provoke.

Truman strode across the parking lot toward them, a cigarette in one hand and a half-eaten cheeseburger in the other. The three men stepped away from the growing assembly of soldiers, eyeing one another warily.

“I take it you’re all aware of the situation,” Mathias began.

“Can’t say I’m too sad about the big man croaking.” Truman grinned, taking a bite out of his burger. “Looks like the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

“Surprised you managed to put two and two together,” Belkov sneered.

Truman paused midchew, his face darkening. “The fuck you saying, Russki?”

“Shut it,” Mathias snapped, his patience down to a sliver. He was done with the man’s childish temper—done indulging his boorish behavior. It was time for Trumanto step up and show what he was worth. “We divide and conquer. I’ve got eight names. Smoke them out—no questions. They’ve made their beds. There’s no coming back from this. Belkov—Paterlini’s yours. No one touches Piero but me. Any intel, pass it along. The quicker it’s done, the quicker we clean up the mess.”

“And the other factions?” Belkov asked.

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