A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Eleven

T ony nursed a cup of black coffee in one hand and a cigar in the other, alternating between bringing them to his mouth. Mathias sat across from him, his untouched coffee cooling on the table. They were at Gino’s, sitting by the window beneath the buzz of an infrared heater. Nick had turned it on to shield them from the chill that had settled over the city. His boss cocked his head at Rayan on the other side of the glass, standing by the entrance to the deli.

“Tied him up outside?”

“Can’t be too careful,” Mathias replied.

It had been three days, and he still couldn’t shake the paranoia—the feeling of walking on a knife’s edge, as though some lackey loyal to Piero was lurking in the lobby of his building, ready to jump him in the parking garage. That was why they were at Gino’s and not the office. The more people around to witness, the less likely there would be trouble. The encounter with Junior had rattled Mathias more than he cared to admit, the fact that it was an inside job heightening his distrust of the very people he’d spent years working alongside. He followed Giovanni’s logic about Piero lying low, especially in the wake of the fallout. But logic didn’t help him sleep at night.

“Let him take a load off,” Tony grunted, taking a swig of his brew. “I mean, Christ, he can’t sit for a fucking coffee?”

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Mathias asked, ignoring the question.

It was Rayan who’d insisted on standing guard. He’d been just as jumpy as Mathias these past few days, no doubt gripped by the same fear.

“While the coffee isn’t worth it, I have missed seeing you,” Mathias said sarcastically.

Tony fixed him with a grim stare. “I don’t believe for a second that Belkov’s goons took a shot at you, so don’t peddle that bullshit with me.”

Giovanni had managed to keep things under wraps long enough for them to spin their version of the truth. It was already beginning to circle through the family. But there was no getting past Tony. Mathias should have known that.

The man leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It was the kid, wasn’t it?”

“Awfully keen to have him on the team, weren’t you?” Mathias said.

“Fuck’s sake,” Tony snapped, glancing around quickly. “I had no idea—got it?”

In truth, Mathias hadn’t been suspicious of Tony. He was a surly old bastard when he wanted to be, but his loyalty to Giorgio Russo ran deep.

“The gall—playing me like that,” Tony said.

“You poor thing,” Mathias said stonily. “What did Paterlini say, specifically, when he wanted you to take Junior on? You said he asked for me.”

Tony exhaled. “What I told you—he thought the kid was aimless, needed some guidance. Thought someone self-made would be the perfect mentor. He mentioned your name.”

Of course he did. I was the fucking target.

“How far up does this go?” the old man asked furtively. “Paterlini? Higher?”

Mathias thought back to what Junior had said: “There are those of us who prefer things the way they used to be.” An old stalwart like Paterlini, in the boss’s pocket, an easy ally in Piero’s crusade… the son an extension of the father…

“What do you think?” Mathias asked.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” Tony spat.

Mathias held up a hand, not wanting to cause a scene. “Nothing’s certain.”

“To take his personal grievance this far? I mean, you’re not old blood, but you’re ranked. It doesn’t make sense.”

Mathias pushed his cup away, now cold. “It’s bigger than that.”

“Bigger how?” Tony pressed, eyes narrowing.

Mathias hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. “Kid said I was the first of many.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth slackened. “Do you know what this means?”

“I know what it means,” Mathias said quietly. “But keep it close. All we have right now is what the kid was stupid enough to tell us.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, tossing his cigar in what remained of his coffee. “Stupid, that’s for sure. Couldn’t even pull off whacking you.”

Mathias smirked despite himself.

“No doubt, the man we have to thank for that is freezing his nuts off by the door,” Tony said, looking pointedly at Rayan. “Don’t let anyone catch wind of that. Paterlini, like our boy Piero, takes things personal. Your rank offers you some protection, but Nadeau might as well be dog meat.”

Mathias understood the warning. He’d already realized the wider implications of this. “Some protection,” he muttered.

“You and trouble. I swear.” Tony sighed. “You’re benched, by the way. Both of you. The Russians are up in arms. Belkov’s withholding payments, refusing to deal with us. I can’t have you out working with a target on your back.”

While it didn’t come as a surprise, it still made Mathias’s jaw tighten. “How long?”

Tony shrugged. “A couple weeks? A month? We gotta see how far they’ll take this.”

“I’ll go see him,” Mathias said. “Smooth things over.”

Tony scowled. “The fuck you will. It’ll do more harm than good. As far as he’s concerned, you clipped two of his men unwarranted. He’ll be well within his rights to put one between your eyes.” He stood to leave, pausing to toss a few bucks down on the table. “Lay low for a bit. Look out for yourself.”

Mathias clenched his teeth, holding back the fury of words that threatened to overcome him.

Rayan woke with a jerk, his body lifting off the mattress. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the darkened room and felt his pulse skip, paralyzed by the same fear he’d felt all those nights on the street—the unknown threat looming as he slept, never sure what he’d find when he awakened.

After climbing unsteadily out of bed, Rayan made his way to the window, unfastened the catch, and heaved up the old wooden frame. A gust of freezing night air buffeted his face, and he leaned into it, relishing the feel against his clammy skin. He didn’t recall falling asleep. He’d come home in the afternoon, his head foggy, and lain down for just a second. Turning to the clock on his nightstand, Rayan saw it was past ten.

He closed his eyes, hoping to erase the images from his dream. His first kill, Barry Olman, had been several years ago, but the man’s face was permanently etched in his brain. The way his eyes had widened to reveal the whites… Rayan remembered thinking about the blood pumping around his body and how his bullet punctured Olman like a pin, allowing it to gush to the floor at his feet. In the dream, the man clawed manically at his ankles, a distorted cry coming from his mouth as Rayan shot him again and again. In reality, Olman had fallen like a stone as though by magic. If the gun hadn’t felt so heavy in his hand, Rayan could have almost pretended he’d had no part in it. It had taken Mathias’s hand on his shoulder to snap him out of it. Otherwise, he would have remained there, frozen.

He sat down heavily on the end of his bed. It was an old nightmare, one he’d thought himself rid of. But it had resurfaced after the incident with Junior. Now it came most nights. Sometimes the dead man morphed into his brother. Sometimes Mathias. Rayan would feel the same jolt of terror he’d had at seeing Junior’s gun pressed against his boss’s forehead. But this time, he would be too late.

He reached for his jeans and a faded sweatshirt then pulled on a pair of sneakers and laced up. Nights like these, nothing helped but to walk the city, the thud of his feet on pavement enough to quiet the incessant hum of thoughts. He grabbed his phone and a handful of cash from the nightstand, slipped into his coat, and locked the door behind him.

Rayan jogged down three flights of stairs and emerged onto the street. He ducked his head against the cold, burying his hands in his pockets as he crossed the road and headed down a side alley toward Saint Denis. From there, he turned onto des Carrières, stalking along the darkened street. Propelled by nostalgia, he crossed the empty parking lot on his right and followed the fence line to where he knew the wire had been cut. Rayan pushed through it and walked down a small slope, the highway roaring overhead. His feet cut across the maze of scrap metal, discarded bottles, and old tires. He’d spent enough time out here to know the terrain from memory.

As he approached the darkened area under the overpass, Rayan began to make out several figures. Some were lying huddled together, trying to sleep through the cold, while two men with their hoods pulled up stood around a rusted-out barrel that had been converted into a firepit.

“Christ! Rayan?” One of them stepped back, staring at him, the glow from the flames illuminating his face. “I thought you were dead!”

Even from where he was standing, Rayan recognized Evan—the paranoid flick of his green eyes, his nose uneven, broken more than once during scuffles he was too high to remember. Seeing him again made Rayan think of Tahir. It was impossible to return to this life and not be reminded of his brother. Tahir had been good friends with Evan, especially when he became one of his regulars.

Rayan had never taken a liking to the various highs and lows his friends on the street peddled. He’d dabbled once or twice but found it frightening not to recognize himself under their influence, afraid he would reveal the self hidden under layers of camouflage. He knew Tahir took the drugs to escape, but for Rayan, everything came back in high definition, as if they amplified his darkest thoughts, pulling them out from within his tightly controlled grasp.

Rayan approached the man slowly, his unassuming appearance allowing him easy passage to the flames. Once he was close enough, Evan slapped him lightly on the shoulder, bloodshot gaze unfocused, slipping from Rayan’s face to his shoulder and settling on a point somewhere behind him. He fought hard to remember how he would have acted back here.

“I’ve been around,” Rayan said with a guarded smile, unsure what to say but knowing anything was better than admitting that he was working for the family.

Evan nodded, his head bouncing up and down on his emaciated body, like a puppet. “Right, right. I’m sorry about your brother, man. That was bleak.”

Rayan felt the muscles in his face twitch as he tried to maintain the smile. How tightly he and Tahir had been tied. How closely they’d relied on each other for survival. “Yeah.”

There was nothing else to say. He felt an overwhelming urge to get out of there, away from the familiarity of the surroundings and the feelings they evoked. Rayan had wanted to purge himself of these memories, not run headlong back into them. He fingered the bills in his pocket, pulled them out, and pressed them into Evan’s hand.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, not waiting for Evan’s reply before retreating into the night, retracing his steps to the road.

By the time he’d rounded the corner to Bellechasse, Rayan knew he was being followed. Two men in black jackets. He continued walking, eyes catching on a half-empty beer bottle perched atop an overflowing trash can. He picked it up as he passed and tipped it upside down, letting the remaining liquid trickle onto the pavement, cursing himself for leaving his gun at the apartment. He never carried it when he wasn’t working, always handling it with a level of discomfort. A necessary evil.

Rayan slowed his breathing, hollowing out. He needed his wits for what would come next. The men were Piero’s goons, no doubt, perhaps sent by Silvano Paterlini himself, here to exact revenge. Mathias was convinced the boss’s son would be too spooked to make a move, but Rayan’s experience with Junior had proven just how brazen their kind could be.

He led the men through a series of narrow streets before concealing himself in a doorway alcove. As they passed, Rayan emerged silently from behind, raised the bottle, and smashed it into the side of the taller man’s head.

“ Ty che, blyad? ” the man howled, blood streaming from his temple .

Russians? Rayan moved past him, slamming a fist into his partner’s face as the man pulled a gun from his jacket. He threw an arm around the man’s shoulders, pressing the broken bottle to his throat as he extracted the gun from his grip.

Rayan stepped back, flicking off the safety and leveling the barrel at his pursuers. “Who are you with?”

The man he’d relieved of his weapon held a hand to his neck, breathing hard. “Tell your boss Belkov wants to see him.”

“He can tell him himself.”

The man shook his head, scowling. “Better if they’re not seen talking.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” the man with the bleeding head snarled, launching a hock of spit at his feet.

Rayan said nothing, looking from one to the other, trying to determine if they were to be trusted. Then he inclined his head in the direction they’d come. “Go on.”

The two Russians hesitated.

“Go,” he repeated, louder this time.

Slowly, the men turned and walked back down the street, muttering angrily. Rayan waited a moment before pocketing the gun and taking off in the opposite direction. He wound his way through back streets and alleyways before he was certain he’d lost them.

“Ran into the Russians,” Rayan said into the phone once he’d returned to his apartment. He placed the Bratva man’s gun down on the kitchen counter.

“Define ‘ran into,’” Mathias said on the other end of the line.

Rayan glanced at the door to check the dead bolt once again. “I was followed.”

Mathias was silent for a moment. “Nothing you couldn’t handle?”

Rayan leaned against the sink, wondering if this was his capo’s way of asking if he was all right. “You could say that.”

“What did they want?” Mathias asked.

“Belkov wants to talk.”

“Does he?”

Rayan knew that tone. He knew what Mathias was considering. “Meeting with the Russians is not a good idea right now,” he said carefully.

There was a long pause. “I’ll be outside in fifteen. ”

“Mathias—”

“I liked it better when you kept your mouth shut.”

There was a click, and the call ended. Rayan swore under his breath. He stared at the gun on the counter, his mind whirring. Then he put down the phone and stalked off to the bedroom to change back into his suit.