Page 1 of A Life Chosen

Chapter One

The smoked-meat sandwich was the only thing worth ordering at Gino’s Deli. The mountain of tender brisket piled on top of a slice of rye smeared with yellow mustard was simple, unpretentious, and a bit stringy—much like the owner, Gino Castelli. He was an old friend of the family, his grandfather having arrived on the same boat from Sicily as Montreal mob boss Giorgio Russo. Or so the story went.

Rayan assumed the decision to swing by Gino’s that afternoon had less to do with the sandwich and more to do with family loyalty, something his capo, Mathias Beauvais, did not take lightly. It was rare for the two of them to stop to eat. Most days, they took lunch as they drove, any breaks between jobs kept brief. But today was different. Mathias had been invited to the boss’s residence to meet privately with Giorgio Russo. Even Rayan, who occupied the lowest rank in the group’s hierarchy, knew what an honor that was.

They sat in a small booth at the back of the deli, flanked on one side by the frosted display of meat and fish and on the other by a large window overlooking the street. Through the glass, Rayan could see the sheen of a recent shower coating the sidewalk outside.

“You’re wrong,” Mathias said from his seat across the table, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing slowly. He’d been interested to discover that Rayan had finished reading Dante’sDivine Comedy. “Each circle is a digression.”

“I didn’t say they were equal,” Rayan countered.

“But you don’t agree with Alighieri’s order.”

“No.”

Mathias picked up his cup of coffee, gray eyes betraying his amusement. “Then what, in your esteemed opinion, is worthy of unseating treachery?”

The door chimed, and a large man strode into the shop, his eyebrows thick, almost touching. He stepped over to the counter and spoke loudly in English. Mathias glanced up, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Violence,” Rayan replied absently, his attention shifting to the disagreement the customer appeared to be having with Gino’s son behind the register. Nick Castelli was waving a hand in the man’s face, telling him to leave. The man reacted by knocking over a rack of newspapers by the door. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Mathias put down his coffee. “Pick them up,” he ordered from across the store.

The man turned to look at them, his face darkening. “The fuck did you say?” He strode toward their table.

Rayan stood, instinctively placing himself between the mammoth of a man and his boss. “He said, pick them up,” he echoed in a low voice, tilting his chin toward the pile of fallen newspapers.

“You gonna make me?”

Rayan slipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks, and his jacket fell open to reveal the Beretta resting against his ribs. The man straightened up, glancing at Mathias then back to Nick at the register, who was shaking his head. Without a word, the man returned to the front of the store, stooped awkwardly to gather the newspapers, and dumped them onto the counter. With a last look in their direction, the man stumbled out of the shop and onto the street. Rayan took his seat as Nick gave him a brief salute.

Mathias pulled a pack of Du Maurier Signatures from his jacket pocket and lit one. He smoked in silence, their earlier conversation abandoned. Rayan wondered if his thoughts were on the impending meeting with the boss. If Mathias had any reservations, he gave no indication. He was as impenetrable as ever, his sharp features set in the usual half frown so that he appeared perpetually irritated.

When Rayan had first started working for Mathias, getting through a job without a single rebuke counted as success. His capo’s approval lay in his silence. From there, Rayan had trained himself to intuit, to the point where Mathias could instruct him with a look alone. It was an unexpected intimacy, allowing him to understand the man from the subtlest of glances and read the underlying message in his tone. Mathias was different from anyone he’d ever encountered, something about him encircling Rayan and drawing him in.

A foolish endeavor from its very inception—his want to be close to Mathias. Rayan knew now what it had spawned and its potential for frightening repercussions. He’d made peace with the futility of these feelings, knowing that theonly way he could demonstrate them was in service to his boss. And so he had done just that, honing himself into the best possible tool he could be.

“On the house, gentlemen,” Nick said as they stood to leave and ushered them out like visiting dignitaries.

“Regards to your father,” Mathias said, looking down at his watch. They were running early.

“Did Tony say what it’s about?” Rayan asked as they walked to the Mercedes, which was parked outside on the street.

Antonio Giraldi was head of the family’s collections department and oversaw the formal lending side of the group’s activities. Mathias had worked directly under Tony for years. Collections covered everything from bailing out failing local businesses to topping up a politician’s kitty during a tough election year. The catch, of course, was the ludicrously high interest—and what would happen if they didn’t pay. This was where Rayan’s capo had proven efficient: clients rarely delayed payments when Mathias appeared at their door.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Mathias replied, pulling open the passenger door and getting into the car.

Mathias had been to the boss’s private residence only once before. The stately brick townhouse was situated on what the cops called Mafia Row, a manicured stretch of the Ahuntsic suburb that housed not only Russo and his wife but several close members of the family as well.

Giorgio Russo, head of the Fifth Family in Canada, had always considered Montreal the true gem of the north. It was home to the largest faction of the Sicilian Mafia outside of Italy. Even the American-based Cosa Nostra, having been decimated across the border by the FBI, had come to accept the concentrated heft of the family in Quebec. The province’s radical cultural history and restrictive access to the RCMP—the country’s national police service—made it prime breeding ground for the group’s activities.

Since he’d madecaporegimewith a territory under his jurisdiction, Mathias had found himself one step closer to Russo’s inner circle. The man who had always appeared a remote figurehead was now extending an invitation to Mathias to meet in his home and converse with him on a first-name basis.

Rayan pulled the car into the driveway in front of the boss’s house. He cut the engine as Mathias reached beneath his jacket to unfasten the gun strapped to hisshoulder holster. The absence of its weight against his chest left him feeling exposed, but the rules were clear—bringing a weapon to a meeting with Giorgio Russo meant one thing and one thing only.

“Wait here,” he said, handing Rayan his gun.

Mathias stepped out of the car and straightened his jacket. Climbing the steps to the front door, he marveled at how quaint the operation appeared from the outside. Here lived a man with his finger in every major deal in the city. Hundreds of thousands of dollars passed through the family each week, and this was where Russo had chosen to enjoy his prominence—a modest two-story brick house in suburban Montreal.

---