A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Four

M athias placed a carved wooden box of Dominican cigars on the desk in front of Tony Giraldi and pulled up a chair in his small corner office. Tony leaned forward with a grunt, opening the taut black seal and holding the box up to his nose. He nodded approvingly, offering the contents to Mathias.

“I can’t stand the damn things,” Mathias said, waving him away. It was the day after the announcement at Le Rouge, and he’d decided he owed Tony for putting him forward. Despite the transience of working for the family, he believed in giving credit where it was due.

Tony selected a cigar. He tapped the end down on his desk before raising it to his lips. He ran the division out of a second-floor commercial space on Saint Laurent Boulevard. Operating under the guise of Capital Lending & Consulting, he had everything meticulously recorded—contracts, invoices, receipts. If Revenu Québec wanted an audit, Tony would be ready and waiting. But delve a little deeper, and one might note the impressive scope of their client list and discover the true nature of the services billed, which covered the occasional friendly consultation with the likes of Mathias.

Tony held his lighter to the end of the cigar and puffed several times to get it started. A thick plume of smoke settled over the desk between them. He pulled the tube out of his mouth and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it. “They’re good.”

“They’d better be, for what I paid for them.”

“I suppose my congratulations are in order,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow.

“As are my thanks,” Mathias said. “For the recommendation.”

“You know me—the more work I can throw your way, the easier my life gets.”

Mathias smirked.

“And who the fuck else was gonna do it? Franco? Sonny? Christ, we’d be a goddamn laughing stock. Just look at that business with Armstrong. ”

Mathias scowled. As if he needed the reminder.

“Surprised you managed to wrangle him in the end.”

Wrangle was an interesting choice of words.

Tony fixed him with a level stare. “Speaking of promotions, with you heading Commercial, the rest of the division could do with a reshuffle. Get you some extra muscle and maybe give the kid his big break. Think he’d be up to running his own team?”

Mathias felt himself stiffen, tempering the immediate jolt of possession that passed through him. The thoughts that had arisen so intensely the previous evening had not abated. Instead, they lingered, coloring the way his second had appeared that morning as he stood waiting at the Collections office—different somehow, as though in sharper focus.

“He’s quick, knows the rounds, the clients,” Tony continued. “Hell, he’s been shadowing you long enough. Seems a waste keeping him on as a meat shield.”

“Rayan’s an outsider,” Mathias said, careful to sound indifferent. “Without family ties, no one will work under him.”

Tony shrugged. “A captain without the title. That old-school bullshit is overrated anyway. Money talks, my friend. How do you think you’ve gotten so far?”

“He works with me,” Mathias replied flatly, ending the exchange.

A silence fell between them. Tony took another drag on his new cigar. “Must be some kind of a record.”

“What is?”

“Three years now, isn’t it? With the same second. I remember when we were down to a monthly rotation.”

“I blame your subpar recruitment. You should’ve seen some of the idiots you sent my way. Surprised I didn’t end up with a hole through my skull.”

“Kid must be doing something right.”

Mathias narrowed his eyes. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut—that’s all.”

It wasn’t all, but the longer explanation eluded even him. Rayan hadn’t started out as a model soldier—far from it—yet somehow, he’d turned into one of the few people Mathias trusted completely. He had proven more than competent at every turn, his loyalty silencing the constant distrust Mathias felt with other men.

Almost a year after Mathias had dropped the skinny kid he’d found by the container terminal at Guillet’s compound, Rayan had reappeared in the Collections office. They’d been short a driver, and Tony pulled a favor with the city’s eminent nose-powder distributor. It was a last resort. Those who worked for Georges Guillet were not known for their reliability. Rayan had proven otherwise .

Mathias had never told Tony about his initial encounter with his second. He didn’t know what had compelled him to pick Rayan up that day or why he hadn’t simply left the man to his own fate. It had been remarkably out of character, struck by something he couldn’t name. Even now, the decision unnerved him. Regardless, he’d resolved things in his own way. Besides the obvious, the next best method to ensure silence was complicity. Running for Guillet meant getting your hands dirty—driving for the family, dirtier still.

Truth be told, Mathias hadn’t thought he would see the young man again. He hadn’t even asked his name. Most who landed at Guillet’s ended up running then using then dead. But he figured if the kid played his cards right, it was better than being out on the street. And then he’d shown up at the office, bulkier than before, hair cut short, a blankness about him. Gone were the eyes that broadcast every tumbling emotion, revealing the frightened boy for all to see. He’d managed that at least. Despite the time that had passed, Mathias couldn’t shake the image of the young man’s face as he’d watched his brother fall.

“This is Rayan Nadeau. He’s driving for Franco.”

Mathias showed no recognition. Neither did Rayan.

After a couple of months of Rayan driving, Tony was impressed enough to bring him on full-time. Mathias had dropped yet another second, and there was an opening that needed to be filled. He’d given Rayan one month—not that he’d bothered to tell him about that. If he didn’t show promise, Mathias would send him back to Tony. Rayan shadowed him through his daily tasks, a silent specter hovering just within earshot. Mathias was hard on him. Part of him wanted him to quit, but he showed up each morning again and again.

Mathias had him checked out that first week and came back with a folder two inches thick: child protection, father MIA, mother dead. There’d been a series of group homes before he ended up on the street, and that was when the police record began. Petty theft, carjacking. And now, as though tempting fate, Rayan had been roped into the largest criminal organization in North America. He was resilient—Mathias would give him that. He knew how to survive.

Eager to change the subject, Mathias leaned back, folding his arms. “Last night, what the fuck crawled up his ass?” He avoided mentioning Piero by name. You never knew who was listening, and he was the boss’s son after all.

Tony snorted, a look of contempt settling on his lined face. “He’s as useless as they come. Gambles away division profit and still thinks he’s in the running for a position on the council.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. “Does he, now? ”

Tony waved his hand in dismissal. “Despite the inherited clout, he’s dead jealous of anyone who gets ahead on their own merit. Probably ’cause he’s got none to speak of.”

Mathias was still pissed the man had shown him up at his own promotion. Even so, it was good to know he’d ruffled Piero’s feathers. Mathias was starting to get the attention he deserved and, even better, was alienating the prick in the process.

Mathias hesitated on the steps of a house that was all too familiar. The orange brick facade, the black shutters, the boxwood hedge that marked the property line—he’d ventured out here many times as a child, often during his mother’s days of silence when she forgot he existed. He would take money from her purse and roam about the city or take the train to Longueuil and stand across the street from his father’s house, waiting for a glimpse of the man’s family, careful to make sure they didn’t see him. He’d return to the apartment disappointed, his mother exactly as he’d left her.

The first time Mathias had come, as a boy of eight, he’d followed his father home after one of the rare occasions when he’d stopped by their apartment. Mathias wanted to see tangible proof of his father’s real family, the one he went home to every night. And sure enough, Mathias ended up here. He stood behind a tree and watched Freddie Junior and his younger brother, Tommaso, kick a soccer ball around the front yard. Distracted by his father’s retreat into the house, Mathias didn’t realize he’d been spotted until the older boy was standing in front of him.

“I know who you are,” the boy hissed as Tommaso ran over, drawn by the commotion. “And I know what they call you, bastard!”

Mathias recalled the sharp pain of the boy’s foot in his guts before blackness descended. The next thing he knew, his old man was pulling him off a bloody Freddie Junior. Mathias’s fists were raw from where they’d made impact. His father yelled at him and sent him home by himself, all the way across town, as night began to fall, picking his legitimate sons over Mathias. Even at that age, he had understood.

All these years later, Mathias had still never been inside the house. He strode purposefully up the steps and rapped loudly on the dark wooden door. It was a Sunday afternoon, and he shouldn’t be here. After the visit with his mother, he’d been adamant about not seeing his old man. But it had followed him doggedly—a paralyzing need to show his father what he’d become so the man would know he’d been eclipsed by the son he never wanted.

There was a shuffling sound on the other end of the door, and it cracked open, a woman peering out suspiciously. Sofia. He barely recognized his father’s wife—time had not been kind. Her eyes widened, and the door began to close.

Mathias stuck out his hand, easily holding it ajar against her weight. “Nice to see you too. We can make this easy, or we can make it hard.”

Sofia scowled, but she was no match for his strength. She grudgingly let the door swing open. “What do you want?” she asked sourly, lips pursed.

“I’m here to see my father.”

Her frown deepened. “Federico is in no shape for visitors.”

Mathias felt a familiar clench in his stomach. He moved forward so that he towered over the slight woman. “I don’t think you understand,” he said quietly. “I’m here to see my father.”

Sofia stared him down, no doubt weighing the repercussions of refusing to let a ranked member of the family into her home.

“Fine,” she said finally, stepping back to let him in. “But I don’t want to see you here again.”

The woman had no need to worry. There wouldn’t be a next time.

“The door at the end.” Sofia gestured down the hallway. “He’s in there.”

Not bothering to knock, Mathias pushed open the door to reveal a darkened room, the curtains still drawn. His father lay under a mountain of covers, looking smaller than he’d ever seen him. Mathias was seized with a dread that stilled his body. It wasn’t simply the shock of seeing the man, who had always filled him with a mixture of hatred and fear, but of seeing him so pathetic. The cancer had robbed him of any authority he might once have held, his body pale and wasted.

Mathias felt an overwhelming need to leave, to get as far away from him as possible, but it was too late to back out. The last time they’d met, Mathias had been convinced he’d outgrown his father’s grip on his life. Yet here he was, flooded with the same familiar feeling, the same longing for approval, as though he was still a boy.

Like a child turning on the light to assuage a fear of lurking horrors, Mathias walked to the window and pulled open one of the curtains, allowing a stream of afternoon sun into the room. Illuminated, this particular monster was easier to face, with his hair all but gone, cheek bones protruding, and eyes sunken. The unwelcome light hit his face, and he squinted then blinked rapidly. It seemed to take him a while to adjust, which was fine, as Mathias no longer knew what he wanted to say.

“Mathias?” His hoarse voice burst to life. “Is that you?”

“It’s me. ”

A smile swept across his father’s face. “I was wondering whether your mother—”

“I didn’t come here to talk about her,” Mathias cut in.

His father paused, head bobbing slightly. “How are you?”

“Finally taken an interest?”

Freddie shrugged, looking even more frail. “You’re my flesh and blood. When you don’t have much time left, you realize these things are important.”

Mathias froze, white-hot anger locking his jaw. The man had spent a lifetime acting as though Mathias didn’t exist, saving the pleasantries for when he was sick and senile, rotting away in bed.

“They’ve made me santista .”

His father—who’d spent most of his adult life working for the family—nodded in acknowledgment. He’d never strayed far from the bookie house or courted danger the way Mathias had. “You’ve become quite the soldier,” Freddie said almost wistfully. “With your education, I’d always imagined a different path for you.”

The hurt was physical, like a blow to the chest. Mathias made sure his face gave nothing away, but he fell silent in an attempt to regain composure. His father began to cough, reaching for the glass of water by his bed. The old man tried to sit, his trembling arms barely able to lift him from the mattress.

Mathias watched, not moving to help. “What exactly did you imagine?” he said finally. “You know nothing about me.”

His father placed the glass back down, leaning heavily against the headboard. “Your mother told me things. Heard you studied overseas, that you’re pretty clever. All I’m saying is working for the family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“For you, maybe,” Mathias retorted. “Look how well you did, if this dump is any indication. Couldn’t even afford to keep your sidepiece.”

“Watch your mouth!” his father snapped, eyes darkening, a flash of the heavy-handed man he remembered from his childhood showing through.

Shortly before Mathias left Université PSL and returned to Montreal, his father had terminated the decades-long arrangement with his mother, cutting her off completely. Apparently, it was expensive maintaining two families, but more to the point, with his mother cresting forty, Mathias suspected she’d simply reached the end of her shelf life.

The old man appeared to lose steam, mellowing once again. “I know you take care of her.”

“Only because you don’t. Being a better man has proven surprisingly easy.”

“Your mother—”

“Everything you’ve done, and she still pines over you.”

His father looked at him with watery eyes. “I’ve made mistakes—I can admit that. As I said, you start to look at things differently when confronted by your own mortality.”

“No.” Mathias shook his head. “There’s no absolution here. The sooner you’re in the ground, the better.”

The words left his lips with vitriol, almost clanking against his teeth on the way out. All his life, his father had loomed before him, someone he’d foolishly fixated on to give him purpose and justify his decisions.

“Where is he?” demanded someone from the hallway.

Mathias knew that voice—it was his father’s eldest son. Sofia must have called him. The door swung open, and Freddie Junior appeared, his face red with anger.

He stuck out a thick finger at Mathias, who stood by the window. “You need to leave now. Get out.”

Mathias took in the man’s paunch, his receding hairline, and the ruptured blood vessels across his nose. This was the kid I tried to measure up to?

“Did you hear me?” Freddie Junior spluttered.

A slow smile spread across Mathias’s face. “What are you going to do?” he asked menacingly.

His father’s namesake shrank back as if slapped. Mathias held his gaze, suppressing the urge to lay hands on him. As a young boy, he’d fantasized about beating him senseless many times. Mathias waited for his father to intervene, but the man was silent.

So much for looking at things differently. Mathias had grown tired of the nostalgia. “He’s all yours.” Leaving his half brother gaping in the room, he walked past a glowering Sofia and out the front door.

In his car, as he was pulling away, Mathias took one last look at the house, and this time, he felt nothing.

Mathias wasn’t sure exactly when Giovanni Bianchi had sought him out. Giovanni deliberated at length about most things, so it would have been some time before he decided to formally make his acquaintance. The meeting itself, he did remember. Mathias had accompanied Tony to one of the regular division briefings when Giovanni pulled him aside for a nightcap. He’d heard things about the young captain and wanted to see if the rumors were true .

From there, they began a discreet exchange of information, fueled by their shared ambition. For Mathias, that meant a higher rank and his own division. For Giovanni, well, those aspirations could only be hinted at while the boss was still alive. The councilman needed his eyes and ears, the contacts he’d built around the city, and the alliances he’d forged with rival group heads. Mathias needed Giovanni’s clout. Son of one of the founding fathers from Sicily, the man had been born into family ranks. As an enduring member of the Quintino, he belonged to the small circle of people the boss trusted implicitly—more brother to Russo than counsel. He was a mage of the old ways and knew more about how the family worked than anyone else.

He also drank like a fish, the only man besides Belkov that Mathias had trouble keeping up with. Giovanni liked to let people know he was in control. He picked the drinks, ordered the food. The man, dressed in a tailored gray suit, looked like a young retiree, down to the slick side part and manicured mustache. Perhaps his unassuming appearance was the very reason Giovanni felt the need to remind everyone who called the shots.

The waitress brought out their fourth round of drinks, and Mathias’s empty stomach growled in protest. Yet it proved a welcome distraction from thoughts of his father, which had been surfacing unprompted since the afternoon he’d stopped by the old house.

They were back at Le Rouge, in one of the small meeting rooms far from the clamor of the crowd out front. Rayan waited in the hallway. Usually privy to most of Mathias’s business, he was not included in these meetings with Giovanni. To be of any use, they had to be strictly off the record.

“I know you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, Beauvais.” Giovanni leaned forward to clink glasses. “Hell, no goomah ’s boy has ever made it this far in the family. So you shake things up, get some attention. But now you’re a santista . That’s going to rub some people the wrong way.”

“Some people,” Mathias said, lifting his own glass and reluctantly taking another swig of scotch.

“We all know he was out of line at the meeting. Poor form. Only reflects badly on him.”

“No,” Mathias said, frowning. “It reflects badly on me to have the boss’s son show such disrespect.”

Giovanni spread his hands. “He shows disrespect to everyone. He disrespects the traditions, throws his weight around. Just wait. His time will come.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow .

Giovanni gave him a slow smile. “Ah, now we come to it. You’ve seen the boss. What did you think?”

Mathias set down his glass, picked up his cigarettes, and lit one. He couldn’t think of a way to answer the question without sounding disloyal.

“Exactly,” Giovanni said. “We need to be prepared.”

“The Quintino?” Mathias asked.

Giovanni nodded. “Ultimately, it comes down to us to agree on a succession plan.”

“Boss wanted to know if I’d follow the right people.”

“Russo does not want his son to head the family,” Giovanni said, taking the cigar holder from his breast pocket and placing one between his teeth. Mathias leaned forward to light it for him. “But Piero will make a bid. He thinks of it as his birthright.”

“And what does the council think?”

Giovanni exhaled, giving Mathias a knowing look. “Piero doesn’t have many friends on the council, or in the family for that matter. But the friends he does have are very motivated. They have a lot to gain from his rise to power.”

“So it’ll end in mutiny. A split within the group,” Mathias said, tapping the end of his cigarette in the ashtray. No longer dubious theory but a plausible reality. Those loyal to Russo would be pitted against greedy low-tier soldiers fueled by Piero’s promise of a sizable payout.

Giovanni held out his hands, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Not if we can get ahead of it.”

Mathias knocked back the rest of his drink. “What are you suggesting?”

“Allies. The rest of the city will sit back and let us kill each other, but whoever holds sway over our competitors will come out ahead. This is where you come in. You’ve made the rounds, haven’t been afraid to get your hands dirty. You’ve ingratiated yourself to many of the groups here.”

“I think you might be misinformed. I’m hated by most of the groups here.”

Giovanni laughed, waving his smoking cigar between them. “Hate and respect go hand in hand. And they do respect you. You’re not old Italy, and you work with an outsider. Somewhat removed from family politics. If the ship is sinking, you’re the one they’ll approach to start cutting deals.”

Mathias took a long drag from his cigarette, thankful for the moment to temper a flash of anger. He resented his assumption of control, yet Giovanni was right—most of the men up high who pocketed the money had no idea how things on the street worked. They were unconcerned with the agreements and historic affiliations that led to a tenuous peace among their rivals.

“I don’t like to negotiate,” Mathias said, hiding his annoyance.

Giovanni shrugged. “Any great victory involves compromise. But it’s early days—something to keep in mind for now. Be civil. Don’t go burning bridges.”

Mathias thought of his recent visit with Belkov. There was a fine line between burning bridges and cracking down on insolence.

The old man pressed the small black button beneath the table, signaling the waitress. “Now, how about another round?”