A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he sky was gray and overcast, lending a solemn air to a solemn occasion—the weather itself bending to Giorgio Russo’s iron will. It had made the front page of the Gazette —“Montreal Mob Boss Dead.” In the end, the man had accomplished what few crime bosses managed: death from natural causes.

As they filed out of the Chiesa Madonna della Difesa, bells pealing overhead, Mathias glanced up at the clouds, which threatened rain. Built by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s—and boasting a remarkable portrait of Benito Mussolini behind the main altar—the church remained a historic landmark in the city’s Petite Italia neighborhood. It had played host to many a high-profile family funeral, but nothing quite like this.

Ahead of him, Mathias could see the bronze casket being carried toward the hearse, Russo’s wife and son trailing behind, arm in arm. The front of the church and the street outside teamed with mourners, members of the family and unaffiliated alike, here to pay their respects to the man who had governed the Montreal underground for over half a century.

Despite what he knew about the boss’s declining health, Mathias had still been stunned to receive the call from Giovanni informing him of his death. The councilman had predicted he wouldn’t make it through the winter, but to not have even lasted the month, he must have been hiding the truth about his condition from them all. Mathias watched as Russo’s family climbed into a black limousine and pulled out behind the hearse, headed for the cemetery. A procession of cars began to form behind them, snaking down the street. If one didn’t know any better, they would think this simply a grieving Italian family sending off their much-loved patriarch. It was hard to miss the cops on standby, though, and the flash of cameras as the national media came out in force. Across the street, the municipal police were lined up as if watching a parade, trying to catch sight of new faces and gauge shifting alliances—any hint of what was to come .

Mathias didn’t join the procession to the cemetery. Earlier that morning, he’d paid his respects to the boss in a smaller visitation held at the family-owned funeral home. There, he’d taken Piero Russo’s hand, formally offering his condolences before a gathering of the group’s elite, the two of them looking at each other, giving nothing away as they performed the required courtesies. Mathias didn’t think Piero was brazen enough to knock him off at his own father’s funeral, but it was anyone’s game at this point.

After the news went public, there’d been little chance to regroup. Mathias had worked swiftly to put the final arrangements in place but could do nothing before receiving word from the Quintino, who’d so far remained silent. Giovanni had assured him it was simply a matter of tribute, to give the weight of Russo’s passing time to settle. It made Mathias uneasy. Time was the one thing they couldn’t afford to lose.

“Even my ma back in Hull has heard of Giorgio Russo,” Jacques marveled as they watched the crowd disperse. “It’s like being part of history.”

He was as bad as the reporters clambering for a spot behind the police blockade, turning it into a spectacle. “Man’s not even in the ground, and you’re looking for a souvenir? Have some respect.”

He started back to the car, taking out his cigarettes, Jacques falling into step behind him. Mathias lit one, spotting a familiar face approaching them.

“Thought you’d be at the burial,” Mathias said to Giovanni as they came to a stop. He offered the old man a smoke and lit it for him.

“I’m on my way, waiting for the circus to pass.” Giovanni looked sourly at the police presence on the other side of the street. “We’re giving them something to talk about.”

“Good,” Mathias said. “They need something to do.”

Tony sidled up beside them and slapped him on the back. “Sad day,” he announced soberly. “I’ve known Giorgio Russo forty-three fucking years. Longer than I knew my own father.”

Mathias nodded. “He was a great man.”

The Collections boss accepted a cigarette, and the three of them stood, smoking silently.

“The council wants to see you both tonight,” Giovanni said quietly, keeping his face neutral. “There are things to discuss. The regular spots aren’t safe. Assume, for now, nothing is safe. There’s a house on Maisonneuve West, 4151. Be there at six. ”

He peeled off without waiting for a reply. Mathias noticed Giovanni had several men stationed around him who followed as he walked, escorting him to his car. The man wasn’t taking any chances.

“Well…” Tony sighed, the smoke curling above his head. “There goes my evening plans.”

“You can sit around, counting your money, tomorrow, Tony.”

The old man scowled. “You’re as cocky as ever. Figured six months kissing Truman’s ass would’ve knocked you down a peg.”

Mathias smirked. Tony tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his black leather shoe. “I’m off,” he announced, glancing across the parking lot. “My ride’s waiting.”

Mathias followed his gaze to see Rayan standing by the Mercedes, eyes trained in their direction. “Take him with you tonight,” he said, his voice low. “For protection.”

Tony snorted. “Don’t get him involved in your little game of leapfrog. He’s a good fucking soldier. I don’t have another man in my division decent enough to replace him.”

“Look out for yourself, is all I’m saying.”

“Would you believe that?” Tony chuckled, giving him a scornful grin. “Almost fooled me into thinking you gave a damn.”

Mathias watched as Tony made his way across to the car and Rayan got in behind the wheel. He thought of the list, recalling Piero’s hardened stare as he shook his hand mere feet from his dead father’s body. Tony had no idea. Rayan was already involved. They were all involved. Now they just had to make it out alive.

Stamping out his own cigarette, Mathias turned to Jacques. “Let’s go.”

The mood at the Collections office was muted when they returned from the funeral. Tony sent everyone home, figuring it was a lost cause trying to get a decent day’s work out of them. Rayan stayed behind. On the drive back to the office, Tony had requested that he escort him to a meeting later that evening.

While Mathias had remained cryptic about what would happen in the aftermath of Giorgio Russo’s death, Rayan couldn’t imagine that the meeting involved anything besides succession. As an outsider, he hadn’t been allowed in the church for the service, but as far as he knew, nothing had been formally announced. An unofficial ceasefire hung over the city while funeral arrangements were made, the family and the remainder of Montreal’s criminal factions waiting with bated breath .

He sat in Tony’s office as the man opened a dusty bottle of brandy rescued from one of the filing cabinets. He poured two glasses and eased into his chair with a heavy sigh. “I was gonna say the older you get, the more people you know start dropping dead. But then I remembered what business we’re in. Age ain’t exactly a factor.”

Tony raised his drink. “To Giorgio Russo.”

They clinked glasses, and Rayan took a cursory sip, not wanting to offend, then placed his glass down on the desk between them. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the boss’s death. Russo had always been a remote figure, something of a Montreal celebrity—although the authorities certainly wouldn’t admit to that. He’d come to Canada with nothing and built an empire that spanned multiple provinces, spilling over the southern border into the States when RICO crippled the American-based Nostra. Rayan could respect his ambition and tenacity yet found himself unable to ignore the trail of blood Russo had left in his wake—the nameless scum he’d stepped over, his brother among them, to ensure that his position in the city remained unchallenged.

Tony, loosened by nostalgia and the liquor, told stories of his early days with Russo. Sitting across from him, Rayan found it difficult to imagine a younger, scrappier version of the man featured in these tales. Close calls with the Mounties, going head-to-head with the Red Reapers during a years-long turf war. He felt a renewed admiration for the Collections boss, who had remained a reliable cog in Russo’s machine over the years, pivoting from his youth in the field to building a profitable division that held up many of the family’s other interests.

“That’s when I met the upstart, your old boss.” Tony smirked. “You should have seen him waltzing in here, demanding I give him a job. All the other divisions had turned him away. Some goomah ’s bastard with a degree. Can you imagine? I tell him to fuck off, that he’d be better off downtown working for some finance company—crooks all the same, mind you. He refuses. So I figure I’ll teach him a lesson, scare him off. I send him out on the dirtiest fucking jobs imaginable. But he does every damn one. I had people coming in here, begging to pay—that’s how scared of him they were. Never met a man who didn’t hesitate before his first kill—except Beauvais.”

Tony shook his head ruefully. “It’s impressive, actually, how well he’s severed the human from him. Like he was born for this. You would know—worked with him long enough. Under the skin, all that’s left is cold, hard ambition.”

Rayan swallowed his dissent, remembering how Mathias had held him that night, stiff with fear, fighting for breath. Tony was wrong—there was more to him than that. Mathias was more fragile—more wounded—than he would admit to even himself.

“Always figured that’s why he took you on—fellow underdog and all. Another fuck you to the old guard who doubted him.” Tony knocked back the rest of his glass. “Well…” He rose from his seat with a grunt, retrieving his phone and keys. “We’d better see what the suits want with me.”

Rayan stood and stepped into the hallway to retrieve his jacket. They made their way through the empty office and down the stairs to the back entrance. He held open the door as Tony strode past him into the car park. The old man was steps from the Mercedes when Rayan heard the shot fracturing the quiet evening air and sending Tony pitching forward, first to his knees then face down on the concrete.

Rayan turned in the direction of the sound, pulling back instinctively. The second shot came too quickly, likely meant for his heart but instead puncturing his right shoulder, just below the clavicle.

He felt the impact but not the pain, throwing himself behind the car as his vision tunneled. He tried to reach for his gun, but his right arm hung useless at his side. Rayan heard footsteps approaching and yanked at his holster clumsily with his left hand, managing to free his weapon, his thumb scrabbling for the safety.

Come on, come on.

The man rounded the side of the car, and they both fired. Rayan heard the stranger’s bullet ricochet by his ear, almost tearing through his cheek. His, on the other hand, found its target, embedding deep in the man’s chest, sending him toppling backward. Rayan fired again at the twitching figure on the ground, then once more to be sure, and watched as the man’s fingers stilled, weapon falling out of reach. His own gun slipped from his grip, too heavy to hold.

All thoughts were drawn to the pain that had clawed out from under the adrenaline and was now splintering through his body. He howled, smacking the back of his head against the car, pulling air through his teeth.

“Tony!” he yelled to no answer.

He knew the man was dead. Rayan looked down, the ground beneath him a liquid black. In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate. He reached for it, but the life was leeching from him, mixing with the blood pooling on the pavement.

Then everything went black.