Page 39 of A Life Betrayed

That came as a surprise. Mathias couldn’t remember ever receiving anything from his old man. Freddie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap watch with a blue plasticstrap, like something you gave a kid who was learning to tell time.

“Man’s got to have a watch. Don’t leave home without it.” He folded his arms, displaying the gold band of his Rolex. “Listen carefully, kid. Ain’t nothing more important than being on time. That’s how you get ahead in life.”

Mathias stepped forward and took it.

“So, you play sports—part of a team?” Freddie asked. “Can’t be good for a boy to spend so much time with his mother.”

Mathias turned the shiny face of the watch over in his hand.Whose fault is that?

“He’s always so busy at school, leaving early and staying late. What is it you practice again?” his mother asked, her tone vague.

Mathias was amazed she’d even noticed. He hadn’t had to come up with an excuse because she’d never taken an interest in where he was.That’s what she thinks I’m doing—making the most of the school’s extracurriculars?

Mathias sold pills—Adderall, Ritalin, Klonopin—behind the gymnasium before and after school, sometimes during lunch if he was feeling entrepreneurial, though that ran a higher risk of being discovered by the faculty. A fellow student, Philippe Bossé, bused in from the South Shore and stole the pills from the back room of his parents’ drugstore. He and Mathias divided them into baggies and sold them to the rich kids at their private school. They were making a killing, selling them for far more than street value, because when Mommy and Daddy were the source of endless pocket money, who gave a shit what things cost?

Philippe was skinny and a good head shorter than Mathias. He’d attempted the enterprise before only to end up with a black eye and his stash stolen. Philippe had come to him because everyone at school knew Mathias could deal a decent punch andhad no qualms about handing them out. He cut Philippe extra for sourcing the supply, and they split the remaining profit.

“I run track,” Mathias lied, if only so his mother wouldn’t look like a complete idiot.

Freddie let out a rasping laugh. “No point training to run away from things, boy. Got to meet life head-on.”

Mathias wondered what other kernels of truth his father felt generous enough to lay on him. But Freddie had already lost interest and had turned away without another word. Instead of heading to the door, Mathias walked back to his room and tossed the watch into the trash bin by his desk. Then he took down the tin from the top shelf of his wardrobe and retrieved a handful of cash.

A man needs a watch, does he?Well, Mathias would have to go out and buy himself something decent.

Mathias sat at Tony’s desk in the Collections office. He still thought of it as Tony’s desk—the man had occupied it long enough. Compared to his old boss’s tenure, Mathias’s time as division head was merely a blip. Since inheriting the role, he’d considered himself more of a placeholder and figured it was just a matter of time before someone relieved him of the inconvenience. Because of this, he’d left the office mostly unchanged. If Tony happened to stroll in one day, back from the dead, he would find things as he’d left them, with fewer dirty coffee cups but retaining the ever-present whiff of cigar smoke.

Mathias studied the figures on the latest contract remittance sheet while Jacques sat across from him, smoking absently. “They don’t add up.”

His second nodded. “That’s the problem—I can’t figure out why.”

Mathias dropped the sheet onto the desk. “And Lucio prepared this?”

“Based on the numbers Franco sent through.”

“Either Lucio’s made a mistake, or Franco’s fudging the numbers.” Mathias got to his feet. “I need to speak with Lucio about month end anyway.” Jacques stood to follow, and Mathias gave a curt shake of his head. “Stay here,” he instructed, a common refrain in recent months. “Sonny’s late dropping off his takings, and I need someone in the office to lock up.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Mathias pulled open the office door, stepped into the hallway, and made his way to the stairwell. With Collections, it was always one step forward and two steps back. Now he knew why Tony had been such a grumpy bastard—managing the division was like herding cats.

Lucio could usually be found at the office, but he’d been called in by the Betting division that morning to help his former team with an emergency. It was late Friday afternoon, and Mathias knew, heading into the weekend, with paychecks hot in people’s hands, the place would be inundated. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and strode out into the parking lot, Mathias saw the car first—an unmarked silver Ford Explorer looking out of place idling behind the building. Then he saw the cops. Both plainclothes, they waited to one side of the car as he stepped through the door. Mathias let it swing closed behind him and watched as they approached.

“Mathias Beauvais?” the younger of the two asked, sounding peppy and sporting a bright smile, like they were fucking friends.

“What’s it to you?”

The older cop beside him scowled and folded his arms. Despite being familiar with several of the regular players that covered their beat, Mathias didn’t recognize the man. “Let’s not make a fuss, Beauvais.”

“Let’s not,” Mathias said and moved to pass. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Afraid we can’t let you do that,” the glowering man said, and the young cop pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Mathias arched an eyebrow. “What’s this, then? Show me the warrant.”

The older cop handed him a sheet of paper, and Mathias scanned it carefully, seeing his name printed clearly in black ink at the top of the page. The charges were deliberately vague, which was good. It meant they didn’t have what they wanted on him—something to put him away for a long time. He suspected this was Allen flexing her muscles. She was sending him a warning, hoping he would spook.

“Come quietly now,” the older man warned, eyeing Mathias warily as though he expected him to go down guns blazing.

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