A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Thirteen

R ayan had heard nothing from his boss for two days. Not that he’d initially noticed through the haze of a punishing hangover. His recollection of that night was hazy, and he had a nagging feeling he’d said something stupid, reinforcing his determination to avoid alcohol altogether. Attempting to keep up with Belkov had not been one of his smarter decisions, but Rayan had been overcome by the need to prove something to the Russian mobster, who had, for the first time, invited him to the table as an equal.

At first, Rayan had given Mathias space, knowing how complicated things had become. But when his capo would not answer his calls, Rayan began to worry. He decided he would go over. The worst Mathias could do was rail against him. At the very least, checking on him would assuage Rayan’s fears.

He stood in the lobby of Mathias’s building, waiting for the elevator. Once inside, he punched in the private access code, allowing him entry to the top floor. Rayan stepped out into the plush foyer, stopped outside the man’s front door, and pressed the buzzer. He waited, hearing nothing from inside the apartment. Figuring Mathias wasn’t home, Rayan was about to leave when the door swung open.

“What are you doing here?” Mathias stood shirtless, a towel around his neck, cheeks shaded with stubble. Just below his ear there was a tiny bloom of blood as if he’d nicked himself.

“Checking you’re still alive,” Rayan shot back, suddenly irritated. His boss didn’t appear incapable of picking up the phone. He strode past him into the apartment. As Mathias closed the door behind him, Rayan saw the bandage around his right hand. “Christ, your hand.”

His capo ignored him, walking back down the hallway to the bathroom, and Rayan followed. He stopped as he heard a crunch underfoot. The mirror hung askew, the glass shattered. He passed the living room, taking in the chaos. The room, immense and sparsely decorated, had been completely trashed. What looked like it had once been a glass shelf hung haphazardly from a screw on the wall, the rest of it in tatters on the polished wood floor. Pools of liquid drenched the floorboards near an overturned cabinet, and the whole room smelled strongly of alcohol.

The door to the bathroom was open, and Mathias bent over the sink filled with water, his cheeks frosted white. Held awkwardly in his left hand was a razor, its base clenched at a strange angle as he attempted to bring it to his face. Resting on the basin was his bandaged hand, the fingers forced straight.

As Rayan entered, his capo glanced at him in the mirror, his mouth set in a scowl. Mathias was a master of many things, including the impeccable shave. It was strange to see him so out of his element.

He threw the razor down into the sink with a clatter. “What are you looking at?” he growled.

Rayan stepped forward, dropping a hand into the warm water and fishing out the razor. “Let me.”

His boss looked at him warily but said nothing. Mathias was several inches taller than him, so Rayan placed a hand beneath the man’s chin and tilted his face at an angle. He moved the razor to the base of Mathias’s neck and drew it up to his jawline, each stroke slow and methodical. He was aware of Mathias’s eyes on him and the tension in his neck as Rayan slid the razor along the contours of his throat. He shook it out in the sink and started on his face. This close, Rayan could feel the steady brush of Mathias’s breath, all thoughts focused on keeping his hand steady.

He finished the last stroke, and Mathias wrapped his hand around the wrist holding the razor. The man pushed him against the sink, and Rayan felt the smoothness of his freshly shaven cheek graze his own. Then Mathias stepped back abruptly and walked out of the bathroom.

Rayan found him in the bedroom, getting dressed. “Your hand.”

“Martin’s seen it,” he replied, shrugging on his shirt. “It’s fine.”

Without a word, Rayan moved toward him and began on the buttons. His capo’s frustration filled the room. Mathias’s eyes were trained on him as he started at the collar and made his way down. Rayan felt the movement of the man’s chest, slow and measured beneath the fabric under his fingers. He was aware of the warmth of Mathias’s skin as it brushed against his knuckles. It felt like a feat of restraint not to place a hand on his bare stomach and draw it across the map of muscle that was his chest.

“Since you’re here,” Mathias said stiffly when Rayan was done, picking up his jacket from where it lay on the bed. “Might as well come for the show.”

Rayan blinked. “Where’re you going? ”

Mathias pocketed his cigarettes, his phone. “To see the boss.”

Only weeks ago, the same prospect had been met with anticipation, the promise of something great. And now it was as though he was en route to his execution.

It was rare for Rayan to find himself in a room with the boss. Giorgio Russo was a well-dressed man in his late seventies who wouldn’t have garnered more than a passing glance from someone walking by him on the street. Upon closer inspection, however, one could see the diamond embellishment on his Rolex, the thick gold rings that adorned the fingers of both hands, and the perfectly tailored hemline of his custom-made Italian suit.

They were in the VIP room at the back of Le Rouge. The boss had taken his place at the head of the table, an unusual sight in recent months. He looked drawn, his skin pale and waxen across sharpened cheeks. Like Belkov, Rayan had also heard the whispers of rumors—nothing he’d been bold enough to put to Mathias, but there was talk of a worsening illness, an uncertain recovery. Which would explain why his appearances had become few and far between.

Assembled around the table were Giovanni, Tony, and Mathias. Rayan stood by the door with Stefano, one of Russo’s handlers, and Giovanni’s second, Henri Rossi. He avoided looking at his boss, who had been deadly quiet on the drive over, his silent fury filling the car with a pressure that made Rayan’s lungs contract. The drinks had been poured, and they waited for the boss to begin.

“We’ve found ourselves in an unfortunate position,” Russo announced, sitting forward in his chair and wrapping a hand around his glass.

Mathias’s expression shifted into a thinly concealed scowl, a curl of smoke rising from the cigarette in his bandaged hand.

“Belkov maintains we fired first, but in all our years dealing with the Russians, when hasn’t his story changed to fit their agenda?” The boss looked at Giovanni, who nodded in agreement.

Rayan stared ahead, impassive. Mathias had given him a brief rundown of what had happened before he showed up that afternoon in the lumber shed. He’d also instructed him on what to do with this particular information, the importance of obscuring certain truths. Even so, Rayan knew his capo had left things out and was unsure why he was withholding details.

“I imagine Belkov’s attempting to cover his own soldier’s misstep,” Giovanni said, swilling his drink reflectively. “What seemed an act of open aggression may simply have been a regrettable overreaction. Junior accused the Bratva of coming up short, and one of the men took offense. Words were exchanged, and before the situation could be diffused, the Russian opened fire.”

Tony shifted in his seat, a flare of red making its way along his neck. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit I pushed the kid forward. Junior was mouthy—might have hit a wrong note with the Bratva. You know how they get. Beauvais made it clear he wasn’t ready for the field.”

“I’ll be frank,” Russo said with a sigh, his forehead drawing into a deep groove. “We don’t have the weight to back up a call for Belkov’s head, and I can’t afford an all-out war with the Russians right now. So concessions need to be made. There will be sanctions, a punitive hike in port duties—the Russians can count on that. But Silvano Paterlini’s out for blood.” Russo paused, taking a sip and letting the information sink in. “And a man who’s lost his only child is not overly conciliatory.”

Rayan reached for the dull ache of guilt. He had pulled the trigger, after all, taking the life of Paterlini’s son. Yet here he stood, remorseless, not because of his hatred for Junior but because the man had been seconds away from taking Mathias from him. Unlike previous times Rayan had used his weapon, this instance had not caused him any regret.

“Paterlini won’t stand for this to be swept under the rug. The man has been a loyal member of the family from the early days.” The boss looked at Mathias, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. “Rightly or wrongly, he’s placed some of the blame on you, Mathias, and refuses to be convinced otherwise. Grief is a polarizing thing.”

His logic rankled Rayan. Russo had revealed his own bias—a preference for those whose ties encircled him the tightest. It was clear that Mathias, of lower rank and with limited family connections, had little say in how this played out.

“We need to keep the peace within the family. Especially during this period of…” The boss glanced at Giovanni. “Uncertainty. I’m sure with time, Paterlini will see things more clearly. Then we can revisit this.”

Mathias stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him, pushing down hard until the whole thing collapsed beneath his fingertips. “What does keeping the peace look like exactly?” he asked, his voice low.

“Something has opened up,” Russo began judiciously. “Not a bad opportunity, considering—silver lining and all that. We thought it best you spent some time away from the city. Let the air clear.”

Rayan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. We’re being pushed out? His gaze flicked to his boss then down to the man’s bandaged hand. Did he know ?

“Marco Moretti is finishing up in Hamilton, moving back here to care for his elderly mother. The office needs a new head, fresh blood. Figure you’d be an excellent replacement. We’d make you vangelista of course. It’s a satellite, sure, but you’ll be running it.”

The information dropped like a dead weight. Russo appeared to be waiting for a reaction. Mathias was entitled to one. He was doing them all a favor by taking this on the chin, allowing himself to be subject to the whims of family seniority, however unhinged. He deserved at least one big outburst, a heated refusal.

But Mathias, in perfect form, remained a stone. “Starting when?”

“Hell, as soon as you can get out there.” Russo chuckled. “Who knows? This might prove a decent leg up.”

There was a long pause before Mathias spoke. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

The sentiment was perfunctory, ringing false. But it was good enough for the men at the table. The boss raised his drink in a toast. “Water under the bridge,” he said as the men lifted their glasses.

Mathias downed the contents of his in one swig and stood, providing his obligatory—albeit tight-lipped—thanks to the collection of men, opting against staying for another round and the accompanying small talk. Then he turned and walked past Rayan to the door, leaving him to follow.

Outside, Mathias strode through the parking lot, rolling his shoulders as though trying to shake something. He stopped beside the car, his expression oscillating between anger and frustration. “Make your own way home,” he instructed sharply.

Rayan gave a short nod. By the look of him, Mathias seemed wild enough to disappear into the night, untethered to reason, fueled by uncoiling rage. Rayan would have preferred to drive him just to make sure he returned to the safety of his apartment. Then he remembered the room of shattered glass.

“Call,” Rayan said flatly, realizing the futility of his concern. “If you need something.”

The words sounded familiar, although he couldn’t remember from where.

Mathias found himself unable to sleep. He lay in bed, unsure what to make of this new development. The blackness was back, turning his stomach, consuming him. A hard lump of fury had lodged itself in his chest since the meeting with Russo earlier that day. Mathias pulled out his cigarettes and began to smoke, taking long, slow drags. Thoughts flicked through his mind in quick succession. Instead of dismissing them as he usually did, he let them stick. He couldn’t seem to shake them loose. A small part of him was already testing the feasibility of retrieving his gun from the safe, driving to Piero Russo’s house, and putting an end to him—going through the motions, how each step led to the next. It was simple, with none of the scheming and insistence on the long game. Of course, it would also mean putting an end to himself. There was no walking away from whacking the boss’s son as he slept. That was where things began to unravel. Mathias was many things, but suicidal, he was not.

His frustration rose, a tightness that gripped him. He felt a sting as the cigarette burned down to his fingers. Crushing it in the ashtray on his nightstand, Mathias held up his right hand. He tugged on the clasp of the bandage and unwound the fabric to reveal the crisscross of cuts beneath. He needed to distract himself, or things would start to break.

He got out of bed and stalked to the kitchen, where he opened a bottle and poured himself a drink. It didn’t so much as take the edge off. Staring at the red light on the stove, Mathias watched it click from 02:32 to 02:33 .

If you need something… He picked up his phone.

Rayan answered after several rings, his voice thick with sleep. “ Oui? ”

Mathias felt a familiar stirring. He’d felt it earlier when Rayan had pressed the razor to his throat, lips parted in concentration.

“Where are you?” Mathias asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“Home. What time is it?” Rayan replied, sounding uncertain.

“Two thirty.”

There was a pause. Mathias watched the numbers flick from 02:35 to 02:36 .

“Come over,” Rayan said as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Mathias downed his drink, disarmed. He thought of returning to his empty bed and realized that was the very reason he’d called.

He was not kind in his conquest, bridled rage making him rougher than usual. Rayan did not push back at first but soon made his objection clear, cues Mathias purposefully ignored until Rayan slammed the heel of his hand into his jaw, throwing him onto his back on the bed.

Mathias felt his fury drain as he looked up at the clean lines of Rayan’s chest, the swell of his cock curved against his stomach. But it was his face, marred by anger yet unable to hide his arousal, that lured Mathias from the blackness in his mind .

“Try again,” Rayan said sharply.

Mathias reached up and placed a hand on the man’s neck, guiding him back down, kissing him.

“Better,” Rayan murmured when they parted.

He lowered his mouth and trailed his lips along Mathias’s collarbone then down to his nipples. He reached for Mathias’s cock and drew it through his hand. Moving, Rayan mounted him from above, straddling his hips, and resumed their coupling.

Time dissolved as a deep pressure built between them, Rayan slowing, stopping, edging them both, in complete control before continuing, muscles taut as he ground himself against Mathias again and again. He could not tear his eyes from the man, who had one hand around the head of his own cock, his restraint evident in the stiff clench of his jaw. Rayan lowered his chin, a growl escaping from between his teeth. His breath stalled, and Mathias came abruptly, on the other side of release before he knew how he’d gotten there.

Rayan stilled, placing his hands on either side of Mathias as he caught his breath. Mathias realized his fingers were pressed hard into Rayan’s thighs and relinquished his grip, sliding his hands around his waist. He rolled the man over, still inside him, and Rayan winced.

“Enough,” he said, a hand against Mathias’s chest, pushing him away.

The anger now appeased, Mathias felt a splinter of remorse. He had hurt him, and he’d done so willingly. He withdrew, and Rayan exhaled, slumping back into the pillows. Mathias looked down at Rayan’s still-hard member and, without a second thought, captured it in his mouth. Rayan’s body arched, the low curl of a moan in his throat. He was close, and Mathias finished him quickly, lingering over the tip as he swallowed and let the spent man slip wetly through his teeth.

Chest heaving, Rayan looked at him, eyes wide, face flushed. His lips moved as if to speak but said nothing as Mathias reached for his cigarettes. Lighting one, he was almost sorry at how it masked Rayan’s taste on his tongue. They lay beside each other in the darkness, Mathias discovering his mind blessedly blank. As though wiped clean.

“You knew about the transfer,” Rayan said.

Mathias closed his eyes with a sigh. So much for that. “What does it matter?”

Rayan turned to face him, reaching for his damaged hand and running a thumb along one of the cuts on his knuckles, still fresh. “Seems like it mattered.”

Mathias studied him for a moment before withdrawing his hand.

“How much business does the family have in Hamilton?” Rayan continued.

“Not much. Russo likes to keep a foot in the door. ”

“I’ve never been out of Quebec.”

Mathias stared at the flicker of his cigarette. There was a reason he hadn’t told Rayan about the move to Hamilton. He didn’t plan on taking his second with him.

Mathias tossed the butt into an empty glass on the nightstand and pulled himself up onto his elbow. “You’ve never left the province? That’s pathetic.”

Rayan smirked. “We can’t all be so cultured.”

But Mathias was already leaning in, the soft graze of the man’s lips on his and the thrum as he pushed their mouths apart putting a stop to the questions for now.

The thud of the apartment door woke Rayan. He turned to find the bed empty, Mathias’s clothes gone from the floor where he’d tossed them. He rolled onto his back, exhaling loudly. What did I expect—for him to make me breakfast? Rayan glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was just past eight. Mathias had slept over. He hadn’t done that before. And he had… Rayan felt a warm shiver at the memory of Mathias between his legs.

He got out of bed and walked naked to the bathroom. As the shower ran, Rayan caught sight of the mark of his capo’s teeth on his neck, now a faint red. He brushed it with his fingers, recalling the blackness in Mathias’s eyes when he’d opened the door, crackling with the same fury he’d witnessed in the parking lot. Yet the man had surrendered beneath him, the anger fizzling, as if all he’d needed was Rayan to call a stop to it.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, heart thudding. He’d seen something else in those eyes, barely perceptible, a glimpse into the depths that lurked beneath the icy exterior. Was it more than just lust? The thought brought with it a feeble flicker of hope, which Rayan caught quickly and stamped out. He should have known, right from the beginning, how deeply entangled he would become.