A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Eighteen

“ T ake those new wheels of yours for a spin,” Tony said, dropping a sealed white envelope on the desk in front of him. “I need to get this to your boss.”

It was late Friday afternoon, and Rayan had been moments from leaving the office. “He’s not my boss.”

“Tell him that. Seems to think you’re at his beck and call.”

He wasn’t wrong. Rayan scowled. “What is it?”

“Some good news from De Luca. It’ll cheer him up.”

So Mathias had pulled a favor with the Narcotics head. Rayan wanted to press further but could tell Tony was being purposely evasive. And knowing the old man, there was something in it for him as well.

Rayan slid the envelope off the desk and tucked it under his arm.

“Tell him this had better work,” Tony said. “And that he owes me. But he knows that already.”

Rayan wondered what the two of them were planning. In the chaos of the move, he’d heard little from Mathias. He’d figured Mathias was still grappling with starting over in a new city, but now he knew better. When had his former capo taken anything lying down?

As Rayan left the office, he glanced at the clock on the wall. If traffic was decent, he could make it to Hamilton before midnight.

Rayan pulled the car into a spot on the darkened street. Directly opposite stood a high-rise boasting fifteen floors of luxury condos. It was newly built, with a sheer glass facade looking out toward the harbor. He’d been here once before, on his first visit to Hamilton. Mathias had come to view one of the top-floor suites and had paid the deposit in cash .

Rayan hadn’t called ahead, not sure what he would do if the man wasn’t home. He punched in the number on the buzzer and waited as the intercom rang, his breath coming out white in the cool evening air. After a series of rings, there was a click then a loud beep as the door to the lobby unlocked. He rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where he waited for approval before the doors opened and he was released into a lavish entranceway.

“This is a surprise.” Mathias stood in the doorway to the apartment, sounding neither pleased nor annoyed. He was in a stripped-down version of his everyday uniform, the top button of his shirt undone, the sleeves rolled up. He looked tired.

Rayan followed him inside, and Mathias returned to the dining table, which was strewn with sectional maps and lists of what appeared to be names and figures. He dropped the envelope from Tony at the end of the table as Mathias picked up his smoking cigarette from the ashtray by his elbow.

“That’d better be what I think it is.”

“Tony said it was from De Luca. And that you owe him.”

Mathias glanced up, studying him for the briefest of moments before returning to the map in his hand. “You his errand boy now?”

Rayan shrugged. “I’m back on probation. I do what I’m told.”

“Nothing new, then.”

“Still no second?” he countered.

Rayan had spoken briefly to Mathias the previous week when he’d called to clarify the terms of an old contract. Apparently, Cesare was long gone, and Mathias had dispatched the man assigned as his second after just a day on the job.

The frown on Mathias’s face deepened. “I’m working on it.”

“Let me come out here for a few weeks, until you find someone.”

“No.”

Rayan quelled a rising frustration. The thought of Mathias operating on his own in an unfamiliar city made his stomach turn. “You can’t keep working like this. It’s dangerous.”

“Your concern is touching,” Mathias muttered, not looking up.

Rayan knew that when he got like this, there was no moving him. It was a bad time, and he was proving an unwelcome distraction. “I’ll be going, then.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Mathias was staring at him, stabbing out his cigarette. “Come here.”

Rayan hesitated, meeting his gaze, the wall of restraint they both kept up—the coldness—slipping so quickly. He walked toward him. Mathias reached out and pulled him close. He smelled the same. He tasted the same .

Mathias pushed Rayan against the table, deepening the kiss. Rayan felt his mind slow, his skin flushing with warmth. The want coursed through him as a hand reached for his zipper.

Rayan awoke in a strange room. Most of Mathias’s possessions were still in boxes. He wondered if the man’s reluctance to move in was part of his resistance to the position, as if unpacking meant an acceptance of his new reality. Mathias was doing what he did best: bending the world to his will. But something was off. Rayan had seen glimpses of self-doubt when Mathias thought he wasn’t watching. And there was something else—a quiet fury simmering constantly below the surface. Mathias had been slighted, exiled to clean up some higher-up’s mess—cheated of his rightful place in Montreal.

Rayan rolled over to find the bed empty and the sheets crumpled. He dressed and made his way to the kitchen, where he flicked on the coffee machine. From the alcove window, he could see into the living room. Mathias was prone on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, touching the rug, where an empty glass lay overturned.

He wondered how late the man had gone to sleep, noticing the open envelope on the coffee table, its contents scattered. The machine clicked over and began to fill. Maybe it was the smell of coffee or the light slipping in through the open blinds, but Mathias began to stir. He raised a hand to his face and groaned.

Rayan took two mugs from the cabinet and waited as the last few drops of coffee splashed into the pot.

“What time is it?” Mathias asked, kneading his eyes with his fingers.

Rayan glanced at the stove. “Almost ten.”

“Fuck,” Mathias muttered, pulling himself up and gripping his head. He winced.

He was dressed in a plain white shirt and sweats. He must have come out here once Rayan had fallen asleep. After pouring coffee into both mugs, Rayan picked one up and walked over to the couch, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the dining table as he passed. He set everything down on the coffee table.

Mathias glanced up, eyes still groggy. Mathias late at night and first thing in the morning had chinks in his armor. Rayan found himself compelled by those small snatches of the man beneath. He leaned in and kissed him. Mathias moved a hand to Rayan’s neck, his kisses languid, as though still half asleep. The coffee abandoned, Rayan knelt. He took Mathias out of his pants and into his mouth, his own cock stiffening as he looked up and saw the desire in Mathias’s half-lidded eyes, the tiredness and frustration momentarily erased. He couldn’t do much about the man’s current situation, but he sure as hell could do this.

Still wet from the shower, Mathias hung up his phone, swallowing a string of curses. He turned to Rayan, who was buttoning his shirt in the bedroom. “I have to straighten something out.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Mathias sighed. Did I expect him to sit here, staring at the wall? “Fine,” he said grudgingly.

Rayan strapped on his holster, attempting to hide how pleased he was.

As Mathias dressed, he tried to pinpoint what felt different. Like a change in frequency, a shift in the air. The past few weeks had been brutal, a series of setbacks, one after the other. Mathias couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, subsisting on coffee and booze in equal proportions. And then this man had appeared amid a sea of hostility—a city out to get him—and Mathias’s lungs had filled, his head clearing, righting him somehow. They fell back into their former roles as if it were second nature.

“I don’t know why Russo let this fester so long,” Mathias muttered as they drove through the city, relieved not to be stuck in the car with only his thoughts for company. The situation was worse than he’d thought. Moretti—and the family by extension—was a laughing stock in Hamilton, having allowed rival groups free rein for years. “Moretti’s been collecting protection money but leaving clients to fend for themselves. Almost everyone’s defaulted to paying the Reapers, and anyone who hasn’t gets visits from Truman’s heavyweights until they eventually come around.”

“But this one’s still on the books?” Rayan asked as they pulled up outside a cluster of adult stores on the strip, each one indistinguishable from the next.

“For now,” Mathias said grimly, cutting the engine. “Joseph Sylvester, the only big player we have left. Hates the Reapers. Prefers to deal with the family. He’s already been hit once this week. This keeps up, and he’s gone.”

A man with a face full of tattoos stalked toward them as they got out of the car, and Rayan stepped forward instinctively. It was one of Sylvester’s collection of thugs .

“Second time this week,” the man reported with a scowl. “Said next time, they’ll leave with the till.”

“Where’s Sylvester?” Mathias asked.

“Inside.”

Together they descended the stairs that led to Foxglove, Sylvester’s George Street club. The tattooed man gave a nod to the bouncer standing by the entrance, who pulled open the iron security gate, ushering them inside. Beside him, Rayan’s eyes widened. It was several steps farther down the rabbit hole than Le Rouge. Glass windows, like shop fronts, housed performers in different combinations, fucking in various ways. People—almost all men—lined the windows, leering. Despite everything Mathias had seen on the job over the years, even he’d been taken aback by the vulgarity of the spectacle. He and Rayan were led past the punters to the bar, where several men sat around, drinking.

“Mathias Beauvais,” Sylvester announced as he emerged from the back room, a martini glass perched between two limber fingers. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

He drew out the word pleasure in a way that set Mathias on edge. At any other time, in any other circumstance, he would have knocked the man’s teeth out. But in Hamilton, Sylvester was one of the family’s biggest clients. He owned a handful of clubs on the strip and multiple other establishments across the city. Mathias had to handle him with a mixture of care and intimidation, walking a fine line between respect and derision. In Montreal, Mathias had never had to play nice. His reputation and the weight of the family’s presence in the city spoke for him. But here, he could rely on neither.

The slight man’s smile tweaked as his gaze shifted. “Who is this?” Sylvester stared past him at his former second with an enamored sparkle in his eyes.

Mathias had almost forgotten about Rayan. “I’ll talk to Truman,” he said, ignoring the man’s question. “Get him to pull back his muscle.”

He was hedging. The head of the Reapers had proven elusive. Without an introduction, Mathias was floundering. He had one more card up his sleeve, but he was reluctant to use it.

Sylvester waved him away. “Yes, yes, but first, what is your name, young man?”

Rayan shifted uncomfortably, remaining silent.

“Does he speak English?” Sylvester asked, turning to Mathias.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mathias replied.

Cornered, his former second spoke his name flatly.

“Rayan!” Sylvester trilled. He took a sip of his martini. “You are simply beautiful. Where are you from? ”

“Montreal.”

“ Enchanté ,” the older man simpered, raising a neatly arched eyebrow.

“I don’t have time for your shit today, Sylvester,” Mathias warned, a surge of anger rising in his throat.

Sylvester laughed, finally giving him his full attention. “I’m sure we can be friendlier than that, seeing as we’ve been rather disappointed with the service of late.”

He raised a hand, reaching for the lapel of Mathias’s jacket. Before he could touch him, Rayan shoved the man back, spilling his drink. Sylvester’s grin only widened.

“Where have you been hiding this puppy, Mathias?” he murmured. “I will pay you a fortune to let him bite me.”

Mine. The word surfaced red-hot, searing through his brain. “Here I was thinking I’d be generous and negotiate this month’s fees,” Mathias said, keeping his voice even. “But it’s generous enough that I leave without breaking your arm.”

Sylvester looked at him, the smugness not leaving his face. Mathias had run out of time. He couldn’t keep trying to placate with no teeth. “I’ll talk to Truman.”

Sylvester’s lips curled, eyes glinting as though he knew better. “I’m sure you will.”