A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Fifteen

“ I need to piss.”

Mathias couldn’t fault the man. It was a six-hour drive from Montreal, and they’d been sitting in the car, waiting for Marco Moretti to show, for almost an hour.

“Go on.”

Rayan pulled up the collar of his winter coat and yanked open the door. He disappeared into the snowy street. Mathias peered back at the run-down office block and rapped his fingers against the wheel in frustration. Not for the first time that day, he felt his stomach thunder in protest. All he’d had since waking were two cups of coffee. That was usually enough to get him through until lunch, but it was now well past noon, and the hunger was making him irritable.

Moretti had offered to meet in Hamilton to walk him through the current setup and make some introductions. The city was a dump, filled with layer upon layer of opportunistic scum and home to many a small-town drug lord. The family maintained a presence here in the hopes of regaining access to former narcotics channels along Lake Ontario—that and because of its proximity to Toronto, the country’s financial center.

Unlike Montreal, where the family reigned unchallenged, in Hamilton, their influence was slippery at best. The Red Reapers, a self-proclaimed outlaw motorcycle club led by chest-thumping fascist William Truman, occupied most of the territory worth having. During his tenure here, Moretti had barely managed to hold a seat at the table. The former regional head had taken a questionable approach to maintaining amicable relations with the city’s various criminal factions. From what Mathias had heard, Moretti had been far too generous with his cuts, to the point where local thugs were earning more than the family itself.

While Mathias wasn’t due to make the move for another two weeks, he figured the more he knew going in, the better. He’d planned on making the trip alone but hadn’t completely shaken the feeling that Piero had eyes on him. So Mathias had brought Rayan. The man was still his until the end of the month—not that he’d bothered to let Tony know. Even though the decision had been made, Mathias found himself putting off making it official.

Driving across Burlington Bay, he’d watched his second stare out the window as the city came into focus, dusky eyes reflected in the glass. It was Rayan’s first time in Hamilton, the farthest he’d been outside Montreal city limits. Mathias hoped he wasn’t expecting much. Both of them had said little on the ride over. He knew Rayan was still sore about being left behind.

That night at his apartment, Mathias had returned from the bathroom to find Rayan asleep. No one slept in his bed but him. He was protective of his home, a final barrier against the world outside. Mathias had waited for the spike of irritation, but nothing came. Unable to think of a good enough reason to wake him, he’d simply climbed in beside him. For someone who asked for so little, Rayan had made a bold claim—unconsciously or not.

Mathias hadn’t told his second the whole truth. The situation in Montreal was evolving quickly, and he needed someone on the ground. Someone he trusted with his life. Or so he’d convinced himself. In all honesty, it was the man’s name on that slip of paper that had forced the decision. Rayan Nadeau was no one to Piero Russo unless he was connected to Mathias. Bringing him here would only succeed in keeping him a target.

The passenger door opened, and a rich, greasy smell entered the car. Rayan pushed a hot wrapper into his hands. Mathias peeled back the paper to reveal thick slabs of ham and cheese stuffed into a warm croissant. Rayan was already taking a bite out of his. He looked over at Mathias, chewing absently.

“Deli,” he said when he swallowed. “Saw one around the corner.”

Mathias took a bite, making sure not to let Rayan see how good he found it. He gave a grunt of approval and turned back to watching the building. By the time Moretti showed—over an hour late—Mathias was livid. The man’s black Beamer pulled up outside the crumbling building, and he emerged from the passenger side as Mathias and Rayan got out and crossed the road to join him.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Tony had told him shortly after the humiliating meeting with the boss. Mathias didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, but over the last few days, the gnawing anger had turned into fuel, a plan forming to recapture what had been lost. He recalled Belkov’s offer. The Russian head had contacts in the city. Mathias would have to start back at square one .

The family’s Hamilton office resided in a squat multistory concrete-block building sandwiched between two public-housing towers. From close-up, it was clear things were in a state of disrepair—graffiti sprayed across the walls, wooden boards covering the windows. Stepping around a series of stagnant brown puddles, Mathias walked up to Moretti. The man stretched out his hand, and Mathias took it, finding it slippery with perspiration.

“Welcome to Hamilton,” Moretti announced with a grin that revealed his yellowing teeth.

Mathias fought the urge to wipe his palm against the side of his slacks.

“I’ve brought Cesare with me. He manages the office.”

An older man with small dark eyes sidled up beside Moretti, mouth pulled into a scowl. He didn’t offer his hand. Cesare was well below his station yet failed to show the proper respect. Mathias was starting to get a feel for the place. It wasn’t just the local drug lords he needed to be wary of.

He gestured toward his second. “This is Rayan.”

Fortunately, Moretti spared him a hand-drenching shake, instead clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “Let’s talk inside,” the departing regional head said.

Moretti scaled the front steps and walked up to the building’s entrance, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. Mathias felt sorry for whomever would be saddled with this man on his return to Montreal. How a guy like Moretti got to head a regional office was a mystery.

Except , Mathias thought, jaw tightening, aren’t I here, too, accepting my consolation prize? Perhaps that was how the family managed to keep people in Hamilton—by showering them with undeserved promotions.

His vision tunneled, the realization fixing him in place. That was what this was. The title hung around his neck like a noose. The whole position had been tarnished from its very inception. No doubt, the elite in Montreal were laughing behind his back, just as he had looked down on Moretti. To think he’d worked hard to move up every rung, one step at a time, and now he’d made it to vangelista but at the cost of the reputation he’d fought so hard to preserve.

Rayan appeared at his side. “Boss?” he asked quietly.

Mathias nodded, gesturing for Moretti to go first. He couldn’t bear to look at the pathetic man’s face any longer. They entered the lobby of the building and headed to the stairwell. The place was a mess—peeling wallpaper, scuffed floors. He gripped the banister hard in an effort to steady himself. As Rayan walked by him on the stairs, he caught Mathias’s eye, an unspoken exchange passing between them .

The plate outside the door declared it Hamilton Central Contracting. Inside was a disheveled room that smelled of old cigarette smoke. Shelves lined the wall, buckling under the weight of stacks of paper, unmarked folders, and bits of junk. There was a single desk in the far corner, with the rest of the office set up as some sort of recreational space. Chairs were spread out haphazardly, empty beer bottles stacked beside them. Poker chips and playing cards covered a large crate that doubled as a table.

“How many men do you have working here?” Mathias asked, his eyes crawling around the room, discovering one small horror after the next.

Moretti shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not sure. There’s some coming and going. We’ve been down the past couple months. Three, four? Cesare?”

Four men running a territory of this size? No wonder they’re barely breaking even.

Cesare gave a grunt. “Something like that.”

Mathias frowned. The man ran the office but had no idea who worked there. “Where are you recruiting?”

“Most kids who make money like this have a bad reason for spending it.”

“You hire dopeheads, and you’re surprised they’re unreliable?”

Cesare glowered at him, but Mathias refused to look away.

Moretti laughed. “Things are a little different here. You’ll learn.”

Mathias bristled at the condescension. “I’d like to meet with Truman. When can you make the introduction?”

“Will Truman?” Moretti asked, shaking his head. “I’d stay away from him.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “The Reapers hold the port here. They determine what comes in and out of the city. Why would I avoid him?”

Moretti shrugged. “Our business is on the strip. Porn shops, shake joints, the odd payday lender. The family doesn’t deal with the Reapers. They’re scum.”

“And how much of our business kicks back to Truman? I’ve seen the books. He’s gouging us.”

Moretti laughed again. He seemed to think a lot was funny. “Look, Beauvais, this isn’t Montreal. We don’t run this town. So we play by the rules. Pick up our bit on the side and call it a day.”

“The Hamilton division hasn’t run a profit in almost two years. Either he’s fucking us over, or whatever’s brought in is lining someone else’s pockets.”

The air in the room shifted. The grin was gone from Moretti’s face. “What are you implying?”

Mathias had his suspicions. Maybe the reason the region hadn’t been profitable wasn’t just due to Moretti’s blind incompetence. He shrugged. “You tell me. ”

Moretti’s eyes darkened. “They said you were an upstart. You should know by now who’s who in this family. Mind your respect.”

The earlier swirl of self-doubt dissipated, a single-minded clarity surfacing. “I don’t give a fuck who you are,” Mathias said stonily.

He was done bowing to the whims of family elite in positions they didn’t deserve to hold. Moretti had gotten comfortable doing nothing because his standing meant no one was looking too closely—exactly the kind of man Piero was hoping to preserve in his unspoiled version of Giorgio Russo’s organization.

That’s how you stagnate. And then someone else moves in.

His lips pulled into a smile. Here he was, the bastard brat of a low-level bookie, having risen to one of the family’s highest ranks. He would not rot here like his predecessor. He had a reputation to uphold. Mathias was going to turn this city on its head. He would counter Piero’s plan to purge the family of its lack of tradition by building the most unconventional opposition the man could imagine.

“Who were you going to introduce me to?” Mathias sneered. “The pimps on the strip? Your black-rock dealer? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.”

Moretti’s mouth fell open. “The fuck do you think—”

“I appreciate the tour. I’ll take the keys. You can go.”

The former regional head exchanged a look with Cesare. Mathias knew he was overstepping, but as of last week, he outranked the man. This was his region now. What might have seemed a grievous mistake felt, instead, like the first sliver of control he’d reclaimed since Junior had pressed a gun to his head.

Moretti gave a short bark of a laugh, less amused this time, more sinister. “You’re welcome to it. And go see Truman. If we’re lucky, you’ll end up at the bottom of the lake before month’s end.”

He tossed the keys over his shoulder as he and Cesare left. They fell with a dull clunk on the filthy wooden floor. Mathias stood, listening to the thump of their footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the building door. A few moments later, tires squealed as they pulled out onto the street.

Beside him, Rayan nudged an empty bottle with the toe of his shoe. It rolled across the floor with a hollow clink. He stepped forward to pick up the keys.

“What next?” Rayan asked into the quiet of the room, handing him the keys.

Mathias almost laughed. He’d gone and obliterated whatever association he had with the departing regional head, and his second remained unfazed, waiting on his next instruction.

Mathias looked around the office, absently crunching the metal in his palm. “I’m going to torch the fucking place.”