A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twelve

T hey drove in silence, the city around them cloaked in darkness. Mathias’s first instinct had been to heed Tony’s advice and refuse Belkov’s invitation. To meet the man on his turf, with things as they were, was brazen, to say the least. Following the incident with Junior, the family was on thin ice with the Russians, and for all he knew, they were walking right into a setup.

Yet his gut told him Belkov knew more than he was letting on, and Mathias was willing to take the risk if it meant getting the answers he needed. Was Piero courting the Russians? They were always greedy for more territory and had never been content under Russo’s thumb. It would explain the information Belkov had on the boss. The shoot-out was a perfect excuse to provoke the Bratva into war and get rid of Mathias in the process. Then Piero could swoop in with a guarantee of spoils and smooth things over whenever it was convenient, finally getting the respect he wanted from the Quintino, right around the time they were discussing succession plans.

The question was, what had Belkov been promised in return for his cooperation? Two soldiers seemed a high price even for him. What is Piero dangling that has proven so enticing?

Mathias had been turning these thoughts over for days, but they’d solidified during the phone call with his second—somewhere between the spike of anger at hearing that Rayan had been followed and the realization that Belkov was forcing his hand. It was better to get it over with before the Bratva boss resorted to other means to get his attention.

Rayan pulled into the parking lot outside Chateau Suzdal. He took out his gun then checked the chamber, clicked off the safety, and stowed it back in the holster beneath his jacket. He looked at Mathias, his face grim.

“Not a word of this, understood?” Mathias said. He was in enough shit as it was, and Tony had told him, in no uncertain terms, to lay low .

His second nodded, though Mathias could tell there was more he wanted to say. They stepped out of the car and walked around the back of the restaurant to where a tall man with a bloody gash on his forehead was waiting. The man glowered at Rayan, muttering as he led them to the office. Belkov sat behind his desk, with half a dozen Russian soldiers stationed around the room. Rayan’s hand moved toward his jacket.

“I don’t like these odds,” Mathias said.

“Now you want to play fair?” the older man sneered. He barked out something in Russian, and all but one of the men retreated into the hallway, closing the door to the office behind them.

“Igor wants his gun back.”

The remaining Bratva soldier crossed his arms with a frown. Mathias watched as his second reached behind him, pulling what appeared to be Igor’s weapon from the waistband of his slacks. He stepped forward and placed it on the desk.

“Fair enough for you?” Belkov scowled.

Mathias pulled out a seat and sat across from him. “Knowing you, there’s a room of heavily armed gorillas hidden back here. How many M16s did you smuggle in the last shipment? I should know—I collected the tariffs.”

“Let’s not forget it was you who made the first move,” Belkov said, his eyes glinting. “Though from the shit you’re spreading, I must have imagined picking up the bodies of my men.”

Mathias felt a chill of trepidation. This was a bad idea. Belkov had always been difficult in a manageable way. Applying force usually worked until he reverted to his regular antics. But Mathias had never crossed the man. Like him, the Russian mobster had a reputation for exacting retribution in brutal and bloody ways.

“I’m used to being called a liar, so it’s quite funny—don’t you think?—when I’m telling the truth.” Belkov placed three shell casings down on the desk. “Two of these are from your young friend’s gun, which you left behind with his body. Maybe not such good friends after all? My guess is this one,” he said, pushing a single spent shell toward Mathias, “belongs to your dog over there.”

Beside him, he saw Rayan stiffen.

“Now, I’m curious. Why kill one of your own? And why did I find myself burying two good men?”

Mathias picked up the empty casing and rolled it between his fingers—a tiny piece of metal that had come between him and death. He placed it down, leaning back in his seat. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re working with Piero after all. ”

It was a gamble, but Mathias kept returning to how the Russian head had known about Russo’s ailing health. Insider information likely gleaned from someone as intent on causing a complete upheaval as Belkov was.

A slow smile spread across Belkov’s face. “What gave you that idea?”

Right on the money.

“That meeting was a setup,” Mathias said. “What do you gain by getting rid of me?”

The smile disappeared. “Not a setup,” Belkov corrected tersely. “But he wanted it to be one. In the end, we couldn’t come to an agreement.” He frowned. “Seems that didn’t matter to Russo’s boy.”

Mathias remembered the curl of Junior’s mouth as he plugged the Russian soldiers. Retaliation. Piero didn’t like being told no.

“I’d say it worked out perfectly. You got your excuse to wage war against the family, and I’ve been benched. Not as satisfying as me being dead, I’m sure.”

“ Nyet ,” Belkov spat, suddenly angry. “I did not agree to send my men like lambs to the slaughter. You Italians, your old ways are crumbling, disintegrating with all the infighting. But the Bratva…” He pulled his shirt aside to reveal the black stars inked crudely on his sternum. “There is still loyalty among us.”

Mathias studied the Russian carefully. He hadn’t expected this. “What was he offering?”

“Piero had quite a few—how you say—carrots. We’d take Laval, everything east of Rivière des Mille ?les. No more port fees, no more product blacklists.”

“He’d be a fool to give you that much power,” Mathias scoffed.

“To gain even greater power, sometimes you have to give some up.” He shrugged. “Russo’s boy wants to take over, but that is not what big boss wants, no? So he will force the family’s hand.”

Separate pieces began to click together in his mind, blurred edges coming into focus.

“Aren’t you curious, Mathias?” Belkov asked, the slyness returning, “about why I called you here? We have both been crossed. Perhaps we can both get even.”

Mathias snorted. “You’re just looking for another pawn to use against the family. If I’d been whacked by Piero’s little apprentice, you would’ve been overjoyed.”

Belkov began to laugh. “Think. Why would Piero want the Bratva to start a war with his own family?” The old man pulled out a slip of paper from his breast pocket and slid it across the desk toward Mathias. “Because in war, there are casualties.”

Mathias picked up the paper and unfolded it. There, staring at him in black ink, was a list of names: Mathias Beauvais, Giovanni Bianchi, Enzo Carbone, Antonio Giraldi, Filippo De Luca. Mathias felt his pulse thud. Loyalists to Russo. He folded the paper and handed it back to Belkov.

“You would have been the first,” the Russian said.

The first of many.

Belkov was freely admitting his attempted collaboration with Piero, not caring about the repercussions for Mathias, Russo, and the whole family, yet this was the closest he’d come to glimpsing Piero’s master plan. It seemed too elaborate for Belkov to have simply concocted.

“I’ve known you long enough, Belkov. You’re telling me this so you can play us both at the same time.”

“Then tell me, Mathias: why does no one know about the hit against you—that it came from inside the family? Why cover that up?”

Mathias set his jaw, refusing to show his hand. It was coming from all sides, the truth twisting and warping around him.

“Perhaps you’re biding your time. I can bide my time, too, if the price is right,” Belkov said.

They looked at each other, neither averting his gaze.

“Piero’s proposal was appealing. I’m not opposed to working with the family to help solve your little squabbles,” Belkov said. “But I don’t want to back the wrong horse.”

What he was proposing was as good as treason. It was also a compelling development.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mathias said finally, giving the Russian a pointed look.

“Of course you don’t.” Belkov smiled knowingly, a silent understanding passing between them. Then the man slammed his palms down on the desk. “Come. Let us drink to you coming here today.” He pulled out an unmarked bottle of clear liquor and several shot glasses. “To honor my men. Nothing is forgiven, but maybe we can look ahead to what will come.”

Mathias observed the Bratva boss skeptically. “How do I know that’s not laced with arsenic?”

The older man laughed, sloshing liquid into three glasses. “Give me some credit, Mathias. There are more creative ways to kill a man. And this”—he held up the bottle as though it contained the elixir of life—“is the good stuff.” He slid a full shot toward Mathias then glanced over at Rayan. “This one too.”

Mathias was about to object when his second pulled out a chair and sat down. He gave Rayan a sidelong glance. The man looked back, giving nothing away. Rayan didn’t drink. Mathias had never asked him about it, simply taking it as another cryptic detail he kept close to his chest.

“ Nostrovia! ” the Russian crowed, lifting up his glass as Rayan and Mathias did the same.

The vodka seared his throat on the way down, like battery acid.

Rayan winced, and Belkov grinned. “From my uncle in the old country. He makes it himself.”

He poured them another round, and Mathias fought the urge to groan. Once Belkov got started, there was no stopping him. Drinking was the man’s signature power play. Fail to keep up, and you showed your weakness. The only way to engender respect was to match him.

“I’ve always been curious about your boy here,” Belkov said, rolling his glass between his fingers. “He’s not Italian. What is he, then?”

They all took the next shot, and Rayan placed his glass down on the desk. “Take your pick.”

“He speaks!” Belkov cried, topping up their glasses. “Why work for a group with no blood ties? In the end, they owe you nothing.”

Mathias recalled Tony’s words: “Nadeau might as well be dog meat.” He lifted the glass to his lips, concealing his irritation.

Rayan’s eyes narrowed. The alcohol had relaxed his usual restraint, his emotions finding their way to the surface. He looked at Belkov then threw back the vodka. “Why work for anyone?”

This made the Russian laugh.

Rayan’s movements began to slow. It was clear he was quickly becoming quite drunk. Belkov was already pouring the next shot, filling the glasses so that they overflowed, puddling onto the desk. Mathias began to feel the hint of an encroaching buzz. His second, on the other hand, was attempting to lift his glass without spilling.

“He’s loyal like a dog,” Belkov said to Mathias as he studied Rayan. “Hard to find loyalty like that in our line of work, Beauvais. You can try beating it into them, but there’s always that sliver of defiance.”

Mathias stared at Belkov, saying nothing. He knew what he had in Rayan—knew what it was to have complete confidence that his back was covered. But it also ate at him to be the object of that kind of loyalty. There was no line Rayan would not cross for him.

“We’re done,” Mathias announced after knocking back the round, knowing if he didn’t intervene, he would be picking his second off the floor. “I’m not destroying my liver with your Slavic turpentine. ”

Rayan downed his glass and held the back of his hand to his mouth. For the briefest of moments, Mathias thought he would heave. The Russian mobster threw his shot back with a hiss then launched the empty glass at the wall behind them, where it shattered. They stood, and Belkov leaned forward, holding out a hand.

“Think about it,” he said as Mathias took it, sealing an unspoken detente.

He followed his second out of Belkov’s office, passing a cluster of armed Russian soldiers smoking in the hallway. So he hadn’t been far off. They walked to the car, the moon illuminating the darkened parking lot, an icy wind slicing against his cheeks. Rayan pulled the keys from his pocket and handed them to Mathias, his movements clumsy. He made it to the car, leaning against the passenger door, before promptly doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Mathias waited until he was once again upright, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Sorry,” Rayan muttered.

“Get in.”

As they sped along the highway back toward the city, Mathias’s mind trawled the conversation, catching on hooks. Did Piero go to such extremes because he was sure he wouldn’t be tapped for succession? The boss had hinted as much. In the seat beside him, Rayan sat bolt upright.

“Not in my fucking car,” Mathias warned, swerving across two lanes and pulling onto the shoulder.

Rayan opened the door and vomited, his shoulders heaving. When he was done, he fell back into his seat, an arm reaching out to close the door with a thump.

Mathias leaned over and pulled on Rayan’s seatbelt. “You’re an idiot.”

“ Oui , capo.”

Mathias smirked and continued driving.

“Think he’s lying?” Rayan asked after a moment. “Seemed elaborate, especially for Belkov.”

Mathias was accustomed to his second’s silence, which gave the impression he observed interactions with a cursory understanding. With the booze stripping away Rayan’s usual reticence, it was clear he didn’t miss a thing.

Mathias sighed. “If it was anyone else, maybe. But Piero? He’s reckless enough to consider it.” He took the next exit and wound through the streets of Villeray.

“Why are we covering for him? You almost got clipped.”

“You still don’t know how this works?”

“The family considers some people more valuable than others,” Rayan said, his voice hard. “I know how it works. ”

The lights changed up ahead, and Mathias slowed the car to a stop at the deserted intersection.

“If I had a dollar for every time one of those old bastards looked at me like I’d crawled out of the sewer…” his second continued, lips curling. “And you. I could kill them for how they’ve treated you.”

Mathias gave him a stony look.

Rayan averted his eyes, chastened. “Everything in my head is trying to come out my mouth,” he mumbled.

“Careful with that,” Mathias said.

Rayan was an endearing drunk at least. There were worse things. The light turned green, and he sped through the empty streets toward Rosemont.

“How’d you end up with the Russian’s piece?” Mathias asked.

“I took it.”

“After you smashed up his friend’s face?”

“With a beer bottle. I didn’t have my gun.”

Mathias smiled ruefully, not sure if he was amused or impressed. “What were you doing wandering around at night unarmed?”

Rayan sighed, leaning back against the headrest. “When I can’t sleep, walking helps. Takes my mind off things.”

“Why can’t you sleep, Rayan?”

He turned to Mathias, his mouth a grim line. “Because of the dreams.”

Mathias held his gaze until he looked away, staring out the window as they turned onto Saint-Michel.

“What was on the paper?” his second asked into the darkness.

“Names,” Mathias replied.

Rayan sat forward, eyes widening. “A hit list… of family members?”

Mathias nodded slowly. There had been another name on the list, below the handful of ranked elite: Rayan Nadeau . Proof he’d been getting noticed—the wrong kind of attention.

He parked outside Rayan’s building and walked him to the elevator, one hand on his shoulder to steady him. Mathias had thought it an annoyance that the man didn’t drink. Now he could appreciate it. Once in the apartment, he steered his second toward the bedroom before heading to the kitchen, taking a glass from the cabinet, and filling it with water.

“That was risky even for you,” Rayan murmured when Mathias returned.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fumbling with his shoelaces. Mathias handed him the glass, and he took several gulps then placed it on the nightstand.

“Then you shouldn’t have come.”

“And let you go alone?” Rayan snarled. “That’s a mistake I won’t make twice.”

Suddenly tired, Mathias sat down beside him on the bed, bending over to yank off Rayan’s shoes. His second was right of course. Things could have turned out very differently. He needed to go home and collect his thoughts.

When he straightened up, Rayan was moving toward him, reaching for his belt buckle. Despite everything, the surge of desire was immediate, crackling through him like a current. Mathias could almost feel his hand around the curve of Rayan’s throat, the firm swell pressing against the front of his pants. He wrestled with the want before easily disarming him and pushing him backward onto the bed. His fingers moved on their own, tracing the scar along Rayan’s neck.

“My father's doing,” his second said with a half smile. “Didn’t like me covering for my brother.” The smile disappeared. “‘Careful who you stick your neck out for.’ His words.”

It would have been deep to have left something like this, a mark lingering into adulthood. “Thought you didn’t have a father.”

“I did once.”

Mathias stopped himself, removing his hand from the intoxicating pull of Rayan’s skin. He knew if this continued, he wouldn’t be able to hold back. Tapping his palm against Rayan’s cheek, he got to his feet. “Sleep it off.”

His second stared up at him, eyes swimming with vodka yet serious. “If you need something…”

There was that pang again. The lines crossed. The power to make someone cross them.

“I know,” Mathias said quietly, turning and heading for the door.

As he pulled the car into the garage beneath his building, his phone rang from where it lay in the passenger seat. He stared at it for a moment before picking up.

“Mathias,” Giovanni said. It was clear from his tone that this was not good news.

Mathias leaned back against the headrest, his whole body regretting having left Rayan’s apartment. If he’d simply climbed into bed with the man, he would not be on this call—a call with the promise to detonate everything he’d worked toward.

“Join me for a drink.”

Mathias was familiar with Hochelaga yet had never heard of Deux dés Noirs. The dank sports bar boasting wall-to-wall zebra-print carpet was the kind of place he would go to find someone who owed him money, not where he’d choose to have a drink.

Giovanni sat in the far corner by the pool tables, his Brioni suit looking out of place among the hockey jerseys and baseball caps. The roar from the flat screen behind the bar was enough to ensure that their conversation didn’t travel. On the table sat two drinks, one untouched. The councilman had ordered for him.

“Piero approached the Russians, wanted to make a deal,” Mathias said after greeting him, scanning the room out of habit. Junior had really done a number on him.

Giovanni’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a pretty hefty accusation.”

“Belkov’s been getting information from someone with inside knowledge of the boss’s condition. I know it’s him.”

“That Russian bastard would say anything to pit us against each other,” the councilman scoffed. “Wait for the family to eat itself from the inside and feast on the scraps.”

“Maybe that’s what Piero wants,” Mathias snapped.

Giovanni shook his head. “Look, I would be lying if I said it didn’t seem plausible. Junior, the Russians threatening war… The man’s slippery, I’ll give you that. Maybe he’s got his hands all over this, but we haven’t seen so much as a finger. It’s still your word against his.”

Mathias stilled. He’d been about to divulge the rest of his conversation with Belkov—the list, Piero’s willingness to hand out territory like it was candy—but something stopped him.

“It’s inconvenient,” the old man continued with a sigh, “that you’ve been caught up in all this.”

“Inconvenient?” Mathias repeated, his face darkening. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the splatter of the kid’s blood across his cheek.

Giovanni paused, tapping a finger against the rim of his glass. “Thought I’d give you fair warning so you know what to expect. There’s talk of transferring you out of the city.”

Mathias froze.

“Not sure if you know Marco Moretti. Oversees family dealings in Hamilton. He’s made a right mess of things out there, and they’re wanting someone to come in and clean it up.”

“Giovanni,” Mathias warned.

“I know. But Paterlini’s leaning hard on this, what with his son dead and all. Having you around is a painful reminder, and with it happening on your watch—”

“If any other captain had walked away from a hit…” Mathias growled. He didn’t need to finish. The precedent was clear: he was entitled to his reprisal. “Yet here I am, cowed by Paterlini’s hurt feelings?”

“He lost a son.”

“A son sent to whack me, if you remember.” Mathias pushed away his untouched drink, aware of the slight.

“That’s not the story we’ve been telling.”

“Who else? Who’s gunning for this?” he demanded.

Giovanni exhaled loudly, his reluctance telling Mathias everything he needed to know.

“So if Piero can’t kill me, he’ll make sure I’m pushed out?” Mathias continued.

Giovanni sucked his teeth. “My hands are tied, here. It comes direct from the boss. There’s a promotion in it, vangelista . You’ll be heading a city division.”

“You know as well as I do Hamilton is Reapers territory. And the scrap that we do hold, we fight for tooth and nail with Truman.”

Giovanni held out his hands. “With you out of town, they’re hoping things will settle down with the Russians and Paterlini will be appeased. When the situation is less sensitive, we can look at getting you back.”

Mathias stood, pulling on his jacket.

“Mathias, you’re young, you’re talented,” Giovanni continued, assuaging him. “Be patient, stay alive. There’s several ways this can go yet.”

Mathias dropped a handful of bills on the table, turning to leave without another word.

Mathias stood in the living room of his apartment in pitch darkness. The blinds were drawn, the lights off. He held a full glass of Macallan, not his first. He was past drunk, having started early with Belkov’s little game of chicken, and was now entering the realm of false lucidity, as though the world tilting beneath his feet was exactly how it was supposed to be.

He swilled the harsh liquid in his mouth before swallowing. His grip on the tumbler tightened, and Mathias wondered how easy it would be to crush in his hand. There was a dullness about him that he couldn’t shake. Perhaps a fistful of glass splinters might wake him up .

The family had always made it clear that there were those in its ranks who were worth more than others. Even Rayan, far on the periphery, knew that, yet Mathias had believed he was capable of moving beyond his station. He was a fool.

He felt a deep rage churning in his chest. It stole his breath, narrowing his vision. Mathias had no choice but to take the fall. And he would stand by and smile through it.

In one fluid movement, he hurled the glass at the wall, where it shattered into tiny shards. The act did nothing to ease the fury pumping through his veins. He picked up the half-empty bottle of scotch from the coffee table and threw it against the glass shelving. All of it came down in an almighty crash. Mathias stepped forward and swiped his arm across the bar cabinet, sending the contents tumbling to the hardwood floor. Throwing his weight against the cabinet itself, he overturned it onto the ground, glasses and bottles spilling out and shattering at his feet.

He caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror, a shadow of a man in the darkness. Crunching over broken glass, he strode to the mirror, surprised to find that despite everything, there it was—the same face looking back at him. He raised a fist and smashed it into the glass. His hand came away a bloody mess. He exhaled slowly, looking down at his bleeding knuckles as he gingerly flexed his hand, opening and closing it. Finally, he had something to supplant the fury, the blackness in his head clearing as the pain kicked in.