Page 37 of A Life Betrayed

A flare of heat rose to Rayan’s face. Then he felt Mathias’s hand on his neck and the press of his lips against his hair before the man turned and strode out of the room. The sound of the front door closing always left a hollow ache in Rayan’s chest.

He threw on some clothes and wandered out to the dining table, where he’d left his books. Beneath the pile of notes was his laptop. He opened it absently to discover an email from Professor Hofstein. Rayan paused, his finger hovering over the trackpad, unwilling to open it. He stared at the subject line. It was a reminder of that other life and how arrogant he’d been to call it his own.

Frustrated at his own indecision, Rayan clicked open the message and skimmed through the professor’s friendly greeting. In the remainder of the email, Hofstein expressed his concern for Rayan’s increased absence from class and their appointed meetings.

Rayan thought about his thesis—almost complete—sitting in a folder on his computer. He’d told Mathias he hadn’t given up, but it was naive to think there was still a place for these things. Why should he be allowed to start over? The world didn’t owe him that. The world owed him nothing.

He reread the professor’s kind words and then moved the cursor to the top of the email, which he swiftly deleted. After closing the lid of his laptop, he stalked into the kitchen. On the counter were a brown paper bag of groceries and a fabric tote containing something else. Rayan reached for it and pulled out alacquered wooden chess set. The lid of the box opened to reveal a board and two rows of beautifully carved pieces, black on the right, white on the left.

It had started as another lesson, one more thing he’d never learned. While visiting Rayan during his first year in Toronto, Mathias had discovered he didn’t know how to play. Rayan had gone out and bought a set and made Mathias teach him. They would leave the game set up in his living room, with a silver quarter on the table beside it. Every time Mathias was in town, he would make a move and flip over the quarter so Rayan knew it was his turn. He was heads, Rayan tails. Their games would last months, a sporadic flurry of movements giving way to nothing, marking the time together and apart. So far, Rayan hadn’t succeeded in beating him. Mathias had a knack for anticipating potential moves before they appeared and planned his victory several turns in advance.

Rayan took the board and set it up on the side table in the corner of the living room, where he placed each piece in its assigned square. He picked up the white pawn and moved it two spaces forward. Then he retrieved his wallet, extracted a silver quarter, and left it beside the board, heads up.

This time, Mathias went alone to see Belkov. A thick-jawed Russian soldier escorted him into the office at the back of Château Suzdal, where he found the Bratva boss with his feet up on the desk.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this, Beauvais.”

Mathias scowled and pulled up a chair.

“Gurin called,” Belkov said with a smirk. “With some more information about our Hamilton associate.”

“You seem awfully pleased.”

“Pleased, not pleased—that’s not important.” Belkov waved a hand dismissively. “The point is, you, my friend, are in trouble.”

As if I didn’t already know that.

“Gurin looked into what the cops have on Truman. The Reapers have been gunrunning, working with other chapters across the country, only to find themselves tangled up in a Border Services investigation. Not trivial, either—we’re talking a national sting operation.”

Mathias felt a pounding in his head as his anger unfurled.

“And that’s just the start. They’ve caught Truman personally handling product. He’s staring down the barrel at jail time—has a trial date coming up in the next month or two.”

“So, what—the Feds have promised him immunity for handing me over?” Mathias asked.

“The Feds have promised him something—that’s for sure.” Belkov spread his palms. “Looks like you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament.”

Mathias narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to try and strike a deal?”

Belkov chuckled. “Always thinking the worst of people, aren’t you, Mathias? Thing is, shortly after the whole business with Russo, when Truman and I parted ways, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get my hands on a little insurance policy in case the man ever decided to misremember the particulars of our short-lived alliance. The Reapers and the Bratva have a… how would you say? Tumultuous history.”

“Where are you going with this?”

Belkov swung his legs down and bent to open the top drawer of his desk. He took out a small brown envelope, which he placed between them. “Leverage. I no longer need it now that he’s come after you instead. And it’ll only go to waste if Truman ends up in one of our fine correctional institutions.”

Mathias lifted the envelope from the desk and opened the flap to find a small stack of black-and-white photos.

“All sorts of surprises came up when my men started digging,” Belkov said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Mathias pulled out the stack and peered closely at the faces in the first shot, tempering his astonishment. “Is that—”

“You’d better fucking believe it.”

Mathias looked up at the Bratva boss, whose mouth was stretched into a cocky grin.

“Bet you’re glad for all those favors now, Beauvais. I just gave you a chunk of solid gold.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Mathias stared down at the images in his hand. “He can’t be this fucking stupid.” He inspected Truman’s profile in the next photo and the slackened grin of the man beside him. “You’ve really captured his good side.”

---