A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Seventeen

W hen Rayan reported to Tony on his first day back at Collections, he was surprised to find him sitting in his office, grinning from ear to ear.

“Should I come back another time?” he asked.

“When did you get so mouthy?” Tony scowled. “Sit down, and shut it.”

Rayan sat in the chair facing Tony’s desk while the old man tossed back what was unlikely to be his first coffee of the morning.

“All right,” he said, fixing Rayan with a beady stare. “I have a shitload of work and no one to do it. Mathias has assured me you’re not a complete moron.”

It was his usual derisive banter, and for once, Rayan appreciated it. At least with Tony, you always knew how little he expected of you.

“You’re starting right at the bottom. I don’t care what you’re used to—it’s down in the muck this time around. I need to get through this backlog. Turf fees, defaults, personal guarantees—you’re on them all.”

Rayan shifted in his seat, concealing a growing annoyance. With Mathias gone, he’d expected something of a demotion, but to be kicked this far down…

Tony stopped him before he could open his mouth. “One month. You do every job I assign you—no matter how dicey—for one month, no questions asked, and you’re back on Commercial.”

Now the man was getting somewhere.

“I’m bringing Lorenzo Gallo in to take over for Beauvais,” Tony continued. “You’ll be working under him.”

Rayan frowned. Lorenzo was one of the old guard. He’d been in Collections since before Mathias’s time. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken. If Rayan remembered correctly, he had retired shortly after he’d joined.

“Don’t give me that look. Lorenzo’s on the slow side, not used to working white collar, so you’re gonna be the brains behind the outfit. Show him how it’s done. Let him make a couple calls, but answer directly to me. ”

“A capo in all but name,” Rayan scoffed.

“Optics.” Tony shrugged. “Blame your old boss for that. He didn’t want you getting too much attention.”

Rayan blinked. He knew then why Mathias had left him here. It wasn’t because he didn’t need him in Hamilton. He was severing their association to throw Piero off the scent. Back in Collections, down at the bottom of the heap, he would once again be invisible. He felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest. Mathias, in his strange way, was protecting him.

“I expect the pay to reflect my responsibilities,” Rayan said.

It was ballsy, but he knew Tony would keep him on a second’s wages if he could. From the beginning, Mathias had given Rayan his earnings in thick brown envelopes. It was only when he’d overheard Mikey complaining about how little Franco passed on that Rayan realized his capo was padding his cut, doubling what someone in his position earned. It was one thing no one could fault Mathias on—he shared his money. He was scrupulous about earning it, but after that, it was as if all enjoyment was gone.

Tony’s face began to redden. “I’ll give you fucking responsibilities. I’ve a good mind to throw you back to Guillet. See how much you’d make running again.”

“Then who would you get to do all this work?” Rayan countered, silencing him.

Tony sucked his teeth. “One month, you get bare minimum, lackey’s pay. Think of it as probation. You prove to me what you’re worth, and then we’ll talk.” He wagged a finger in warning. “But I see anything I don’t like, any little fuckup, and you’re down in the dirt for the rest of your career. Got that, kid?”

“Got it.” Rayan didn’t care about the money. He barely knew what to do with what he already had. But in the family, money was the language of respect, and he wanted it to be clear, from the outset, that was what he expected.

“Good,” Tony said, the unnerving grin sliding back onto his face. He leaned over and picked up a pile of contracts at least an inch thick then dropped it on the desk in front of Rayan. “I want these done, cash in hand, by the end of the week.”

Rayan’s jaw clenched. A stack like that was at least two weeks of work. He flicked through the pages and saw that several were months in arrears. Every job assigned, no questions—Tony was every bit the old bastard he remembered. Rayan thought of how easily he’d been stitched up in one of the crooked deals the Collections boss pushed on their unsuspecting clients.

“Better get busy,” Tony snapped .

Rayan stood, picking up the stack of jobs. He knew better than to argue with him. If anything, Tony got more vindictive when he detected defiance. Rayan moved toward the door without another word.

“Nadeau,” Tony called out, and the next thing he heard was the jingle of metal hurtling toward his face.

Rayan snapped his hand up and caught the offending object a second before impact. Tony crowed with laughter.

“He said you were quick. Take this—it’s yours now. A parting gift from your old boss. Might help get your work done faster.”

Rayan looked down at the keys to Mathias’s Mercedes in his palm.

Despite the frigid temperatures, the raceway was packed with punters on a Sunday afternoon. The snow had been ploughed neatly to each side of the oval track. If Friday’s paycheck hadn’t already disappeared along Hess Street or at some of the more questionable establishments downtown, it came here to die.

The family once had a private box at the old Blue Bonnets racetrack in Montreal. Mathias had been there a few times before it closed—the owners had declared bankruptcy after the city refused to bail them out, something Russo maintained he had nothing to do with. The displaced racing crowd funneling into family-owned betting houses was just a happy coincidence. The boss often found himself the beneficiary of happy coincidences.

Glenwood Downs, home to the country’s fastest half-mile harness course, was a short drive from Hamilton, sitting on a couple hundred acres of land. Which might have been impressive if Mathias gave a fuck about horse racing. But this was where Giovanni had come to meet him, making a brief detour while in Toronto on family business.

He spotted the councilman in the stands, a tip of his gray fedora signaling that Mathias had also been seen. He made his way through the crowd, scaling several rows of stairs before taking a seat on the bench behind him. This high, the track stretched out before them. Mathias could see the drivers in their sulkies wrangling the horses into position behind the motorized starting gate.

“This is where you want to watch the action, not some glass box with overpriced canapés,” Giovanni said, barely audible over the general chatter in the stands. Mathias knew now why he picked the place, and it had nothing to do with the view .

The old man turned his head, catching his eye. “You handled it well. Russo’s not a fan of drama. Your composure was appreciated.”

Mathias snorted, preferring not to dwell on his public humiliation, however composed it might have appeared.

“If I recall, your father managed some of our race betting in the off-track houses.”

“Good for him.”

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget where you come from, Mathias.”

“Where I come from is a fucking rope around my neck,” he muttered.

“Maybe.” Giovanni paused. “It’s also your meal ticket. Whatever the man was as a father, he came from the old blood. And he’s given half to you. It will come in handy—you’ll see.” The councilman took off his hat and placed it on the seat beside him. “You a gambling man, Mathias?”

“You know I’m not.”

“Working Collections, no doubt you’ve seen the worst of it. I dabble here and there but prefer to rely more on smarts, strategy.” He folded his arms, peering at the spectacle before them. “If what you’re saying is true, about what Piero’s got planned, we’re talking open rebellion, a division within the family. We’ve got ourselves a problem—not enough smarts or strategy going to get us through what comes next. So we nongambling men got to do a little gambling.”

Mathias looked past him to the track, where the horses broke into a trot as the pickup towing the mobile barrier led them toward the starting line.

“But you figured that out already, didn’t you? De Luca says Tony’s been in touch about granting the Reapers port access.” Giovanni raised his eyebrows. “Now, that’s a big gamble.”

“You said it yourself—we need allies,” Mathias said. “I’m not picky. And I need the leverage.”

“Truman is a loaded gun.”

“So is Piero. But Truman hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

The pickup accelerated, the wings of the motorized gate folding up as the vehicle moved aside to let the horses and their drivers take off down the track.

“Russo built this business by putting his faith in competence,” Mathias continued. “What do you think will happen when Piero clears out those standing in his way? The family will be reduced to a bunch of spectators—men who’ve forgotten how to work, who run divisions like their own personal slush fund. Everything we’ve built will be ripe for the taking. Try to keep the Reapers away then, the Russians, the Batos. Montreal will be carved to pieces. ”

“So you figure, hand them the keys before the castle falls?” Giovanni asked sarcastically.

“Who’s talking keys?” Mathias said, his voice hard. “It’s a combination. One Truman is too fucking stupid to crack.” He watched as a driver in red silks steered his horse toward the front of the pack.

“What makes you think he won’t stand back and watch us kill each other?” the councilman asked.

Mathias smirked. “Finesse. Or lack thereof. Montreal has been ours for decades. We have a hand in every pocket of society—judges, politicians, customs, law enforcement. Even if the Reapers took the city, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. The powers that be don’t want to deal with them. They’re sitting on a fortune of untapped product they can’t shift through the Hamilton port. Strangled by red tape.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

“If we’re going to lose territory, we might as well do it on our terms. And get them to pay for it with their backing.”

“You’re willing to trust them?” Giovanni asked.

“It’s not about trust. It’s about what they stand to gain. If it’s big enough, they’ll do what it takes to cash in. Our numbers in Quebec are enough to crush the Reapers if they revolt—less so if we’re divided. But if it comes to that, their numbers would give us a significant advantage.”

Giovanni began to laugh. “He underestimated you.”

“No,” Mathias said grimly. “I’d say he sized me up pretty good when he sent Junior to clip me. But he underestimated what I’d do when that didn’t work out.”

They listened as the race was called. The winning horses flashing across the giant screen above the track. There was a collection of groans and cheers from the crowd—winners and losers alike.

“It’s all well and good in theory, provided I can get Truman to cooperate,” Mathias continued.

“Hence the leverage?”

Mathias nodded.

Giovanni rapped his leather-gloved knuckles against the bench beneath him, thinking it over. “I’ll green-light the access. But I don’t know whether you’ll get any traction with the Reapers. Truman doesn’t like the family.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Arrangements are being made for when the time comes. There’s a place for you in the future of the family, Mathias. Perhaps higher than you expect.” The councilman gave him a knowing look. “But honor your blood. When the dust settles, there may be greater tolerance for difference, provided that difference looks the same.” Giovanni reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square of paper. He held it up, checking the numbers against the names on the screen. “Would you look at that?” he said, retrieving his hat and standing. “I’ve picked a winner.”

Mathias watched as Giovanni made his way slowly down the stands and disappeared behind the betting kiosks, where a line was already forming, a few queuing to collect their winnings, the majority hoping for another chance to offset their losses and win it all back.