A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Two

N ot yet sixty, Mathias’s mother, dressed in her finest on a weekday morning, peered out the window in the kitchen. She lived on the top floor of an extravagantly decorated triplex in the Plateau and had been there since before he was born.

“I was thinking of updating the balcony furniture,” she announced.

Mathias placed the brown paper bag of deli meats and cheeses down on the dining table, already planning his exit. “Were you expecting me to care?” he asked evenly.

His mother straightened up and gave him a dirty look as she turned away from the window. “Your French has gotten terrible. Too much of that Quebecois filth and far too much English.” Marguerite sighed. “And to think of all the money we spent sending you to the best schools.”

We. He knew exactly who she’d persuaded to make that happen. Mathias set his jaw, saying nothing.

His mother was Parisian and hadn’t let the move to Canada erode her staunch national superiority. Quebec culture never ceased to repulse her, and she couldn’t understand why the local government was so eager to preserve what she believed to be a flawed bootleg of the original.

“But you’re looking good,” she said, walking over and giving him a charming smile. “You know, you remind me of your father in those early years.”

Mathias felt his temple twitch. “Before he married someone else?”

His mother’s face darkened, her keen temper flaring—a trait Mathias had inherited. As a child, he’d learned to avoid the worst of her moods. As an adult, he deliberately stoked them.

Calming herself, Marguerite moved toward the table, absently poking through the bag from the boulangerie. She retrieved the thick white envelope Mathias had placed at the bottom and slipped it into her purse, which sat on the counter. Her life had long been financed by dirty money, first his father’s, now his. Yet she still had the gall to act like it was beneath her. Mathias took pains to avoid visiting his mother. When he did, it only served as a reminder of how much he disliked her. Still, it was an enduring obligation he couldn’t seem to shake.

“Your father’s not well,” Marguerite said after a long pause. She continued unpacking the contents of the bag, not looking at him. “Lung cancer. It’s terminal.”

Mathias frowned. This was the first he’d heard of it. Then again, he’d made a conscious effort to avoid anything to do with his father for the past decade.

“They say he doesn’t have long,” she continued.

Mathias felt a dull ache behind his forehead, tightening like a vise. So the old man was dying.

Marguerite glanced up and gave him her most pitiful look. “I want you to visit him.”

He let out a snort of laughter. Over the years, his father had made it very clear how little he needed Mathias and his mother. “He’s got his real family for that. Wasn’t that the plan all along—play the odds to make sure he had someone by his side when he keeled over?”

His mother’s expression turned stony, her light-blue eyes darkening into tiny pins. “How you dare to act so ungrateful is beyond me,” she said, her voice wavering. “After all he’s done for us—”

“Ungrateful?” Mathias’s fists clenched instinctively. “We both know who benefited the most from this little arrangement. Should’ve listened to him and got rid of me when you had the chance.”

His mother’s hand came flying toward his face. He caught it easily and squeezed her wrist in warning before letting it drop. They’d established the futility of these outbursts a long time ago. Standing in silence, they stared each other down.

“The old man deserves everything he gets,” Mathias muttered finally. He left his mother standing in the kitchen, slamming the apartment door behind him. As he scaled the stairs to the street, the ache in his head grew to an insistent throb.

They’d completed the last job of the day—an impromptu visit with a surprisingly accommodating city councilor—and Rayan was driving them back to the office when Mathias’s phone began to ring. It was Tony.

“Sonny has a runner. Owes shy of fifteen grand. Not a good look if we don’t catch him quick. ”

While Mathias had assisted in expanding the division’s share of white-collar lending, Collections still relied heavily on protection fees—overseen by Franco Ricci—and rounding up betting arrears. That particular task fell to Salvatore “Sonny” Alvisi, who was always letting clients one-up him. He doled out money like the family was some kind of charity.

“Let him clean up his mess,” Mathias said.

“His mess becomes our mess when punters start thinking they can borrow and run.”

Mathias lowered the phone. “Pull over,” he instructed Rayan. The man slowed the car, turning onto a side street. “It’s past five, Tony. I’m not chasing Sonny’s fuckups all evening.”

“Then you better start looking.” The line went dead.

Mathias swore under his breath. He punched in Salvatore’s number, and he picked up on the first ring. “Who’s the runner?” Mathias asked.

“Mathias!” He sounded out of breath. “Fucking medigan , Connor Armstrong. He’s deep in the hole.”

“And you gave him more money?”

He began to stutter. “Did right by us before. I reckon he’s been borrowing to pay someone else.”

In the background, Mathias could hear the roar of a hockey game and the murmur of voices. “Where are you?”

“I’m hitting up a couple of the regular spots, see what I can find.”

Mathias clicked his tongue. “He’s done a runner, Sonny. He’s not going to be at the regular spots.” He hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket. “You’re a gambling addict who owes money to the mob. Where do you go?” he muttered.

“Somewhere I can bet it all to earn it back,” Rayan replied.

Mathias looked at his second, surprised by the insight. “No one’s going to carry him. He’s on our blacklist.”

“No one that kicks back to the family.”

“That leaves Franklin, Javier…”

“Belkov,” Rayan added.

Fuck. Of course. The Russians coexisted fairly peacefully with the family in Montreal, though they were champing at the bit to fill any power vacuums family politics opened up. They had to be kept on a short leash to prevent them from overstepping. And Viktor Belkov, the city head, was a loose cannon at best. The Bratva operated, among other things, a gambling syndicate that sucked in the trash the family threw out. The stakes were higher, of course. And the Russians did not play games.

“Head to Laval. We’ll start with Belkov.” Mathias figured he had enough leverage to convince the man to cooperate.

His second pulled the car back onto the road, and they drove toward the highway, speeding through the darkening city.

There was a restaurant in Laval that Belkov owned, the Chateau Suzdal. It looked nice enough from the outside—families with kids at big tables—but naturally, out back, he ran any number of rackets, from drugs to prostitution. Mathias and Rayan found him in his back office, feet up on the desk, half-empty glass of vodka in hand, sipping it like it was water.

“Beauvais, to what do I owe the pleasure? We’re not due until next month.”

Belkov always seemed a little drunk, as though he required a minimum amount of booze to function. The Russians paid monthly fees for use of the port, which the mob had controlled for decades. While the family dealt in the local narcotics circuit, the Russians had their hands on the harder stuff, which they shifted south across the border to their contacts in the States. As long as their imports didn’t compete and they paid their dues on time, Russo didn’t have a problem with them.

“I’m looking for Connor Armstrong. Wanted to see if he was on your books.”

Belkov held up his bottle of Green Mark, and Mathias waved him away. He’d had the misfortune of sharing one too many drinks with the man before.

“I’ll help you if you tell me whether the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Mathias asked.

The Russian waggled his eyebrows. “About Russo. How long does he have?”

Mathias looked hard at the man. “That desperate you’re listening to rumors now?”

Belkov laughed and swilled his drink. “You’re hedging.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Russo isn’t going anywhere.”

“Let me ask you one thing, Mathias,” he drawled in his thick Russian accent. “If he keeled over tomorrow, would you be ready?”

The Bratva boss reached beneath the desk and pulled out an antique revolver. In an instant, Rayan appeared in front of him, the gleam of his gun catching the light as it lined up with Belkov’s head. From behind, Mathias could see his second’s body tense in expectation of the shot .

“Bang!” the Russian crowed, dropping the revolver onto the desk and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You got me!” He cackled with laughter then downed the rest of his drink.

Rayan stood between them, still poised to shoot. Mathias glanced at the door, where Belkov’s own lackey stood, fingers resting on the handle of a pistol tucked into his waistband. He put a hand on Rayan’s shoulder, and he lowered his gun, his eyes flicking to Mathias for the briefest of moments before he stepped back.

Feeling red-hot anger sweep through him, Mathias strode up to the desk and placed both palms on the glossy wooden surface. He leaned in close, his mouth curling upward in mock civility. “Just for that, I’m adding twenty to next month’s dues, you crazy Russian bastard,” he said in a low voice. “Pull your gun on me again, and you’re finished. We’ll flush you out of this city like a filthy fucking rat.”

“My apologies.” Belkov leered, leaning back in his chair. This was what he’d wanted—to put on a show and make sure the family knew the Bratva weren’t completely pistol-whipped. “Here I was thinking you could take a joke.”

Mathias straightened, leveling his gaze at him. “Connor Armstrong.”

“Try Le Singe Doré,” Belkov said. “There’s some action there tonight. If he’s on our books, that’s where he’ll be.”

Mathias turned and pulled open the door. The noise from the restaurant filtered through as he strode down the hallway, Rayan at his heels.

“ Brasseux de marde, ” Rayan muttered as they walked across the parking lot. He was still keyed up, jaw tight, mouth pulled into a scowl.

They got in the car and headed back toward the city. Mathias stared out the window, recalling Belkov’s thinly veiled threat. Who is giving him information about Russo? What exactly is he planning?

Rayan and Mathias made their way through the crowds at Place d’Armes. It was well into the evening, and people were spilling from the various bars and clubs along the strip. Rayan couldn’t help but feel strange as they passed through the melee. How different their Friday night activities were in comparison.

Rayan noticed two women with their eyes fixed on Mathias, whispering excitedly as he strode past. He gave his boss a sidelong glance. Mathias was dressed as he always was—impeccably, his muscular frame filling out his designer suit, dark-brown hair combed back, his strong jaw betraying no hint of stubble. No wonder they were staring. He was imposing, exuding a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Rayan blinked, quickly looking away.

They turned into Chinatown, where red lanterns framed the streets. Music blared from a karaoke bar on the corner. Le Singe Doré was located along a side alley, a nondescript brick building with a hairdressing salon fronting the street and a small speakeasy round back. Behind the bar and through a maze of narrow corridors was a series of rooms where the Russians ran various betting rings.

Mathias strode down the alley and pulled open the door to the club. It was dark, with a low ebb of music in the background. Black leather booths dotted the room. It must have been early, because the place was practically empty. Mathias walked to the staff entrance and pushed through the doors into a brightly lit corridor.

They approached the first room, and Mathias turned. “The fuck does he look like?”

Rayan shrugged. He’d never heard of the man before that night.

“Goddamn wild-goose chase,” his boss muttered and stalked into the room.

Three large screens lined the walls. There were several tables packed with men glued to the games on television. In the corner, someone was mixing drinks.

A short bald man stepped in front of them. “What do you want?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

“We’re looking for Connor Armstrong,” Mathias replied, his eyes sweeping the room.

The man looked them up and down. “Who’re you with?”

“Who do you think?” Mathias shot back.

Rayan could tell he was losing his patience. Bad things happened when his capo lost his patience.

The Russian glowered. “What makes you think I can help you?”

Mathias retrieved a wad of bills from inside his jacket, peeled off a few, and held them out. Baldy grinned, taking the money and pocketing it.

“He’s over there. Table on the right, red jersey.”

They walked over to the table. Armstrong’s eyes were fixed on a screen where a hockey game was playing. He gripped the table hard, muttering something, maybe a prayer. He was going to need it. Mathias stepped in front of him, blocking the screen.

“Hey, man—” Armstrong started.

Rayan stood behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and pushed him into the chair. Armstrong went rigid.

“Fuck,” Armstrong whispered .

“My associate and I would like to talk to you outside,” Mathias said.

“Are you with Sonny?” he asked quickly, his words tripping over one another. “Y-You can tell him I’ve got the money.”

Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “Do I look like Sonny’s messenger?” His voice was measured, but Rayan could hear the malice beneath. “If you’ve got the money, we don’t have a problem.” He placed a hand on the table between them. “But we both know you don’t.”

Mathias met Rayan’s eyes, inclining his head toward the door. Rayan yanked Armstrong up by his arm and led him out of the room. They emerged into the alley, the sound of the karaoke bar filtering through from down the street. He pushed Armstrong up against the brick wall, Mathias stalking behind him like a tiger.

Armstrong gave them a winning smile, but it wasn’t enough to hide the slight tremor of his lips. “This is all a misunderstanding.”

He looked like the kind of man used to talking his way out of trouble. It was a shame Rayan’s boss didn’t like to talk.

Mathias glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist, his frown deepening. “I don’t take kindly to my time being wasted.”

Rayan moved forward, but Mathias held up his hand, his eyes darkening like a gathering storm. A pile of wooden pallets sat stacked to one side of the alley. On top were several severed panels, the nails still embedded. Mathias stepped over, picked one up, and tested its weight in his hand. He advanced toward Armstrong, taking his time, making him sweat.

Armstrong visibly paled. “I’ll get you the money, I swear. I'll have it by the end of the week.”

Backed against the wall, he had changed his tune. Mathias rolled his neck. Then he raised the plank and slammed it against Armstrong’s knee with a crack, violence flashing like lightning across his face. He screamed, pitching over and falling to the ground. He clutched his leg, looking up in disbelief. Mathias raised the board once again.

“Please, wait, please, don’t!” Armstrong babbled.

There was a thwack as the wooden slat made impact with his other knee. Armstrong curled up on the ground, whimpering like a child.

Mathias cast the plank aside, and it clattered across the alleyway. “Now let’s see you run.”