A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“ M r. Nadeau has not been taking his pain medication,” Dr. Martin said at the beginning of his weekly checkup call.

Mathias stood in the bedroom of his apartment, staring out the window at the city below, a rare moment of respite amid the frenzied activity of the past fortnight. He came back to shower, eat, and fit in a couple hours of sleep before he was needed again for meetings with family elite—endless fires to put out. He’d made efforts to keep his distance from Rayan, with the doctor’s calls the only update on his condition. Not for the first time since Rayan’s injury, Mathias noted how difficult a patient he was.

“I noticed the bottle was full on my last visit.”

Mathias clicked his tongue in agitation. “What is he supposed to be taking?”

“Two tablets of Percocet twice a day.”

He looked down at the cars streaming along René-Lévesque. They slowed, the crowd of pedestrians surging onto the road—young women, men in suits, mothers pushing babies. Small, insignificant, completely out of touch.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said finally.

Later that day, he found himself with an elusive free afternoon. Jacques was starting to sag on his feet, so Mathias had dismissed him early. He remembered that not everyone functioned well in chaos. That ability seemed unique to him.

He drove to Rayan’s apartment, a route familiar enough that he could do it in his sleep. Once Rayan had been able to stand on his own, he’d insisted on recovering at home. Mathias had seen him only once since then, in part due to affairs that needed tending but mostly because he found it difficult to witness Rayan’s silent suffering. A wall had gone up, their old fluidity gone. From the doctor’s briefings, Mathias knew that his recovery was gradual. Rayan received daily visits from a nurse for physical therapy and weekly visits from Martin to check his progress .

Mathias parked his car around the back of the building and let himself into the lobby. He rode the elevator to Rayan’s floor, not bothering to knock as he turned the silver key in the lock. The place was quiet, the blinds still drawn. He walked into the living room, which was sparse but for a couch and coffee table. At the bedroom, he pushed open the door to reveal Rayan lying on his side on top of the bed, his back to him. Mathias stood, fingers resting on the handle. Then he swung it closed and retreated into the kitchen.

It didn’t him take long to find the neglected bottle of Percocet, filled almost to the brim. He shook his head in frustration. The man was so stubborn.

Mathias twisted it open and knocked two pale-yellow pills from the bottle into the lid. After depositing them on the counter, he grabbed a knife, positioned the flat side above the pills, and slammed down on it with the heel of his hand, crushing them into dust. He reached into the cabinet above his head and pulled down a glass then filled it at the sink and scraped the powdered pills into the water, where they dissolved clear.

“What are you doing here?” Rayan stood in the entrance to the hallway, his right arm wrapped tightly in a sling against his chest, preventing any movement from his shoulder to his wrist. A shirt hung from his shoulders, the empty sleeves trailing at his sides.

Mathias pushed the glass of water across the counter in Rayan’s direction, pocketing the bottle of pills. “Figured I’d see how you were holding up. You’re standing.”

Rayan stepped forward gingerly, disguising the discomfort the movement seemed to trigger. “What a fucking accomplishment,” he muttered.

The injury had been hard on him, bringing out another side than his usual stoic agreeability. He’d become curt, thorny, and uninterested in the veneer of compliance.

Mathias took down another glass and opened the cabinet above the sink to retrieve the bottle of Macallan the man kept for when he was there. Pouring his own drink, he watched as Rayan lifted the water to his lips and took a long sip.

“Is the physio helping?”

“Yes,” Rayan replied guardedly, and Mathias decided not to press the issue. He was doing the recovery exercises. That was the important part. The fact that he wasn’t noticeably improving—that was something else.

Rayan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me what’s happened? ”

Mathias knew he was struggling with the isolation, pushed to the periphery in a time of complete overhaul. “Short or long version?” He took a swig of scotch, the thick liquid lining his throat.

“Knowing your aversion to embellishment, I figure there’s only a short version.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t wrong. “Piero is dead.”

He watched the news register on Rayan’s face. Was it relief?

“Belkov and Truman have assisted in taking back the city,” he continued as though Piero Russo was already a footnote—a mild inconvenience and not the reason for Mathias’s expulsion from the city, Rayan’s painful debilitation, and Tony lying six feet in the dirt.

“There’s been some rebellion. The Algerians have pushed back, and rumor is the Batos are next. They got a whiff of Piero’s plan and thought they’d exploit the confusion. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Impressive,” Rayan murmured, his features darkening. “More than I’ve gathered reading the paper. From the headlines, you’d think the city was imploding.” His hand shot out, and he steadied himself against the counter.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Rayan gave him an icy glare. He did not like being treated as if he were anything less than capable. But he downed the rest of the water and stepped back toward the couch. Mathias followed and took a seat across from him, nursing his scotch.

“What were you going to do if I didn’t drink it?” Rayan looked at him with quiet defiance. So he’d known, and he’d drunk it anyway.

“I wasn’t above holding you down, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mathias replied evenly, lifting his own drink. “Thankfully, you saved me the trouble.”

Rayan stared at him. “Why haven’t you come?” he asked, his voice low. “I’ve waited.”

Mathias’s gaze fell on the curve of the man’s jaw. His fingers itched to reach across the table between them. Instead, he shifted his attention to the series of bandages layered across the right side of Rayan’s bare chest, stopping just below his shoulder.

“Can you move it?”

They both watched as Rayan slowly bent the fingers of his right hand into a fist, his arm shuddering in protest, the pain searing across his face.

“That’s enough,” Mathias said.

Rayan sank back into the couch.

“You’re not taking your pills.”

He looked at him wordlessly .

“Martin said you’re not eating—”

“What else did the doctor say?” Rayan cut in. “Seems you’d rather talk to him than ask me.”

Mathias was surprised when no reprimand jumped to his lips. “Why aren’t you taking them?”

“They make me cloudy, make the dreams unbearable,” Rayan admitted reluctantly. “I don’t recognize myself when I’m on them. My brother—” He stopped, exhaling. “I’m just one bad decision away from ending up like him.”

Things began to click into place, things about him Mathias hadn’t been able to put his finger on. “Choosing to get well isn’t a bad decision. Shuffling around here in pain, on the other hand,” he said, taking the bottle of Percocet from his pocket and placing it on the table. “Take the damn pills, Rayan. Worry about the rest when you’re strong enough to fight it.”

Rayan glanced away, his eyes softening as the meds kicked in.

“You should lie down.” Mathias stood and was surprised when Rayan allowed himself to be guided to the bedroom. His hands brushed bare skin, stoking tendrils of electricity that pushed against his resolve.

“Must be tough,” Mathias mused as he helped Rayan into bed. “Not much you can do with a busted right arm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Rayan said nothing. He’d grown too good at pretending there was nothing to want.

“How long has it been?” Mathias asked, pulling at the bedclothes, his hands moving on their own, so used to laying claim to Rayan’s body that he found himself unable to hold back.

Rayan grabbed at the sheet, the muscles in his neck tensing. “Don’t.”

“How long?” he asked again, fingers snaking beneath the waistband of Rayan’s sweats.

He jerked, his good hand gripping Mathias’s wrist, attempting to hide the constriction of desire that pulled at his features. Mathias could already see the telltale flush along his neck and hear the quickening of his breath. Then, as though accepting the futility of his resistance, Rayan let go.

Mathias captured his cock in his fist, and a low moan escaped the man’s mouth. Rayan’s eyes flew to his face, staring up at him. Mathias was struck by the image of that same face wrenched in agony as he held him down on the kitchen table .

He froze, heart thudding. Releasing him, Mathias turned away. “You should rest,” he said, catching a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror, lust filling his pupils.

Mathias stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. He seethed with need, cursing his own weakness. Retrieving his phone and keys from the counter, he spotted the battered Saint-Exupéry paperback in a stack of books on the windowsill. Mathias picked it up, the cover falling open to reveal an inscription written neatly in black ink. He read it slowly, the words burrowing beneath his skin. Then he snapped the book shut and tucked it under his arm as he strode out of Rayan’s apartment.

Mathias was once again seated in the VIP room at Le Rouge, watching the collection of family elite—albeit slightly diminished—shuffle through the door. It was the first meeting presided over by the new boss, a gathering both necessary and fraught.

Any major leadership upheaval saw members take sides, however discreetly. After weeks of bloodshed, Giovanni Bianchi had established himself as the undisputed head of the family. From here, the only way was forward. The group had come together anew, putting aside the fracture of disagreement to focus on its survival.

Mathias noted a new deference in the way the old guard treated him. While in the past they’d merely tolerated him, now his presence necessitated respect. They were afraid of him, of what he was capable of. No one in the family’s history had executed a takeover with the weight of rival factions. Mathias had left the city slighted only to return unassailable—not least by the fact that his bullet had felled Giorgio Russo’s son.

Truman and the Reapers had departed Montreal with a substantial increase in port access and a formal extension of their territory as far east as Gatineau—a generous reward for taking some of the heat off the family and proving a valuable resource in the campaign against Piero. Mathias’s alliance with the man meant Giovanni was reluctant to relieve him entirely of his Hamilton duties. Considering how much still remained in the air, Mathias would see what he could do about that.

At the moment, his focus was on cleanup—reestablishing the status quo and ensuring that the city’s various groups remain compliant. That and placating the cops. The family had stirred up enough trouble for the RCMP to get involved, and Federal attention demanded Federal-sized bribes. Fortunately for Mathias, he had several contacts embedded in the national HQ and maintained a charitable relationship with the chief of the municipal police.

The previous evening, Mathias had met with Belkov, who’d celebrated the news of Truman’s departure, claiming to notice the diminished stink. They were still exploiting the Russian’s muscle. His soldiers mixed in with their own as they moved through the city, stamping out sedition. In return for his support, Belkov had been awarded formerly disputed territory south of the city, padding the Russian supply route through to the States and legitimizing the group’s position.

As a gesture of goodwill, Mathias had personally removed protection fees for the Bratva in Montreal and indefinitely extended the port waiver, paid for with the cut he’d negotiated on the Reapers’ narcotics imports. In the end, it was a small price to pay to keep the Russians on their side. The last thing the family needed was a war on multiple fronts.

The waitress brought over his refill and placed it on the table before him. The division heads were seated to his right—with the notable exception of Collections, an absence that weighed heavy on Mathias. To his left, the remaining members of the Quintino had taken their seats: Enzo Carbone, Gabriele Giordano, and Armando Bernardi.

The boss sat at the head of the table, in no hurry to start the meeting. Giovanni had proven unflappable over the last several weeks, executing his takeover with a calculated precision. There was no question he was ready for the job, the past year merely serving as a rehearsal while Russo’s health slipped deeper into decline.

Giovanni had known something different was needed to guarantee his rise to the top. Sentiment would always lean toward a bloodline succession—the family was nostalgic that way. Which was why the man had sought him out, even back then, the kernel of a plan already taking hold. Because Mathias was something different, and he’d wielded that difference, turning it into his strength. Nostalgia didn’t stand a chance against brute force.

Finally, the boss raised his glass, and the room stilled. Mathias felt the tension, thick as fog. This was the first handover he’d witnessed in his lifetime, the bloody aftermath of Giorgio Russo’s ascent to power having occurred long before he was born.

“In this room today, we come together as a family,” Giovanni announced. “Against us is the teeming horde that exists outside these doors. Let us remember that first, especially now.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the assembly of men tired of the bloodshed and infighting—men who’d much rather things returned to normal. They wanted to go back to receiving thick envelopes of cash and enjoying the finer things in life: women, food, booze.

“I’d like to acknowledge a great absence in the room,” the boss said soberly. “That of our distinguished leader, Giorgio Russo, who steered the group through fifty-two years of legacy in this town.” He gave the assembly a moment to acknowledge this extraordinary feat. “And I would be remiss if I didn’t honor Collections head and longtime friend, Antonio Giraldi, who was taken too soon and whose advice and expertise will be sorely missed.”

Giovanni caught Mathias’s eye, and he brought the scotch to his lips and drank in Tony’s honor. The funeral had been modest. The disruption to the family’s equilibrium meant the man wasn’t extended the full rites of someone in his position. But his family had been taken care of—Giovanni had made sure of that—his wife and a daughter about Mathias’s age, who had the old man’s eyes. Tony had never spoken of them. All those late nights at the office, working and drinking, Mathias hadn’t realized there was anyone waiting at home. Tony’s wife had stood by the casket, nodding blankly while mourners filed past to shake her hand and offer condolences, like a stranger in a room full of people.

Rayan, barely walking at the time, was furious when Mathias had refused to let him attend. But Mathias’s concern for his safety, a paranoia that hadn’t eased since the day of the shooting, had ultimately won out. Rayan had always seemed untouchable, possessing an uncanny ability to emerge from danger unscathed. That illusion had been shattered. Mathias knew now how vulnerable he was, how easily he could die. In the end, it was good Rayan hadn’t gone. He still blamed himself for Tony’s death, and knowing the old man had left a family behind would only further his guilt.

“My appointment means the Quintino are a member short.” Giovanni paused, allowing the implications of that fact to settle. “The council and I have discussed at length, and Mathias Beauvais has been put forward for the role. Mathias has proven his dedication, his ability, many times—and to great esteem in recent weeks. I welcome his counsel.”

Mathias gripped his drink, feeling the eyes of men he’d once deferred to shift to him—men who’d known him simply as Federico Mancini’s bastard son.

The boss turned to him, fixing him with a measured stare. “So, Beauvais, what do you say?”

He recalled Giovanni’s words the day at the race track, cryptic at the time but now becoming clear: “There may be greater tolerance for difference, provided that difference looks the same. ”

“It would be an honor, boss,” he replied.

Slowly, men stood, not with derision but with respect on their faces, each of them raising a glass to toast Mathias’s appointment and pledge their loyalty. Mathias was no longer a shadow lurking in the background, waiting for his due. He had a seat at the table, directly below the boss, in clear line of view.

Through the haze of triumph, Mathias felt the cold hand of fear. His mind flashed to Rayan slumped against the car. To be seen meant to be subject to the full scrutiny of the family, every flaw and weakness magnified. Too many times, Mathias had caught himself looking at the man when he thought no one was watching.

How brazen he’d become.

He knew then what his acceptance meant. There was no room for error. Any defect would need to be eliminated. He had compromised himself. And if Mathias was compromised, so too was the family.