A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Five

W hen Mathias stepped into the sitting room at the safe house on Maisonneuve, it was like waking from a dream, as though the events of the past few hours were simply an illusion and he’d been transported back to the start of the evening.

The Quintino had left—hastily, by the look of the unfinished drinks dotted around the table—disappearing into their various bunkers once the news had reached them. The seat meant for Tony remained empty, the glass untouched. Giovanni stood at the head of the table, smoking. Neither of them said anything.

A wave of exhaustion caught up to Mathias, flooding his body. He gritted his teeth. This was only the beginning.

“Henri called it in,” Giovanni said finally, breaking the silence. “We’ve moved Tony somewhere safe.”

The image of his former boss face down in the car park flashed through Mathias’s mind. He pushed it down, out of reach.

“Nadeau… did he make it?”

“For now,” Mathias said, the blankness yawning, swallowing his insides.

“That’s something, at least.”

Something.

“Piero’s formally announced his succession, denouncing any verdict by the Quintino. He’s sending men to the other groups in the city, demanding their loyalty,” Giovanni said, tossing his cigarette into a half-full tumbler of scotch. “I’ve instructed the council to lay low.”

Mathias reached out, his hand closing around Tony’s abandoned glass.

“Tony was a declaration of war,” Giovanni said, his voice hard, lined with grief.

Mathias lifted the glass and hurled it against the wall. He gripped the edge of the table and upended it, sending everything to the ground, broken glass scattering across the hardwood floor like marbles, the anger finally working its way through his blood, saving him from the void.

The councilman met his furious gaze. “You’ve waited long enough, Mathias,” he said quietly. “Consider yourself off leash. How soon can the Reapers get here?”

“They’re on their way.” Mathias had called Truman on the drive over, and he’d sounded unnervingly enthused.

If Tony was the target, had Rayan simply been caught in the crossfire? He doubted it. Piero would have had the two of them in his sights because of their proximity to Mathias, ensuring that it was personal—a knife to the gut.

“We were due to discuss this earlier. Might as well get it settled now,” Giovanni said with a frown. “Russo did not name his son as successor. Leadership passed to the Quintino, with the express purpose of selecting the new family head. The council was in the room when Giorgio relayed his last wishes. Piero, too, but he’ll deny it. He’s already refuted any ulterior claims as mutiny.”

“And the council’s decision?” Mathias asked.

“The Quintino have elected me as the new capomandamento .”

A look passed between them. It was as though months of furtive discussions had culminated in an outcome that was both predicted and at the same time astonishing. There was no man better suited for the position. He walked to Giovanni and kneeled as the man extended his arm.

Mathias brought his lips to the signet ring on his right hand. “I swear to be faithful, capomandamento ,” he pledged, as he had to the boss before. Mathias had been younger then, with blood already beneath his fingernails—a small price to pay for entrance into a family where he was more than an omission. “If I betray, my flesh shall burn.”

Then Mathias stood, touching cheeks with the old man, cementing his loyalty.

“I’m sure Tony would’ve had a few choice words to say about this,” the new boss remarked, fixing Mathias with a look of cold-blooded fury. “Make the fucker pay.”

The empty parking lot beside the Resto Lafleur in Pointe-Claire was as good a place as any to stage a gathering of the country’s three largest criminal organizations. It had been Truman’s suggestion. He’d traveled up with twenty of his men and set up camp in the lot between the fast-food chain and a neighboring steel-distribution center, awaiting instruction. Mathias had arrived to find the Reapers milling about their bikes, stuffing their faces with burgers and poutine .

Belkov had reluctantly agreed to join them, making his distaste for William Truman clear over the phone. But the Russian was willing to put that aside for the pleasure of long-awaited payback. He had Silvano Paterlini’s name on a bullet and, as promised, had proven extremely patient while waiting for their collective gamble to pay off.

As they waited for Belkov to show, Mathias eyed the group of soldiers Giovanni had assembled. Loyal to Russo and his final wishes, they had heeded the call of the Quintino, pledging their allegiance to the new boss. De Luca was in attendance, along with several familiar faces from Narcotics. So, too, were Franco, Sonny, and the rest of the Collections team. Domenico Lombardi, the Bettings head who’d recently pushed back on Piero’s unending line of credit, was noticeably absent. Mathias heard he’d been whacked on the way home from his goomah ’s shortly after Tony’s hit. Many of the men here had targets on their backs, had heard about Tony, and wanted to strike first.

Mathias was exposed without Jacques, but there was no way he could leave Rayan alone. There was still a chance Piero would send someone to finish the job. He took out his cigarettes, realizing how much he needed one to suppress the tremor beneath his skin. He’d spent months planning, orchestrating his revenge, only to be outmaneuvered from the start. He was barely functioning, acting on pure instinct, the remainder of him retreating within.

He watched as Belkov pulled up in his black Lincoln Town Car, followed by a second identical vehicle, out of which scrambled a team of thick-necked Russian soldiers. The man stepped down from the car, his driver shadowing him cautiously, taking in the surrounding activity.

Belkov appeared unusually sober, his eyebrows creased into a frown, mouth wrapped around a thick cigar. It had been a while since Mathias had seen the Bratva boss in person, most of his interaction with the Russians having gone through Gurin. Mathias couldn’t say he missed him as he steeled himself for the antics Belkov’s presence would provoke.

Truman strode across the parking lot toward them, a cigarette in one hand and a half-eaten cheeseburger in the other. The three men stepped away from the growing assembly of soldiers, eyeing one another warily.

“I take it you’re all aware of the situation,” Mathias began.

“Can’t say I’m too sad about the big man croaking.” Truman grinned, taking a bite out of his burger. “Looks like the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

“Surprised you managed to put two and two together,” Belkov sneered.

Truman paused midchew, his face darkening. “The fuck you saying, Russki?”

“Shut it,” Mathias snapped, his patience down to a sliver. He was done with the man’s childish temper—done indulging his boorish behavior. It was time for Truman to step up and show what he was worth. “We divide and conquer. I’ve got eight names. Smoke them out—no questions. They’ve made their beds. There’s no coming back from this. Belkov—Paterlini’s yours. No one touches Piero but me. Any intel, pass it along. The quicker it’s done, the quicker we clean up the mess.”

“And the other factions?” Belkov asked.

“If they’ve turned, we make an example. But when Piero’s men start falling one by one, they won’t stay that way for long.” Mathias pulled two slips of paper from his pocket and handed them to Truman and the Russian.

“Now you have your own list,” the Bratva boss remarked wryly.

The irony wasn’t lost on Mathias.

“Names and addresses—where they live with their wives, where they keep their mistresses, grandma’s room at the nursing home. You turn over every stone. Hunt down each one.”

Giovanni had not spent the past six months idly. While Mathias had been greasing the wheels with Truman, stamping down sedition in Hamilton, the old man had built up a database of information on all of Piero’s loyalists.

Truman tossed his unfinished burger onto the pavement, glancing at the paper briefly before shoving it in his pocket. “Easy enough. I thought you had a challenge for me, Mathias.” He laughed. “Been a while since I’ve gone headhunting.” Truman turned and strode toward his men, who were gearing up on their bikes. “We’re moving out, shitkickers!”

Beside him, Belkov looked on with scorn. He muttered something in Russian, rocking back on his heels. “They make too much fucking noise.”

“Works in our favor,” Mathias replied, pulling on his cigarette, the smoke rising white against the blackened night sky. “The bigger the distraction, the more cover it gives us.”

“Look at you, Beauvais. Thought of everything.” The Bratva boss slipped his hands into his pockets, fixing Mathias with a disquieting stare. “Heard they shot your dog.”

Mathias’s jaw clenched.

“That part of the plan too?” Belkov asked.

Mathias stared back, refusing to let the man see how his remark had rattled him. The mask hung on by a thread. All of him was hanging on by a thread.

“You hold up your end, Belkov,” Mathias said in a low voice, “and I will mine.”

Mathias sat beside the makeshift hospital bed Martin had put together in the spare room of his apartment. Jacques was asleep on the living room couch, and the doctor’s assistant had excused herself to make coffee. Rayan lay beneath a thin sheet, his chest bare except for the layers of thick padding that encircled his right shoulder. His skin was alarmingly pale, the sheet rising and falling as he took long, labored breaths. Even in sleep, his face flickered in pain. Mathias glanced up to check the bag of morphine on the standing IV.

It was now the early hours of the morning, but Mathias was having trouble leaving the room for his own bed. After briefing Truman and Belkov, he and a handful of soldiers had crawled the city from Saint-Marie to Longue-Pointe for clues as to Piero’s whereabouts. An eerie silence had descended over Montreal. Everyone seemed to be ducking for cover, afraid of getting drawn into the conflict.

He laid a hand on the inside of Rayan’s forearm and traced the line of muscle to where the bandages began. Staring down at his softened features, Mathias wondered how lasting the damage would be. He reached for the man’s hand and felt it shudder, the fingers gripping his.

Rayan’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth creasing into a grimace. “You’re here.” He spoke with considerable effort, his voice sounding as if it came from far away. He was barely lucid, cloudy with morphine.

“I’m here.”

Rayan managed a weak grin. “Good.”

They sat in silence, Mathias waiting for him to drift off once again.

“I saw him,” Rayan murmured.

Mathias frowned. “Who?”

Rayan blinked as if he’d forgotten Mathias was in the room. “My brother. Said it’s not so bad.”

A weight pressed against Mathias’s chest. When he’d first seen Rayan on the ground, blood pooling beside his body, he had been confronted by an image of the young man, whose death still managed to play out clearly in his mind.

“I used to think I wouldn’t mind it,” Rayan said, staring at him with a strange intensity. “Then I met you.”

Mathias froze, the words lodging in his head. He looked at the battered man and felt the thud of his pulse beneath his fingertips. “Tell me about him.”

“Tahir?”

Mathias nodded. In all their time together, they’d never talked about his brother—never acknowledged what they’d both seen .

“I idolized him. He looked out for me, and I did everything he asked,” Rayan said. “Sometimes I wonder how different my life would’ve been if I hadn’t.”

Mathias said nothing, his gaze falling to the faded scar along Rayan’s throat.

“In a way, he had it coming,” he continued. “He was reckless. We were homeless. Our days were numbered…” He flinched, not quick enough to wipe the pain from his face.

“You need to rest.”

Rayan took a shuddering breath. “I should have gone first, made him stay at the office—”

“Don’t insult the man,” Mathias cut in. “You think you could convince Tony to do anything?” But the thought pierced him. If Rayan had gone first, would he be here right now?

Rayan closed his eyes once more, his face slack with fatigue. “I know what he meant to you.”

In all the chaos, Mathias had avoided thinking about Tony. He felt the ache finally enclosing. In his own father’s absence, the old man had taken him in like a bothersome wayward son. He’d vouched for Mathias when no one else would and seen his potential despite the marks to his name. And Mathias had never thanked him for it.

He watched as Rayan slept. Sleep didn’t come easy for him. Mathias wondered how much he was to blame for that, and for all of this. Rayan did not belong with the family. He never had. The man had no interest in money, status, or power games. He was a good soldier, but only practice had taught him that. Mathias didn’t spare a thought for those who fell on the wrong side of his gun. Rayan remembered each one.

He felt a hollowing as the truth closed in. Rayan stayed because of him. He wouldn’t leave so long as Mathias needed him. Yet while he remained with the family, Rayan would always be in the firing line, his life forfeited.

Rayan had become a liability to Mathias—to his ability to function and fulfill his obligations. He’d encountered many situations over the years, some far more treacherous, but never had he felt fear like when he’d pulled into that parking lot. Mathias had nearly lost himself, paralyzed with indecision, his mind shutting down. He could not risk being this immobilized again.

He leaned forward, brushing Rayan’s hair from his forehead. Then he gently extracted each of Rayan’s fingers and moved his hand away from the warmth, the life that pulsed through the man’s body, distancing himself from the fear.