A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Three

M athias pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table in the VIP room at the back of Le Rouge, an unremarkable suburban strip club in Maisonneuve. The place was a local institution. Owned and operated by the boss himself, it functioned as the de facto meeting place for most high-level discussions of family politics. Not that the punters throwing notes at the girls on stage would know. The club offered certain private services as well, and typically, that was how any given meeting would conclude, with high-ranking attendees dispersing to the curtained enclaves with their strung out stripper of choice.

Made members came here regularly to discuss business with the various division heads. Sometimes Giorgio Russo was present. This was never announced, and as far as Mathias knew, only Giovanni had advance warning of his attendance.

Tony arrived shortly after Mathias and took a seat beside him at the far end of the table. A squat man in his early sixties, the Collections boss saw no need to dress up for the occasion. His wrinkled white button-down strained against an ample gut, and his graying hair was slicked to one side in an attempt to hide the ever-expanding bald patch on top of his head.

Russo wasn’t here tonight, and there was the noticeable absence of his son. At the head of the table, the Quintino were assembled: Enzo Carbone, Armando Bernardi, and Gabriele Giordano, with Giovanni in the end chair—an almost interchangeable set of salt-and-pepper combovers and designer suits.

Several of the men had their seconds stationed by the door—the ones they trusted, at least. Talk that went on behind these doors did not leave the room. If you couldn’t trust a grunt to keep their mouth shut, they were relegated to the corridor, though most of them eventually snuck out front for a glimpse of the real action. Rayan stood with the others in the room but off to one side, avoiding the regular banter, his face betraying nothing .

Giovanni kicked off the meeting with a round of liquor then settled into his seat as the various heads of each division provided their monthly status reports. Betting was down for a third month, interest in the flagging hometown hockey team at an all-time low. Tightened security had tied up several cross-provincial routes for Narcotics. The take by Collections was up, as usual, proving it again to be one of the strongest divisions.

It was what Tony lived for. He’d long ago abandoned the idea of upward mobility—despite personal ties to the boss and an impeccable family history—and was instead intent on the cultivation of his department. Tony had seen too many comrades run to their deaths on the promise of a higher position in the family’s ranks.

In many ways, Mathias was fortunate to have started out under a boss like Tony Giraldi. He’d been given clout and greater jurisdiction, whereas other division heads would have balked at the prospect. All Tony cared about was the bottom line, and because Mathias knew how Tony worked, he knew how to deliver.

The overview was coming to a close when the door opened and Piero walked in. He held up his hands in mock apology, smirking as he took a seat in one of the few chairs left empty. There was a mutter of disapproval from some of the older stalwarts. Giovanni gave a signal, and the hostess came in with refills. Once the room was placated, the councilman once again took the floor.

“Before we wrap up, Tony’s making some changes.”

Mathias steeled himself. He’d suspected they would use the meeting to announce the new promotion. He glanced at Piero. The man sat, seemingly unaware, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes.

Tony cleared his throat. “As you’ve heard, I’m making too much damn money while the rest of you sit around jerking off.”

The room rippled with laughter.

“Commercial lending is through the roof—we’re setting up a branch within the division to capitalize on the uptick. Mathias Beauvais, who’s had a hand in this particular development, will head it. All commercial contracts from Sherbrooke to the Mount now go through him. Any questions?”

There were several nods from the men at the table, indicating their assent. Mathias recalled the boss’s praise. His achievements hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“That’s settled, then,” Giovanni said, raising his glass. The table followed suit, and Mathias downed the remainder of his scotch in acknowledgement.

“That’s quite the promotion,” Piero said from his seat, his drink untouched. “Heading his own branch? Wasn’t so long ago Beauvais was shaking dealers down for protection money. You thought this through, Tony? ”

Beside him, Tony huffed, a ruddiness appearing along his fleshy neck. Mathias placed his glass down with a thunk. The room had gone quiet.

“Ask your father. He approved it,” Tony retorted.

Piero’s face darkened. “Maybe as a favor to you.” He inclined his head toward Mathias. “But he’s not one of our own.”

“Need I remind you the man’s father has ties to the founding family,” Giovanni reprimanded sharply.

“Then why doesn’t he carry his name?”

Mathias stood, his chair scraping noisily across the floor. He would not lose face—not here in front of these men. “If my loyalty’s in question, let’s settle this now,” he said smoothly, refusing to let the anger register in his voice. If they had heard about his success, they’d also heard about his reputation. There was a reason people paid Mathias quickly.

“Your loyalty is not in question, Mathias,” Giovanni said, holding up a hand in conciliation. “Neither is your ability. The man brought in a hundred alone last month.” He turned to address Piero. “Almost enough to bail out your division. Think carefully about what you say next.”

The boss’s son said nothing, instead taking a long swig from his glass. Piero’s ever-growing incompetence was well known among members of the family’s inner circle. Mathias felt Rayan’s eyes on him but did not meet his gaze.

Next to him, Tony thumped a fist down on the table. “Beauvais has worked under me for the past ten years. Ain’t gonna find anyone as dedicated. He’s got the stomach for this job and the smarts to keep things profitable.” Under his breath, he said, “Not one of our own, my ass.”

There was a rumble of agreement from the collection of men, who began to stand and clasp hands with Mathias, offering their congratulations. Piero remained seated, an insult he knew would be taken seriously, as did everyone else at the table.

Giovanni came over when the group had thinned and slapped him on the arm. “You’re a santista now. Try not to disappoint.”

“I won’t,” Mathias replied, masking his fury.

The old man’s face turned serious. He leaned in. “Come to the club next Thursday. I have something to discuss.”

“Finally!” exclaimed Narcotics head Filippo De Luca, opening the door to the room and beckoning over the hostess. “Let’s get the girls in already.”

Mathias watched the woman’s mouth move down his cock as he sat in one of the club’s private booths, spurring a mixture of pleasure and revulsion. He hated these jack-off sessions the elites were so insistent on having, a meeting to discuss business devolving into an excuse to take some girl behind a curtain. Just another display of the posturing required to maintain support in the family’s upper echelons.

Mathias tried not to look too closely at her kneeling form clad only in a lace thong and black heels. He tried not to think about the numerous other pricks that had filled her mouth. It didn’t help that he was still seething from the events of the meeting. Piero’s words were fixed in his mind: “Not one of our own.”

A muffled moan came through the wall beside him, and his stomach turned. What he regarded as a selfish pursuit, performed without show or ceremony, took on a garish quality when transplanted to the seedy titty bar. The old man coming next door was almost enough to make his dick soft. He cast about, as he had so many times before, searching for something—anything—to trick his body into submission.

Behind the curtain, he heard Rayan shift his weight. He was stationed outside to ensure Mathias’s privacy and protection. It was almost midnight, and his second had been on his feet all day. The sound was a reminder of his presence, a sudden intrusion. The thought of him standing so close, knowing what went on mere steps away, filled Mathias with a strange surge of desire. He swallowed his surprise, swiftly pushing the thought aside, but his mind kept returning to it as if caught on something.

Rayan appeared clearly in his head—the contours of muscle visible through the man’s shirt, the faded scar that ran down his neck, partially hidden by his collar. The way his mouth was set in a hard line on his angular face, bottom lip fuller than the top. The flick of the girl’s tongue along his shaft made his breath quicken, and Mathias bit back a groan. When had these images implanted themselves so vividly in his brain? It was as though all this time, he’d been unconsciously taking stock, filing them away. The jut of Rayan’s knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel, the smoothness of his skin… Mathias pressed his nails into the soft flesh of his palm as the sensation built, unable to shake the thoughts loose. He saw Rayan as he’d appeared before him in Belkov’s office, face unyielding, body tense. He’d looked at Mathias, his eyes for an instant betraying the softness Mathias remembered from the day they’d first met. What would that face look like when he lost control?

Mathias’s teeth clenched, and he came abruptly, with an intensity to the release he hadn’t felt in months. His hand shot out to steady himself, and he pushed the woman away. Standing, he turned and fastened his pants. The girl looked up meekly, kneeling before him on the carpet, and disgust once again cut through the haze of pleasure that had overcome him.

Mathias reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, sliding off a handful, and laid them on the table. He took several slow breaths, smoothing his hair expertly, before feeling composed enough to venture out from behind the curtain.

There Rayan waited, staring straight ahead as Mathias emerged. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the man’s propensity for staying silent. Without looking at him, Mathias moved toward the exit, Rayan following dutifully. He did not want to catch a glimpse of his second’s face—did not want to see what his mind had so quickly conjured in that dim room.

“He was out of line.” Rayan steered the car through the parking lot outside Le Rouge, still angry at having to stand by as Piero Russo insulted his boss.

“The man’s a hack,” Mathias muttered, staring at the road. He appeared distracted and subdued, despite the evening’s festivities.

Usually, on nights like these, once they peeled off into the dark, his capo—eyes slightly less sharp, features softened by the booze—actually talked. He didn’t instruct, didn’t reproach, but talked. Rayan looked forward to those fleeting moments, the only time he ever felt brave enough to address the swirl of questions in his mind.

“What Piero said…” Rayan had seen the way Mathias had stiffened at the man’s barb. “It’s because your mother’s French?”

He knew Mathias was only half-Italian and had always assumed that was the reason behind the frosty reception he received from some of the family stalwarts. Rayan’s boss remained silent.

“Thought Italians only married Italians,” Rayan remarked offhandedly.

“Who said she was married?” There was a sharpness to the way he said it.

Rayan felt a prickle of danger. He’d traversed past the clear boundaries marked for him. In that moment, he remembered a conversation he’d overheard one evening at the club while waiting for Mathias to emerge from a private meeting with Giovanni.

A stout man in a foul mood had appeared in the corridor, his second trailing behind him. “How that son of a whore made it into a room with Bianchi, I’ll never know. ”

At the time, Rayan hadn’t registered the insult, dismissing it as general envy, something Mathias—smart and upwardly mobile—was often subject to. Now he understood.

Having already overstepped, he felt the need to double down. “You’re a better captain than any of those men.”

Mathias sucked his teeth. “Maybe. But to the family, blood is everything.”

Rayan coasted the car to a stop at a red light and stifled a yawn, his body heavy with exhaustion. He ached to kick off his shoes and collapse, but the thought of the long night ahead filled him with dread. The dreams were back. So were the thoughts that circled mercilessly as he lay awake in bed.

“You look like shit,” Mathias said.

Rayan glanced up to see his capo observing him. He froze. This wasn’t part of the deal. In the years he’d spent working with Mathias, he’d become an expert at making sure his life did not come up for discussion.

“Having trouble sleeping,” he conceded.

Mathias paused as though mulling it over. “I’ll arrange something the next time we’re at the club. Take your mind off things.”

Rayan blinked. He couldn’t think of anything less appealing. It was bad enough having to stand outside that curtain and try not to think about what was happening behind it. “Not really my thing.”

“What, pussy?” Mathias baited him, razor-sharp.

Rayan’s jaw tightened, a familiar turn of panic in his stomach, before he realized Mathias was teasing. “No,” he said gruffly. “Working girls.”

Mathias snorted. “Uppity, aren’t we? Suit yourself.”

The light changed, and Rayan stared straight ahead as they sped through the empty streets. Anything to escape his capo’s gaze.