Page 13 of A Life Chosen

Mathias took a long drag from his cigarette, thankful for the moment to temper a flash of anger. He resented his assumption of control, yet Giovanni was right—most of the men up high who pocketed the money had no idea how things on thestreet worked. They were unconcerned with the agreements and historic affiliations that led to a tenuous peace among their rivals.

“I don’t like to negotiate,” Mathias said, hiding his annoyance.

Giovanni shrugged. “Any great victory involves compromise. But it’s early days—something to keep in mind for now. Be civil. Don’t go burning bridges.”

Mathias thought of his recent visit with Belkov. There was a fine line between burning bridges and cracking down on insolence.

The old man pressed the small black button beneath the table, signaling the waitress. “Now, how about another round?”

Chapter Five

Despite the establishment’s relative safety compared to the constant danger that marked their line of work, they were jumped while walking from Le Rouge to the car. Mathias, drunker than usual after his meeting with Giovanni, had passed Rayan the keys on their way out the door. They were steps away from the Mercedes when the man appeared, stooped and hooded, the glint of a hunting knife in his hand. He moved erratically, bouncing from foot to foot. His words slurred when he told them to hand over their wallets, shuffling awfully close to where Mathias stood with hands in his pockets.

Rayan’s capo looked amused. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Mathias, in part due to the liquor, did not see this tweaked-out man as a threat. But Rayan had encountered many of his kind on the streets of Montreal—unpredictable, willing to put a knife in your back for the food in your hand. He gripped the keys, the metal digging into his palm.

Mathias’s unruffled demeanor made the man even more jumpy. Rayan slipped the car keys into his pocket, mentally noting the gun against his chest, how quickly he could get to it, and how much damage the man could do before then. In the dark, it was hard to see exactly who they were dealing with under the hood, but Rayan could hear the man grinding his teeth.

“The fuck you talking about? Wallet now!”

Mathias reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bills. He began to peel them off, one by one. The man froze. This was not what he’d expected.

Rayan tried to catch Mathias’s eye.What was he doing? Fucking with him?His boss had been especially hard to read the past few days. Preoccupied, prone to lashing out. And now this. He was being unusually reckless.

“How much does a bump cost these days?” Mathias asked. The junkie hissed and snatched at the money, but Mathias stepped back, holding it out of reach. “Not so fast.”

Then the man lunged. Mathias moved to avoid the knife, but the edge of the blade grazed his forearm as it passed. In the end, Rayan didn’t reach for his gun. Even before he saw the blood, he’d tackled the dopehead to the ground, the knife clattering out of reach, and pummeled the man with his fists until he stopped moving.

“Fuck,” Rayan whispered.

The hood slipped back to reveal a kid of nineteen or twenty, his cheeks mottled with acne scars—not much older than Rayan had been when he first met Mathias. But it was another face he saw, flickering like an apparition in the dim light. He put the back of his hand by the kid’s mouth.Still breathing.

“Leave him,” Mathias said. Rayan stood to see that he’d removed his jacket and was inspecting the blood blooming on the sleeve of his white shirt. “Scum.”

“I’ll call the doc.”

Dr. Olivier Martin, who operated a private clinic in the South Shore, had a long-standing—and highly lucrative—arrangement with his capo, which included his personal number on speed dial.

Mathias shook his head. “Let’s go.”

Rayan reached into his pocket for the keys, and his fingers brushed his phone. He glanced back at the kid lying in the parking lot. He could just give them the address and hang up without leaving a name.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mathias said coldly, seeing straight through him. “Better for everyone if he drowns in his own blood.”

“One less strung out piece of shit to deal with?” It came out harsher than Rayan had intended. He realized his nails were biting into the flesh of his palms.

Mathias gave him a hard look. “You don’t live in that world anymore, Rayan.”

They got in the car and drove the rest of the way to Mathias’s apartment in silence, the blood drying on Rayan’s knuckles as he clenched the steering wheel.

While they were waiting for the elevator in the garage beneath the building, Mathias turned to him. “If you feel sorry for everyone that tries to fuck you over, you will not last long in this business.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d imparted this lesson. Years before, shortly after Rayan had graduated from driver to second, Mathias relieved him of his weapon as it shook in his hand. He still remembered watching with a churn of shame as Mathiascompleted the task he’d found himself unable to do. Much had changed since then. Rayan had mastered this particular principle, save for the odd reminder.

The elevator doors opened with a ding. They stepped inside, and Mathias punched in the floor access code, grimacing. Rayan’s gaze fell to the stain on the man’s shirtsleeve. He felt his anger dissipate. His capo’s blood was proof of his failure. Once in the apartment, Rayan stepped into the kitchen and washed his hands long and hard in the searing-hot water, exorcising the junkie’s muck from his fingers.

“There’s a bottle of Macallan in the cabinet. Bring it here,” Mathias called from the living room.

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