A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Ten

T ony stopped him on his way out of the office. Rayan was waiting in the parking lot with Junior while Mathias stepped in to give his boss the adjusted figures for the Russian payment they were due to collect that afternoon. He hadn’t forgotten—he was going to make sure Belkov paid for his disrespect.

“Kid’s complaining he’s not doing anything,” Tony said, downing the last of his coffee.

“He’s done plenty,” Mathias retorted.

“Bit of roughhousing maybe, but he wants in on some real action,” the Collections head grumbled. “Throw him a bone, Mathias.”

“Or he’ll run to Daddy?” he snapped. “He’s impulsive, careless. It’s bad enough having him out on jobs, let alone trusting him with anything important.”

“Then give him something low stakes. Tell Nadeau to hang back and let the kid lead for a change—wave his gun around, talk some shit.”

Mathias scowled. “This isn’t a fucking game.”

“Tell Paterlini that.” Tony crumpled up his cup and gave Mathias a look, his word final. “In the meantime, give him something to do, for Christ’s sake.”

Rayan was standing alone by the car when he returned.

“Where’s the kid?” he asked.

His second frowned. Mathias knew he shared his distaste for their hyperactive tagalong.

“Said he was getting food.”

Mathias clicked his tongue. So Junior thought he’d simply saunter off and keep them waiting? Their eyes met, and Mathias felt it again—the way things had shifted. His body was emboldened, wanting to take liberties against his better judgment—a step forward, the slip of a hand. He thought of Rayan pressed against the car. Despite all his theorizing, nothing had lessened in his want for the man .

Mathias turned toward the street, and Junior appeared, paper bag in hand, taking a bite out of a croissant as he walked. “Nice of you to join us,” he said coldly.

Junior shrugged. “I was hungry.”

“I don’t want that shit in my car,” Mathias snapped, pulling open the door and getting in.

Junior got into the back, cheeks distended as he chewed the remainder of the pastry he’d managed to shove in his mouth, the paper bag abandoned. Beside him, Rayan’s eyes flicked to the rearview, then he started the engine, and they pulled out.

“What’s the most fucked-up thing you guys have done?” Junior asked as they took the ramp toward Laval. “Hacked someone to pieces? Dissolved them in acid?”

He was grinning, leaning forward in his seat, as if this was some sort of schoolyard show-and-tell. Mathias’s eyebrow twitched. He didn’t know what was more stupid, asking the question or expecting an answer.

He turned to fix the kid with a hard stare. “Why—you wearing a wire?”

Junior blanched. “What? No!”

“Kind of question you’d ask if you were,” Mathias said, his voice low. “Are you a rat, Silvano?”

The kid shook his head adamantly.

“Here’s a free lesson: you want to get anywhere in this business, keep your fucking mouth shut.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they reached Industrial Boulevard, Rayan turned the car down a narrow delivery driveway that led to a series of enclosed lumber sheds belonging to La Fabrique Allwood , a local furniture manufacturer. The Russians had stores in various buildings in the area, and this was their preferred meeting place whenever money changed hands. It was a cut-and-dried operation. His arrangement with the Bratva went back years. Once a month, Belkov sent a couple of his lackeys to meet Mathias with a bag full of cash, and they parted ways without ceremony. Something low stakes, Tony had said. Well, this was as low as it got. Mathias sighed bitterly. Right now it was easier to appease the little shit than it was to create friction with his father.

“Stay in the car,” Mathias instructed Rayan, opening the door. “Junior, you’re with me.” He caught Rayan’s look but ignored it.

“Wait, you serious?” Junior said, getting out of the car. “About fucking time!”

The kid walked around to join him, his mouth pulled into a shit-eating grin.

“We’ll be in and out,” Mathias said to his second, who was watching them with barely concealed disapproval. He slammed the car door and began to walk toward the lumber shed, Junior at his heels .

“Do I get to meet Belkov? Heard he’s crazy as fuck,” Junior said as they reached the metal sliding doors. “Cuts off the fingers of his enemies and keeps them in a refrigerated box.”

Mathias grabbed the handle and pulled it open with a screech. “You’re here to carry the cash, not talk.”

Junior’s face darkened as he passed him and stepped into the warehouse. Belkov’s men were already there, one of them squatting while pulling leisurely on a smoke. He stood as they approached.

“Beauvais,” the Russian soldier said in a thick accent, giving Mathias a slow nod.

He nodded back. The soldier dropped a black duffel bag onto the concrete floor and slid it over in their direction. Mathias tilted his head at Junior, and the kid stepped forward to pick it up.

“Your boss keep his word?” Mathias asked.

“Twenty extra, as promised.”

“Good.”

Usually, he would have had Rayan count it, but he didn’t trust the kid not to mess up. Mathias doubted Belkov would shortchange him under the circumstances. He was about to tell Junior they were done when he saw the gleam of the kid’s gun in the corner of his eye.

The first Russian went down before Mathias fully realized what was happening. By the time he did, Junior had shot the other man and turned his piece on him.

“Always wanted to kill a Russian,” Junior said with a sneer.

“The fuck you doing, Silvano?” Mathias said to buy himself time, his mind scrambling.

He was surprised at how calm he sounded. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself on the wrong end of a gun, but never like this, crossed by one of his own. The Beretta beneath his jacket sat heavy against his chest. There was no way he’d get to it before the kid’s bullet sent him splattering across the floor.

Junior began to laugh. “Used to things going your way, huh?” He stepped forward, pressing the muzzle of his pistol against Mathias’s forehead. “You’re not going to like what happens next.”

Mathias swallowed the dread that rose to choke him. “Enlighten me.”

Junior smiled indulgently. “First, I’m going to blow your brains out. Then I’m going to walk back outside and plug your meat shield right between the eyes.”

“And then?” Mathias pressed, trying not to think of Rayan in the car, a sitting duck. “Don’t expect me to believe you’d clip a capo for a measly fifty grand. ”

“This?” The kid kicked at the bag of cash by his feet. He shook his head. “Got nothing to do with money. You’re the first of many. But you fast-tracked your way to the top with that little promotion. A year from now, the family will be unrecognizable, a complete overhaul from top to bottom. Not that you’ll be here to see it.”

Mathias had to concentrate to hear his own thoughts above the rush of blood in his ears. “What’s Piero promised in return for you getting your hands dirty?”

Junior’s grin grew wider. “Look who’s got it all figured out. He’ll be pleased you knew. Makes it that much sweeter.”

The metal dug into his skin. Mathias fought to control his breathing, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. He’d always been blasé about death, figuring that in his line of work, it might come sooner than most. But that was because up until recently, there hadn’t been anything—or anyone—he thought he’d miss.

“Thing is, there are those of us who prefer things the way they used to be,” Junior said, his expression hardening. “Where a son would inherit his father’s business, where we’d have nothing to do with your mongrel friend out there, and a bastard like you would never—”

There was a loud bang, and a spray of wetness spattered Mathias’s face. For a split second, he was sure it was his own blood. His lungs emptied, waiting for his body to crumple. Instead, Junior pitched forward, the side of his head blown out, eyes rolling back as he fell to the ground.

Mathias looked past where Junior had been standing to see Rayan, gun in hand. On his face was the same expression Mathias remembered from years ago, the day his brother had died—naked terror staring back at him.

Rayan strode toward Mathias, each breath tearing through his chest, heart hammering in his throat. His capo stood, dazed, with blood splattered across the front of his white shirt and along the side of his face. Rayan yanked at Mathias’s jacket and ran his hands across his stomach, his ribs, roughly patting him down. He knew what he was looking for, but there was no sign of a wound, to both their disbelief.

Rayan dropped his hands, and the two shared a look, Mathias’s gray eyes mirroring his own fear before they shuttered.

“We need to go,” his capo said .

Rayan’s gaze dropped to Silvano sprawled face down at their feet. “What about him?”

Mathias spat on the ground. “Leave him. Let him rot.”

Rayan did what he was told, no longer capable of thought. Apprehensive about Junior accompanying his boss, he had stepped out of the Mercedes to wait. That was the only reason he’d heard the shots—faint, like an engine backfiring. If he’d remained in the car like Mathias had instructed…

Rayan stopped the thought in its tracks. After he left the car, it was all a blur. He could barely recall the moment before he pulled the trigger, registering only Silvano’s gun pressed against his capo’s head, his own weapon in his hand before he knew what he was doing. No decision, only instinct. One man, he needed. The other, he did not.

They returned to the car, and Rayan pulled out of the empty lot, grateful for the grip of the steering wheel to stop the tremor in his hands. The sky was already beginning to color, the sun ushered out early in streaks of orange, heralding the start of winter. He drove slowly, glancing often in the rearview mirror as though expecting someone to appear.

Rayan could not slow his thundering heartbeat. He glanced over at Mathias, not convinced they were actually in the car, driving away. Alive.

“Mathias,” he managed to get out.

“Too close, I know,” Mathias muttered, not taking his eyes off the road.

“I thought—” The realization came like a blow.

He felt the car swerve, no longer able to keep his hands from shaking. Rayan pulled over to the side of the road and got out, sucking in the cooling air. He paced along the sidewalk, trying to expel the adrenaline racing through his system. He’d thought he was too late, forced to watch like he had with his brother and hear the thud as his body hit the ground, dull eyes open, staring.

“I’ll drive.” Mathias appeared beside him, his voice muted.

He seemed to have severed all emotion from their current reality. Rayan had spent years trying to perfect this skill but could only manage a superficial mimicry, unable to fully master the depth of feeling that ruled over him.

“I couldn’t forgive myself—”

Before Rayan could finish, Mathias’s hand was on his shoulder, his grip hard. “Enough.”

The warning was clear. Rayan felt the tension leave him as they returned to the car, replaced by a growing numbness, a black curtain descending upon the whirl of thoughts.

Mathias closed the door of his apartment behind Rayan. As he walked down the hallway, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the spray of red scattered from chin to forehead. He raised an arm, wiping what remained of the kid from his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

Rayan stood in the living room, watching him silently. After Mathias had relieved him of his driving duties, he’d retreated into himself, not saying another word.

“Stay here,” Mathias instructed, avoiding his gaze. He knew if he didn’t, something would push itself to the surface, and he could not deal with that right now. There’d been plenty of close calls over the years, but never had he so clearly owed Rayan his life. “I need to make a call.”

His second nodded woodenly.

Mathias continued down the hall. He stopped first in the bedroom, shedding the offending jacket and shirt, before moving through to the bathroom, where he splashed searing-hot water on his face then rubbed it hard with a towel. Only when the skin was raw did he stop, throw on a clean shirt, and retreat to his study.

Mathias lit a cigarette, restlessly pacing the room. He took a drag, then another, before finally sitting down at the desk and picking up his phone. Giovanni answered on the second ring.

“Your line secure?” Mathias asked.

“Always,” the old man replied.

“Paterlini’s kid is dead.”

“Junior? What the hell happened?”

“He tried to blow my fucking brains out, for one.”

“What?”

“Whacked two Bratva soldiers while he was at it.”

There was a long pause.

“Who knows about this?” Giovanni asked.

“You. Belkov shortly, I’d imagine.”

They both sat with that, slowly realizing the wider implications.

“He was working with Piero,” Mathias said quietly. “Said something about overhauling the family. That I was the first of many.”

“Jesus,” Giovanni hissed. “The fucker’s planning a coup.”

“This needs to go to the boss.”

Giovanni sighed. “With the kid dead, it’s your word against his. ”

“And his daddy and Russo go way back—yes, I know how this looks,” Mathias growled.

“Piero will deny any involvement. The boss won’t back you over his son. There’s no going back from an accusation like that.”

“You want me to stand here and take this?” Mathias asked, incredulous. “Wait until he tries again?”

“He won’t. Not right away. With how this has gone down, he’ll lay low, wait for things to blow over, before he tries anything. We need to hold our cards tight. And right now, Piero doesn’t know what you know.”

The old man had a point.

“Until we have more, we treat this as a shoot-out. The Russians fired first, the kid got hit, you finished them off.”

Mathias saw the flash from Junior’s gun as he shot twice in quick succession. Felt the metal barrel pressed against his head, still hot. “No doubt the same story they were going to tell when I turned up dead.”

“Count yourself lucky, then.”

It wasn’t luck he had to thank. Blinded by Rayan’s status as an outsider, Junior had underestimated the man’s experience—and his dedication. He wasn’t some shiftless lackey content to sit around, killing time. And he’d accompanied Mathias on enough tedious collections to know exactly how long a handoff with the Russians should take.

“I’ll send someone to clean up. Paterlini’s going to want the body. And some kind of penance, I’d imagine.”

Mathias gave the councilman the address, staring at the smoke curling above his head. “And Belkov?”

“When Belkov catches wind his men were clipped unprovoked,” Giovanni said grimly, “my guess is it’ll start a turf war.”

Mathias watched the end of his cigarette burn between his fingers.

“Either way,” the old man continued, “it’s not good.”

No shit. Mathias could feel the blackness closing in around him.

“I’ll be in touch.” Giovanni hung up.

Mathias picked up the decanter from the corner of his desk and poured himself a drink. The next thing he knew, the room was dark, and several hours had passed. His mind kept slipping, trying to right itself. He glanced over at the decanter to find it empty.

Standing unsteadily, he made his way back to the living room, rubbing a palm across his face to clear the fog. He found Rayan on the sofa, head bent toward his chest, having fallen asleep sitting up. Mathias stared at him. He felt the thoughts coming, no longer subdued, worming past his defenses.

For an instant, Mathias had been sure—had known with absolute certainty—that it was the end. In the blur of disappointments that was his life, he’d wondered what had been worth it. And what had run through his head? Nothing but thoughts of this man.