A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

“ I t’s like a fucking homecoming,” Truman crowed as they stood smoking outside the lumber sheds at La Fabrique Allwood, waiting for Belkov to emerge.

They were in Laval, back on Industrial Boulevard, the shadow of that fateful afternoon with Junior still lingering even a half year on. The Russian was theatrical like that, bookending experiences, finishing them where they started. The place set Mathias’s teeth on edge. He thought of that day often and how differently things might have turned out.

“Been years since I’ve set foot in the city. The broads, I swear.” He whistled. “Like they all flew in from Paris.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mathias cautioned absently, more focused on what was happening inside the shed than on the man’s appraisal of Quebec women.

Truman laughed. “Yeah, yeah. But we came through, eh?”

The eight men on their list had been whittled down to two, Mathias’s gamble on Truman paying off. Belkov and his men had proven equally efficient. The municipal police were scrambling. The Red Reapers hadn’t been seen in Montreal for decades, and their reappearance coincided with the passing of notorious mob boss Giorgio Russo. When it came to family infighting, the cops usually kept a wide berth, but it had been five days, and the bodies were still piling up.

Information swirled through the underground. The Russians and the Reapers were working with the family establishment, all of them vying against Piero’s claim to leadership, acting as a deterrent to the remaining groups, who had yet to choose a side. In the melee, they’d lost a couple of De Luca’s men when Filipo Abruzzo—Piero’s longtime crawler—holed himself up in his third-floor apartment and started taking shots. They’d gotten to him in the end, but not before the two soldiers had bled out on the sidewalk.

“You came through,” Mathias agreed. “And there will be spoils. ”

“You’d better fucking believe it.” Truman grinned, sucking on his cigarette.

Belkov appeared with blood speckled across his gray suit jacket, a giddy smile on his face. He’d been the one to smoke out Silvano Paterlini, so Mathias had given him first rights—provided he kept the man alive. Piero was still proving elusive. Any clues they were able to extract from his loyalists quickly led nowhere. Mathias had trawled the city, exhausting a shared trove of safe houses, only to turn up nothing. He was banking on Paterlini squealing. The old man was high enough in the family hierarchy and close enough to Piero to have the greatest insight into his master plan.

“I told you I was patient,” Belkov announced, joining them as the sky became mottled with heavy gray clouds. “It was a long wait but worth it. Blood for blood. Tastes sweet.”

“I said talk to him, not tear him to fucking pieces.” Mathias scowled. “Tell me you got something.”

“I got more than something,” Belkov said with a smirk. “Says Piero moved Tony to the top of the list. He knew the Quintino were about to make their announcement and wanted to set an example.”

Mathias brought the cigarette to his lips, swallowing the anger.

“Russo’s boy has a safe house Paterlini knows about, in Hochelega. He’s hiding right under our noses. And don’t worry—Senior’s still alive.” The Russian snickered. “Didn’t want to end things too quickly.”

Mathias nodded, the information slotting into his head, revising the course of action. If Paterlini wasn’t bluffing, they almost had him. “If that’s the case, I’ll go pay my respects.” He signaled for Jacques, and the two of them walked toward the shed.

“Don’t forget, he’s mine,” Belkov called to his retreating back.

Inside, Silvano Paterlini was chained to the exposed steel framing on the far wall. Several Bratva men stood off to one side, more animated than usual, high on bloodlust. The Russians had taken to the old man, intent on ensuring that their reputation remain unsullied. And they certainly had a reputation—even Mathias appeared tame in comparison.

Bloody and bruised, Paterlini stared at him through the slits of his swollen eyes. From where his wrists were shackled, his hands appeared, each missing a finger, the stumps sloppily cauterized to make sure he didn’t bleed out. Letting him die would be far too compassionate. Mathias did not envy the man. Junior’s bullet through the head seemed charitable compared to what awaited his father.

Beside Paterlini sat a black toolbox, open to display an array of instruments, several of them bearing the marks of recent use. Belkov had left it out so the man could see what was to come and sit with the knowledge that the task wasn’t yet complete. But still, Paterlini stared at Mathias, summoning as much composure as a man dangling at the precipice could muster. The old bastard was tenacious—Mathias would give him that—enough of his life spent with the family to know how to keep his shit together. After all, nothing was more pathetic than a blubbering mess.

Mathias crouched before him, taking another pull from his waning cigarette.

“You’d get that Slavic fuck to do your dirty work?” Paterlini spat, words slurring between cracked teeth. “You’re more pathetic than I thought.”

“But you knew that already,” Mathias said, exhaling a plume of smoke into his face. “Half-breed son of a whore sullying the family name. Isn’t that why you sent your boy to whack me? Not too quick, that one. I would know. Saw his brains myself.”

Paterlini shrank.

“And I’ll do you one better—it wasn’t me who pulled the trigger,” he continued. “That honor goes to the estraneo with more talent in his little finger than your son inherited from a long line of inbred Italians. A line that ends here, with you.”

Watching Paterlini’s eyes widen in horror, Mathias flicked his cigarette at the man’s feet and stood. He walked out of the shed into a shower of rain, the clouds opening up above a city roiling with death.

“He’s all yours, Belkov,” Mathias said as he strode past the Russian to his car. “Clean up when you’re done.”

Jacques drove toward the address in Hochelega, where Truman and a handful of his men would meet them. Mathias pulled out his phone as they sped through the city. He listened to the click as Giovanni picked up.

“We’ve tracked him down,” Mathias said.

“Good,” the boss replied.

“When we get there…?” Mathias stared straight ahead as his second turned onto Rue de Rouen. He thought of Rayan limp in his arms, Tony face down on the concrete.

“Scalp him.” The old man hung up.

They parked a street over from the safe house and walked through the narrow alleyway that connected the triplex to the neighboring road. Mathias kept a lookout for scouts, despite the fact that Piero’s army of loyal supporters had dwindled over the past few days. The few remaining were willing to keep him safe.

As he and Jacques neared the basement entrance to the apartment, Truman appeared across the street, shielded by a bus shelter, eyes on them. The Reapers would stay outside and cover the perimeter in case Piero ran. Mathias knew enough about the man to consider that a serious possibility.

“We break off, go room by room,” Mathias instructed his second. “If you find him, hold him until I get there.”

Jacques nodded, his hand slipping beneath his jacket. He gave Mathias cover as he pulled out his gun. They would have to move fast. He raised it and shot the lock on the door. His second threw himself forward, slamming his shoulder against the panel and sending the door flying open.

Mathias followed Jacques inside. The place was eerily quiet. The hallway split off in two directions with the stairs to the second level set in between. He heard the thud of footsteps approaching from the right, and Jacques surged ahead. Over his second’s shoulder, Mathias saw the blur of a face he didn’t recognize—thick jaw, beady eyes. The man lifted his weapon, but Jacques fired first, throwing him back against the wall, where he slid to the floor.

His second crouched to retrieve the fallen gun, and Mathias stepped over the soldier’s body, continuing along the hall to where it opened into a darkened foyer. He felt the rush of a bullet whizz past his head to embed itself in the plaster behind him. Fuck.

Mathias ducked behind a large wooden cabinet by the foyer entrance. He was sorely off his game, the events of the last several days corroding his instincts. Jacques retreated, doubling back down the hallway to emerge on the other side of the stairs. Mathias could just make out the open door of what looked like a study. That was where the shot had come from.

“No surprise the old fucker sent you.” Piero’s voice cut through the silence of the empty apartment. “That hack, Bianchi, has been waiting years for my father to die. And now the vultures descend.”

Mathias shifted, attempting to get a better view of the room. Another shot sounded, shattering the cabinet door. Glass tinkled around his feet. He watched Jacques—gun in hand—stalk along the wall opposite him, making his way slowly toward the room where Piero was camped out.

“Caught up with our good friend Paterlini,” Mathias said, goading the man to keep him talking as his second inched closer. “You’re lucky it’s me and not Belkov who found you first. ”

Silence from Piero.

Jacques had reached the doorframe and gave a nod in his direction, readying himself to enter. Mathias nodded back.

His second flew into the room, and the sound of a struggle erupted, then a single shot. Mathias sprinted to the study and found Jacques wrestling Piero to the ground, the man’s gun falling from his grip. Mathias kicked it out of reach, raised his own weapon, and smashed it into the side of Piero’s head. He dropped to the floor with a thump, blood streaming from his temple.

“Get him up,” Mathias ordered.

Jacques pulled Piero to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. The man spat at him, and Mathias raised his gun again and cracked it against his cheek. Piero grunted, panting, glaring at him as the blood trickled from his nose, ready to tear him to pieces with his teeth.

“How does it feel?” Mathias asked, pressing the barrel hard against Piero’s forehead, recalling the paralyzing fear that had gripped him as Junior stared him down.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Piero sneered.

Mathias noticed the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the dark circles beneath his eyes. So they’d spooked him. He’d been holed up here, hiding like a rat.

“Why’s that? I’ve done far worse in my time.” Mathias’s expression hardened. “And I’d say you’ve given me plenty of reason.”

Piero shook his head, the smirk wavering. His eyes darted from the gun to Mathias to the doorway as if hoping someone would save him—perhaps the man growing cold in the hallway. “I know how much you admired my father. You wouldn’t kill the boss’s son.”

Mathias snorted, his mouth curling. “Giorgio Russo is dead. I don’t owe him a goddamn thing.”

He’d thought about this moment for the better part of a year, imagining how he would exact his revenge for all those months of humiliation. But now that Mathias was here, he felt nothing. Too much had been taken for him to get even. He needed for all of this to be over.

He racked the slide on his gun with a click. Before him, Piero recoiled, paling. “You would side with fucking Truman and Belkov over one of your own?” The man’s voice rose in disbelief.

“Have you forgotten, Piero?” Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not one of you.” How bitter that had once tasted. “And this fantasy of the family resembling your idyllic Italian village?” He yanked the front of Piero’s shirt, forcing his gaze to meet his own. “Take a good look at my face,” Mathias said in a low voice. “Because one day, this bastard’s going to be leading it.”

He felt cold metal beneath his finger and saw Piero’s eyes widen in terror.

“How’s that for legacy?” Mathias pulled the trigger before the man could respond.

Piero toppled backward and came to rest on the ground as blood snaked out from behind his shattered skull, pooling on the scuffed hardwood. Mathias spat on the floor by his feet.

“That was for Tony,” he growled, barely able to get the words out, he was so overcome with anger. “You entitled fuck.”