A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

O nce the shipments had taken off and Truman was making more money in a month than he had in the past year, Mathias found himself invited into the Hamilton circuit and became a regular attendee at the man’s late-night gatherings. While Gurin could barely believe the about-face, Mathias found the constant interactions tedious. William Truman was crude, quick to offend, and a raging drunk yet, depending on how much liquor he had in him, was also proving to be increasingly malleable and almost eager to please.

The more reliant Truman became on the family’s good favor, the more influence Mathias discovered he had, which was something he hadn’t anticipated. He felt the tables beginning to turn. He’d only wanted to reassert the family’s position in Hamilton, but with Truman’s burgeoning alliance, it was possible Mathias could stake an even bigger claim on the region.

After reestablishing the local office, he’d recruited a handful of men more competent than the dregs Moretti had left behind. They’d proven efficient at maintaining the family’s growing territory, turnover eclipsing anything that had come out of the satellite office in decades.

“So, he’s on the ground, and two of my guys are just taking to him.” They were at the Iguana, and Truman was regaling him with war stories, one of his regular girls perched on his lap as he pawed at her large breasts. “But his fucking mouth is shut. He’s a steel trap. Never seen it get so bloody.” He trailed his hand down the woman’s stomach and slipped it absently between her legs. Mathias recognized his old watch prominently adorning the man’s left wrist.

“Nothing compared to Russo’s work.” Truman gave a low whistle. “I was there in the nineties, and I saw what he did during the biker war. When that man dies, he’ll go into the fucking flames.”

“And you?” Mathias raised an eyebrow. “Waiting at the pearly gates?”

Truman chuckled. “Hey, I’m no saint, but there’s bad, and then there’s bad. ”

Mathias thought of Dante, the Nine Circles. It was almost comical that they were sitting here, two of the country’s most notorious criminals, comparing evils.

“While Russo’s alive, there’s no getting around your Quebec exile,” Mathias said. “But things are changing. One of these days, they’ll be different. I’d like to think we both stand to gain, if I can rely on the Reapers’ backing.”

Truman pushed the woman off his lap. “Get us some more drinks—there’s a good girl,” he said, palming her ass as she walked away. He leaned forward, face serious. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I may require your assistance,” Mathias said deliberately. “Sooner rather than later.”

Truman’s mouth pulled into a slow grin. “If the price is right, you can count on it.”

“It will be,” Mathias said, downing the rest of his glass.

On his recent visit to Montreal, he’d met with De Luca about sweetening the Reapers’ cut in exchange for Truman’s help. Giovanni had also agreed to extend their territory up to the provincial border. But that particular carrot, he would save for a job well done. No need for Truman to get ahead of himself.

“Gurin says you’re dropping protection for North End.”

Truman shrugged. “You can have it. We’re tired of dealing with the Mexicans. It was fun when we took it off Moretti, but it’s too much work.”

Mathias had become familiar with the man’s aversion to hard work. It was an easy virtue to exploit.

The woman reappeared, placing two fresh drinks down before them.

“Come here, honey,” the Reapers’ boss said, yanking her back to the table. “I didn’t say thank you.” He leaned forward and spat in the woman’s open mouth. She gave him an indulgent smile before continuing on her way.

The disgust must have shown on Mathias’s face, because Truman looked at him with a sneer. “Got a wife at home, Beauvais?” He laughed. “On your best behavior?”

“Where I’m from, that means something else entirely,” he said carefully.

Truman chuckled. “Girls love that shit. The worse you treat them, the more they like it.”

Mathias took a cursory pull from his drink, cheap bourbon and a grueling day contributing to the piercing headache behind his eyes.

“Speaking of, I have a gift for you,” Truman announced. Mathias’s stomach turned. He could see where this was heading. “In honor of our joint venture, bygones and all that. Fresh off the boat, first-class Euro pussy. ”

Truman knew only one way to conduct business—in seedy clubs, with bottomless liquor, the same girls offered up again and again. Lap dances, blowjobs, upstairs for full service. The man had a harem he took with him everywhere, offloading women onto his guests like party favors.

“One of our best girls—I don’t let just anyone fuck her,” he continued. “Consider it good faith, for our ongoing partnership.”

What the fuck is it with this town and good faith? The ache in his head intensified, pounding at his temples. It was past midnight, he had business to attend in the morning, and here he was, forced into patronizing one of Truman’s handpicked hookers.

But there was little choice in the matter. To refuse the man’s gift would be a slap in the face and would set back the progress he’d made. And Mathias needed this to work. They were relying on the Reapers’ muscle. Besides, he was surrounded by not just Truman’s band of thugs but his own men as well. His eyes flicked to where Jacques sat at the bar, surveying the club’s goings-on with mild curiosity. As always, Mathias had to ensure that his authority both as a man and as the family’s regional head remained intact.

Truman beckoned over a young woman with white-blond hair, who made her way to their table. “This is Sugar. She’ll take good care of you—trust me,” he said, leering. “I speak from experience.”

Mathias cringed inwardly. Not only did he have to fuck her, but he had to do so knowing the man had been there first.

Truman lifted his drink and clinked it against Mathias’s. “Pleasure doing business with you, Beauvais.”

Mathias raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the drink to mask the taste of bile rising in his throat.

After instructing his second to wait by the bar, Mathias followed Sugar upstairs to a series of numbered rooms. She was slight with dark eyes and small rounded breasts. Beneath the sheer slip of a dress, he could see the jut of her hip bones. Her arms hung, pale and limp, at her sides.

Giving him a sultry smile, she opened the door to room 7 and waited as Mathias made his way inside. It was only big enough for a double bed and a pair of side tables. She closed the door behind him and locked it with a click .

Mathias pulled out his cigarettes, lit one and took a drag, delaying the inevitable. The girl took it as a cue to totter over and reach for his belt buckle. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. For a moment, she appeared confused, attempting to hide it with an impish pout.

“Don’t you want Sugar to make you feel good?” Her accent was thick, Baltic or Eastern European.

Mathias exhaled roughly, letting her go. He didn’t have time for this shit. “Bend over the bed.”

His tone must have registered because, despite her earlier efforts, the woman didn’t protest. She slipped off her heels, stepped out of her dress, and leaned over the bed, presenting herself in his direction. Mathias finished his cigarette, a coldness spreading across his body. His limbs felt heavy, like dead weight.

He stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray on one of the tables, shrugged off his jacket, and threw it down on the bed next to the girl, who was still poised, watching him over her shoulder. His eye fell on a platter of condoms beside the ashtray, and he picked one up and slipped it between his fingers.

Mathias stood behind her, unbuckling his pants. He thought he would have mustered something by now. The woman’s blatant display only served to further his lack of interest. He stared past her, allowing his vision to blur at the edges, and summoned the feel of his fingers in Rayan’s hair, finding the curve of his skull. He thought of how the man would press against him, as though even with their bodies fused together, he couldn’t get close enough.

Mathias unwrapped the condom and slid it along his hardening shaft. The morning of his last visit, he’d found Rayan in the shower. Pushing his slick body up against the tiles, Mathias had held Rayan’s wrists behind his back, preventing him from touching his cock—claiming dominion over him, his pleasure, his release.

He entered the girl in one thrust. Pressing down on her lower back, he moved fast, thankful for the layer of latex between them. She began to gasp and moan.

“Quiet,” he instructed sharply, and she fell silent.

Mathias focused on the contact his hips made with her ass, the friction of his movement inside her. Every time he got close, something about the encounter would jar him, and he’d lose it, having to reach deeper within himself to invoke the necessary response. He wondered if it had always been so much work. Maybe he’d become spoiled, more familiar with the effort of holding himself back than forcing himself through. In the beginning, his separation from Rayan had proven a useful tool, but lately, Mathias found himself less willing to draw him into places like these—to allow his desire for Rayan, set on a hair trigger, to share the same space as the company he reviled.

They continued in silence until Mathias came perfunctorily, relieved to be done and end their brief interaction. After throwing the used condom in the trash, he buckled his pants and picked up his jacket. The girl sat on the bed, curling her legs beneath her as she watched him.

“What’s next, baby?” Sugar smiled lazily, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. “You got me all worked up.”

Mathias reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. He peeled off a handful and placed them down on the side table.

“That one’s on the house,” the girl teased, raising her arms and stretching out across the bed. He saw the dilated pupils and the smudge of darkness under her eyes. Around her neck and thighs lingered the shadow of bruising, barely visible in the low lighting.

“My regards to Truman,” Mathias said, turning toward the door. He felt the girl’s eyes on him as he stepped out into the hallway.

At his apartment, Mathias collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed. His skin crawled, his stomach heavy. He needed to wash the woman off him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Despite the late hour, his thumb moved on its own, punching in the number from memory. He hovered over the call button but regained enough sense not to dial, dropping the phone onto the bed beside him. Mathias realized he’d only wanted to hear the man’s voice—how he hesitated before speaking, as though juggling multiple threads of thought. He often felt the real Rayan existed far beneath the surface, and what he did let people see was a carefully managed version of what they expected. But recently, the shroud had begun to lift, frustration, possession, and that disarming softness breaking through.

There was a buzz as his phone started to ring. He picked it up, stiffening when he saw the number on the screen.

“Sorry, it’s early.”

“It’s late.”

“Right.” Rayan laughed softly. “Figured there was a chance you were still up. ”

“Unfortunately.” Mathias pulled himself up, unable to shake the eeriness of the coincidence.

“I spoke to Hassir, who works for Ahmad. He said the Algerians are pulling out of the port because of competition with Truman.”

Mathias had a feeling that might happen. But the family’s cut with the Algerians paled in comparison to what they were bringing in from the Reapers’ shipments. “I’ll discuss it with De Luca. There might be a way to alternate the timing. What else?”

There was a pause. “That’s it.”

“You called me at two in the morning with that hot tip?”

“What else?” Rayan countered. “It’s cold as balls. There’s a drunk kid hurling in the gutter outside my building.”

Mathias snickered. “Why are you up? Can’t sleep?”

Another pause. Rayan didn’t talk about the dreams, but Mathias had watched the man tremble, muttering in a language he didn’t understand. When he’d woken him, Rayan had startled like a cornered animal.

“You know there are pills for that,” Mathias continued.

“I know.” Rayan’s tone was surly. “What’s your excuse?”

Mathias recalled the woman, the ugly slap of their bodies meeting. He closed his eyes. “How cold?”

“Two below.”

“That’s nothing.”

Rayan hated the cold. Mathias always noticed a change in him when the weather turned, a kind of steely trepidation.

“There might be something else,” Rayan began cautiously. “But I don’t know how much you should read into it.”

He stood, walked to the window, and pushed back the blinds. Lake Ontario stretched before him, the water black and glistening. “Go on.”

“Tony was called in to see the boss this morning. He came back to the office, looking grim.”

Mathias sighed, surprised by the twinge of sadness he felt. Giorgio Russo had carved his place into the annals of Montreal history. It was hard to imagine what the city, and the family, would look like in his absence.

“It’s close. Giovanni thinks only a matter of months.”

“What happens then?” Rayan asked quietly.

Mathias stared out the window as the lights flickered across the harbor. “We wait.”