A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter One

T he smoked-meat sandwich was the only thing worth ordering at Gino’s Deli. The mountain of tender brisket piled on top of a slice of rye smeared with yellow mustard was simple, unpretentious, and a bit stringy—much like the owner, Gino Castelli. He was an old friend of the family, his grandfather having arrived on the same boat from Sicily as Montreal mob boss Giorgio Russo. Or so the story went.

Rayan assumed the decision to swing by Gino’s that afternoon had less to do with the sandwich and more to do with family loyalty, something his capo, Mathias Beauvais, did not take lightly. It was rare for the two of them to stop to eat. Most days, they took lunch as they drove, any breaks between jobs kept brief. But today was different. Mathias had been invited to the boss’s residence to meet privately with Giorgio Russo. Even Rayan, who occupied the lowest rank in the group’s hierarchy, knew what an honor that was.

They sat in a small booth at the back of the deli, flanked on one side by the frosted display of meat and fish and on the other by a large window overlooking the street. Through the glass, Rayan could see the sheen of a recent shower coating the sidewalk outside.

“You’re wrong,” Mathias said from his seat across the table, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing slowly. He’d been interested to discover that Rayan had finished reading Dante’s Divine Comedy . “Each circle is a digression.”

“I didn’t say they were equal,” Rayan countered.

“But you don’t agree with Alighieri’s order.”

“No.”

Mathias picked up his cup of coffee, gray eyes betraying his amusement. “Then what, in your esteemed opinion, is worthy of unseating treachery? ”

The door chimed, and a large man strode into the shop, his eyebrows thick, almost touching. He stepped over to the counter and spoke loudly in English. Mathias glanced up, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Violence,” Rayan replied absently, his attention shifting to the disagreement the customer appeared to be having with Gino’s son behind the register. Nick Castelli was waving a hand in the man’s face, telling him to leave. The man reacted by knocking over a rack of newspapers by the door. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Mathias put down his coffee. “Pick them up,” he ordered from across the store.

The man turned to look at them, his face darkening. “The fuck did you say?” He strode toward their table.

Rayan stood, instinctively placing himself between the mammoth of a man and his boss. “He said, pick them up,” he echoed in a low voice, tilting his chin toward the pile of fallen newspapers.

“You gonna make me?”

Rayan slipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks, and his jacket fell open to reveal the Beretta resting against his ribs. The man straightened up, glancing at Mathias then back to Nick at the register, who was shaking his head. Without a word, the man returned to the front of the store, stooped awkwardly to gather the newspapers, and dumped them onto the counter. With a last look in their direction, the man stumbled out of the shop and onto the street. Rayan took his seat as Nick gave him a brief salute.

Mathias pulled a pack of Du Maurier Signatures from his jacket pocket and lit one. He smoked in silence, their earlier conversation abandoned. Rayan wondered if his thoughts were on the impending meeting with the boss. If Mathias had any reservations, he gave no indication. He was as impenetrable as ever, his sharp features set in the usual half frown so that he appeared perpetually irritated.

When Rayan had first started working for Mathias, getting through a job without a single rebuke counted as success. His capo’s approval lay in his silence. From there, Rayan had trained himself to intuit, to the point where Mathias could instruct him with a look alone. It was an unexpected intimacy, allowing him to understand the man from the subtlest of glances and read the underlying message in his tone. Mathias was different from anyone he’d ever encountered, something about him encircling Rayan and drawing him in.

A foolish endeavor from its very inception—his want to be close to Mathias. Rayan knew now what it had spawned and its potential for frightening repercussions. He’d made peace with the futility of these feelings, knowing that the only way he could demonstrate them was in service to his boss. And so he had done just that, honing himself into the best possible tool he could be.

“On the house, gentlemen,” Nick said as they stood to leave and ushered them out like visiting dignitaries.

“Regards to your father,” Mathias said, looking down at his watch. They were running early.

“Did Tony say what it’s about?” Rayan asked as they walked to the Mercedes, which was parked outside on the street.

Antonio Giraldi was head of the family’s collections department and oversaw the formal lending side of the group’s activities. Mathias had worked directly under Tony for years. Collections covered everything from bailing out failing local businesses to topping up a politician’s kitty during a tough election year. The catch, of course, was the ludicrously high interest—and what would happen if they didn’t pay. This was where Rayan’s capo had proven efficient: clients rarely delayed payments when Mathias appeared at their door.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Mathias replied, pulling open the passenger door and getting into the car.

Mathias had been to the boss’s private residence only once before. The stately brick townhouse was situated on what the cops called Mafia Row, a manicured stretch of the Ahuntsic suburb that housed not only Russo and his wife but several close members of the family as well.

Giorgio Russo, head of the Fifth Family in Canada, had always considered Montreal the true gem of the north. It was home to the largest faction of the Sicilian Mafia outside of Italy. Even the American-based Cosa Nostra, having been decimated across the border by the FBI, had come to accept the concentrated heft of the family in Quebec. The province’s radical cultural history and restrictive access to the RCMP—the country’s national police service—made it prime breeding ground for the group’s activities.

Since he’d made caporegime with a territory under his jurisdiction, Mathias had found himself one step closer to Russo’s inner circle. The man who had always appeared a remote figurehead was now extending an invitation to Mathias to meet in his home and converse with him on a first-name basis.

Rayan pulled the car into the driveway in front of the boss’s house. He cut the engine as Mathias reached beneath his jacket to unfasten the gun strapped to his shoulder holster. The absence of its weight against his chest left him feeling exposed, but the rules were clear—bringing a weapon to a meeting with Giorgio Russo meant one thing and one thing only.

“Wait here,” he said, handing Rayan his gun.

Mathias stepped out of the car and straightened his jacket. Climbing the steps to the front door, he marveled at how quaint the operation appeared from the outside. Here lived a man with his finger in every major deal in the city. Hundreds of thousands of dollars passed through the family each week, and this was where Russo had chosen to enjoy his prominence—a modest two-story brick house in suburban Montreal.

Stefano, the boss’s personal handler, answered the door and let Mathias into the foyer, where he was unceremoniously frisked. After determining that he was clean, Stefano led him into the salon, where Mathias took a seat in one of the overstuffed leather chairs. Stefano stood by the door with his back to him as they waited.

When Russo arrived, Mathias was surprised to see him on the arm of a dour-looking nurse. There was a pained slowness to the boss’s approach, each step an uncharacteristic display of weakness. Mathias moved to greet him, clasping both hands in his.

“You’ve caught me on a bad day, Beauvais,” Russo grumbled as the nurse helped lower him into a chair. “High as a kite from these new pills they’ve got me on.” He let out a phlegm-filled cough.

While Mathias had nothing but respect for the man, there was no way around it—the boss looked terrible. Pale as paper, his skin sagged over cheeks speckled with angry red veins. His eyes were sunken and watery, framed by dark circles.

“Coffee,” Russo said, snapping his fingers at the nurse standing with Stefano by the door. As she disappeared into the hallway, the old man turned to Mathias. “Tony says you brought in over a hundred last month.”

It wasn’t the first time. Month after month, Mathias’s share of collections revenue vastly outstripped that of anyone else in the division. As a result, Tony had increased Mathias’s lending capacity and extended their reach into the greater province.

“Business is booming,” he said with a shrug, deflecting the praise.

Russo smirked. “Isn’t it?” Mathias pulled out his cigarettes and held them up, but the boss waved his hand. “Go ahead. One of us might as well enjoy himself. I can’t have a fucking smoke for the next two weeks. Doctor’s orders.”

Mathias placed one between his lips, ducked his head to light it, and took a long drag, aware of Russo following his movements enviously .

“We’ve been watching you. Who knew the son of Freddie Mancini’s goomah would make it this far?” He chuckled.

Mathias smiled indulgently, swallowing the familiar spike that rose in his throat.

“The world’s changing, I say,” Russo continued. “As much as we try to uphold the traditions of the old country, I don’t like to ignore talent. That’s how you stagnate, and then someone else moves in.”

The boss stared at him, and Mathias held his gaze. He was well aware of his own deviation from family tradition. His mother was French, set up for years on his father’s dime. Even if his old man could be traced back to Sicilian soil, Mathias would still remain the son of a whore.

“You’re ambitious,” Russo said. “I like that. Frankly, we need more captains like you. There’ll always be the question of your parentage, but you can climb higher yet.”

Mathias tapped the end of his cigarette against the ivory ashtray on the table beside him, keeping his hand steady as his thoughts whirled.

“Tony’s put you forward for santista ,” the boss announced. “He’s setting up a commercial branch within the division. Wants you to lead it.”

Mathias fought a grin. After all these years, Tony was finally giving him his due. The nurse walked in with two small cups of black coffee. She handed Russo his and placed the other on the table next to Mathias.

“Tony and I go way back. His recommendation means a great deal.”

Mathias nodded. “It’s an honor, boss.”

There was a long silence as Russo slowly sipped his espresso. “I’ve had some health concerns as of late,” he said finally.

Mathias stilled at the admission.

“Nothing serious,” the boss continued—a lie that would remain unchallenged. “But the whole situation has given me a chance to, shall we say, observe my own mortality.”

Mathias now understood why the man’s public appearances had been few of late. If rival groups were to find out about a possible power vacuum on Montreal turf, it would mean an end to the shaky peace the family currently presided over with a heavy hand. Here in the safety of his home, Russo was being candid, which could only mean things were already shifting behind the scenes.

“When these sorts of things happen, it can put ideas in people’s heads,” Russo said pointedly. “Succession is a seductive subject. I want to be sure I can count on you to follow the right people if the need arises.”

Stefano shifted at his post, eliciting a creak from the floorboards beneath his feet .

The right people? “Of course,” Mathias said.

Russo put down his coffee. “Good. There are those on the council that consider you an asset. Keep them close.”

This news had Giovanni written all over it. The man had taken an increasing interest in Mathias over the last few years. Giovanni Bianchi was head of the Quintino, a council of four that consulted directly with the boss. Besides Russo, the Quintino were the most senior members of the family, both in age and in rank.

“Of course we’re talking theory here, Beauvais. This old man has bounced back from worse.”

The sentence lacked conviction, and Mathias noticed how taxing even talking seemed for him. He nodded, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Ah, give us a fucking smoke, will you?” Russo said, motioning to the nurse to take away his empty cup.

Mathias pulled out his pack and handed the boss a cigarette. He leaned forward to light it for him. Russo exhaled with the pleasure of a dying man discovering water in the desert.

“Who listens to doctors anyway,” he muttered between puffs.

Mathias took a sip of his coffee, which had already cooled, and placed the cup back on the table. A thin trail of smoke curled above Russo’s head as he watched him steadily.

“You’re a good soldier, Mathias. A bit too smart for this business, but you make up for it in loyalty. I didn’t have much to do with your father, but I heard he was a pretty solid bookie. Retired now?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How is he? Missing the action?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mathias said. From the little he knew of his father, a life lacking in action was the kind he enjoyed.

Russo finished his cigarette, and Mathias passed him the ashtray. The older man’s hand shook as he crushed the smoking butt. He signaled to the nurse, and she appeared at his side and helped the boss slowly rise from his chair. With that, the meeting was over. Mathias stood, and the two once again clasped hands.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I may call on you,” Russo said.

“I’ll be ready.”

The boss gave Mathias a knowing smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Then he allowed the nurse to lead him out of the salon. Mathias waited until he was gone before returning to the entrance with Stefano. He retrieved his jacket and was shrugging it on when the front door opened and the boss’s son stepped into the foyer.

Piero Russo was a good ten years older than Mathias, somewhere in his midforties at least, yet carried himself like a plucky twenty-year-old. The dye in his graying hair gave it an unnatural black sheen but did little to detract from the deep lines that crisscrossed his face, which was pulled into a permanent sneer.

“Look who it is,” Piero said with a chuckle, clasping Mathias’s hand and slapping him on the back. “Come to pay your respects?”

“When I can,” Mathias replied. He’d hoped to avoid Piero during his visit, yet here he was, cornered in the lion’s den.

“ Patri has been under the weather lately, but he’s a bull, I’m telling you. He’ll be back up and running in no time,” Piero said.

“He seemed well.”

“Of course,” Piero said, pulling off his coat and handing it to Stefano. “You talk some business?”

“Tony’s requested help with the department.”

“Boss has taken quite an interest in you.”

His tone was easy, but Mathias saw the hard glint in his eye. Piero liked to think himself a master of subterfuge, but his true intent was glaring. He did not like Mathias. The fact that his father had summoned him only served to remind Piero of his success.

“So it seems.” Mathias pulled open the door, the rush of fresh air a welcome relief. Russo’s praise was more of a half-truth—Mathias’s loyalty only stretched so far. “Good to see you, Piero,” he said, not waiting for a reply as he closed the door behind him.

He made his way down the steps, attempting to curb his irritation. Officially, Piero had been given authority over the group’s betting syndicate, but the man was a gambler and a notorious pussy hound. He frittered away division profit and poked his nose into Narcotics, trying to get a cut for himself behind the scenes. The only reason the syndicate continued to function was due to the efforts of division head Domenico Lombardi. And everyone turned a blind eye to Piero’s activities because he was Giorgio Russo’s son. Mathias did not doubt that Piero thought himself worthy of succession and would claim it as his birthright. He could not think of a worse leader with whom to entrust the future of the family.

Mathias looked up to see Rayan standing by the car, watching him approach. Even here, outside the boss’s own home, Rayan waited as though expecting to be called on at any moment. The man’s appearance had a fluidity that defied classification—ochre-flecked eyes the color of coffee, honeyed skin that lightened over the long winter months, hair an inky black. The ambiguity of his features allowed him to slip between identifying groups. The Algerians might claim him, as could the Cubans. To the family, he was simply an other, lumped in with all non-Italians and considered equally inferior.

Russo talked about talent surpassing lineage. Mathias had learned this lesson himself. Rayan, an estraneo , with his background muddied beyond recognition, had proven more competent than any soldier he’d worked with.