A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty

F rom the twelfth-floor window of the Tour de la Bourse, Rayan could see the first smattering of leaves changing color on Mont Royal. Behind him, Christophe Renault—heir to the Centrale Générale construction empire—swayed in his chair. One eye was already beginning to close, his torn lip dripping onto the collar of his expensive silk shirt, leaving behind a flurry of red. His eyes widened as Rayan turned away from the window, cracking the knuckles of his right hand, stiff from having made impact with the Frenchman’s thick skull.

He preferred not to use his hands, but Renault’s swanky corner office was sorely lacking in serviceable tools. He smirked at the mental image of setting upon him with a stapler, and Renault recoiled, letting out a low wail. Rayan noticed a darkening stain on the cream carpeting beneath the man’s chair.

By the door, Lorenzo hacked loudly, hurling a mouthful of phlegm to the floor at his feet. He stood hunched over, arms crossed, head tilted toward his chest, as though fighting sleep. Rayan eyed him warily. It was best they finish up soon. The old man wasn’t known for his stamina.

“We clear?” Rayan’s voice was smooth, modeled on his former capo after years of observing him at work.

“ O-Oui ,” Renault stuttered. This was a man used to things going his way, but before two of the family’s famed foot soldiers, he was proving a fast learner.

“We’ll be back Friday,” Rayan said.

Renault slumped forward, gingerly lifting a hand to his battered face. Rayan retrieved his jacket and walked to the door, which Lorenzo held open, a cigarette already between his teeth.

“Don’t go scaring that pretty little secretary of yours,” Lorenzo called out with a chuckle as they closed the door behind them and made their way past the executive’s wide-eyed receptionist .

The last half decade had seen the family make a significant profit from providing construction companies like Renault’s with tender guarantees for large-scale city projects. With a reach that extended all the way to the mayor’s office, it was easy enough for Giorgio Russo to determine who the municipal government entrusted with their multimillion-dollar contracts. And in return, the family enjoyed a sizable kickback. Five percent was standard, but Rayan had worked jobs with cuts as large as fifteen. Renault had gotten greedy, taking on too many projects at once. When construction delays tied up precious capital, he’d started missing payments.

Collections handled these contracts, and all things construction had always fallen to Mathias, so Rayan knew what was involved when it came to a white-collar client like Renault. A touch of friendly intimidation, the odd personal threat—enough to reduce the likelihood and inconvenience of a second visit. Each visit was a lesson in restraint, a psychological push and pull. If you appeared too lenient, it gave the wrong impression. If you got too excited about smashing a client’s face in, you had a different set of problems on your hands.

Rayan had learned from the best. When it came to intimidation, Mathias could have taught a master class. But in the last six months, Rayan had taken on far more responsibility than he’d bargained for, and he missed the days when all he had to do was follow orders. With Mathias gone, the job had gained a heaviness he couldn’t seem to shake. Before, his loyalty to Mathias had acted as a barrier, a justification for the ruthless nature of the work he performed. Now the brutality ate at him, chafing against something long buried, his conscience resurfacing with a vengeance. Rayan faced each morning with a growing sense of unease, the years stretching before him sullied and empty. He thought of Mathias’s question that day in the kitchen of his apartment, Rayan’s response tasting more and more false.

Once outside, Lorenzo lit the cigarette dangling from his lips as they crossed Saint-Jacques and made their way to the car. Squat and cantankerous, the man had a face that looked like he’d just come away from a beating—nose squashed and dark circles swallowing his squinted eyes.

“Yuppie piece of shit,” Lorenzo mumbled. He took a series of short drags. “If he’s doing so well, why borrow from the family?”

True to his word, Tony had returned Rayan to Commercial at the end of his probation period. There had been tension when Lorenzo was called back from retirement to head their team. He’d expressed concern about working with an outsider, especially one who looked like Rayan. Time and Rayan’s quiet diligence had brought him around, and they’d managed to establish a working relationship—in which he did all the work and Lorenzo benefitted from the subsequent respect. Tony hadn’t downplayed the man’s lack of finesse. Lorenzo was old-school, used to frisking dealers for cash and utterly useless when it came to understanding contractual terms—or most simple concepts, for that matter.

“Who knows,” Rayan replied absently, pulling open the car door and sliding in behind the wheel.

There was a thump as Lorenzo took his place in the passenger seat. Rayan glanced at his phone. It wasn’t uncommon for Tony to send them on dubious errands between jobs. He got a kick out of jerking Rayan around. Tony had never done this with Mathias. But no one jerked Rayan’s former capo around. Fortunately, there were no messages for him that morning. Their next visit, in Villeray, was a good way across town, and he couldn’t spare the time.

Rayan stared out the window as the car inched forward through late-morning traffic. The weather in Montreal went through a strange resurgence this time of year, remnants of summer humidity returning for a short-lived spell. Then just as quickly, the first icy chills descended, sending the city into virtual lockdown for months on end, forcing people underground to scuttle about like roaches. He hated the winters here. He’d spent more nights than he cared to remember praying he didn’t freeze to death.

Rayan watched as a group of teenagers ducked through the rows of backed-up cars in front of them, heading toward Place d’Armes station. They moved with a confidence endemic to their age, naive to the ways in which the world would chew them up and spit them out. One of the kids turned to look over his shoulder, and Rayan started.

Tahir?

The car sidled past, and Rayan found himself scanning the crowd for his face. No , he thought as reality grounded him once again. The boy looked nothing like his brother.

It was the age Rayan remembered most, when Tahir was in his late teens. He’d strutted about like he was king of the streets—though the truth had been very different—as his younger brother, Rayan, remained a devoted disciple. Tahir had managed to pull together a motley crew of kids like them. They’d slept under the Saint-Jacques Street overpass or cycled between metro stations when the snow started to fall.

Rayan’s eyes followed the boy as he stepped through the revolving station doors and out of view, unnerved by how quickly his brother’s face had resurfaced. Turning the car down a side street, Rayan cut across to Saint-Antoine, opting for the longer route. He’d had enough of the traffic.

Mathias scanned Via Roma for the old man. The restaurant was crowded with the lunch rush, and seats were few and far between. The place was an Italian staple, complete with wrought-iron tables and terracotta brickwork crawling with ivy. The weather was warmer than usual for September, and the large French doors had been opened to allow customers to spill out onto the terrace. There he spotted Giovanni, sitting with his face turned toward the sun, an empty seat across from him.

Mathias noted the sleek black Jag idling by the curb not ten feet from where Giovanni was seated, the man’s second, Henri Rossi, at the wheel. Parked in the alley behind the restaurant, his own second waited. Jacques Laberge had come highly recommended by Gurin, having worked with the Bratva as hired muscle for years. The man was originally from Gatineau, and the Russian figured Mathias might appreciate working with a fellow Quebecois, considering that the men he’d painstakingly assembled in the new Hamilton office were almost all Anglos.

Jacques had proven proficient, familiar enough with family politics to know when to pull his head in. He wasn’t too bright, but you didn’t need brains to intercept a bullet. And trivial as it might be, it was a relief not to have to speak English all fucking day.

Mathias made his way over to the table and took Giovanni’s hand, shaking it firmly.

The councilman stood with a grin and smacked him lightly on the cheek. “Good to be back in civilization, Beauvais?”

“You could say that,” Mathias said wryly.

Giovanni’s thin lips tweaked in amusement as he pushed the open bottle of Chianti red in his direction. The man had requested Mathias’s presence in Montreal, which meant he had news he couldn’t discuss over the phone.

“I’ve already ordered. The chicken is outstanding.”

Mathias poured himself a glass of wine but left it standing near the edge of his plate. Feeling a tickle of perspiration, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. They must have been in the thrall of an Indian summer, the temperature set to nosedive at any moment.

“The weather’s improved—I’ll give you that,” Mathias said, breaking off a chunk of bread and smearing it with a thick layer of butter.

Giovanni chuckled. “The weather? You’ve been out of Montreal too long.”

It had been half a year since his reassignment to Hamilton. Every time Mathias came back, he was confronted by the slight that had festered, which reopened whenever he set foot in the city—his city, where he was forced to act like a stranger. Deciding to let the taunt slide, Mathias took a swig from his glass, unmoved by Giovanni’s selection. He’d have preferred something stronger.

The food appeared, and Giovanni winked at the waitress, an older woman who—based on the speed at which their order arrived—knew exactly who they were. The councilman picked up his knife and fork and dove into the dressed chicken breast, mumbling a belated “Bon appétit” between mouthfuls. As Mathias slowly carved into his own piece of meat, he kept his eyes on Giovanni. The man wouldn’t be rushed.

“Russo’s spent the last two weeks in hospital,” Giovanni said finally, letting the information fall on the table between them.

Mathias raised an eyebrow in surprise. Very little got out about Giorgio Russo’s condition, what with the city crawling with rivals ready to take his place. He hadn’t realized things had deteriorated so quickly.

“What are we looking at?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“Rumor is…” Giovanni paused, weighing his next words. “He won’t make it through the winter.”

Mathias kept his face blank as the old man studied him intently, gauging his reaction. Then Giovanni took another bite of the chicken, shrugging. “But rumors are rumors, eh?”

His blithe tone hid a clear warning. This information, bordering on sedition, was not to be repeated.

Mathias nodded, taking a sip of wine. Setting the glass down, he dropped his napkin beside the barely touched plate, not hungry. “And Piero?”

Giovanni stared back at him, chewing slowly, the hint of a frown tugging at his gray mustache. “Piero is waiting patiently in the wings. He’s recruited a handful of soldiers from within the family and, not unlike us, has made his own arrangements.”

Mathias did not give voice to the obscenity that formed on his lips. Instead, he swallowed and reached for his cigarettes, masking the extent to which mention of the man affected him. Giovanni swirled his wine and took a long gulp. He picked the knife and fork back up from his plate, his eyes steely.

“Now, what I want to know is,” Giovanni said, slicing cleanly through a chunk of pale flesh, “are we ready?”