Page 16 of A Life Chosen

Mathias took another drag on his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. “He’s short on runners. Might as well get some use out of the kid.”

In bed, Rayan felt sleep encroaching, covering him like a heavy blanket. For most of his life, he’d been treated like he had no future, the long line of social workers, court registrars, and police officers always with that same look of pity, like he was the sad result of an unfortunate past, broken and unsalvageable. But Mathias had looked at him, standing before the river that had swallowed his brother, and seen a flicker of possibility. Alone in an unforgiving city, it was more affirming than anything anyone had given him since his mother’s death. He could be useful, worth something at least. He was not nothing.

So Rayan had taken that possibility and held it tightly. That was the beginning, he knew now, when he had seen something in Mathias that others did not see, a kernel of feeling Rayan had buried deep, its tendrils growing despite his futile attempts to cut them back—gratitude manifesting loyalty and admiration breeding devotion. Because he knew on that day, had he not been seen, he would have disappeared entirely.

Rayan had ended up running for Guillet for almost a year, his only skill not getting hooked on what he was selling. It was enough to propel him up the ranks until he was sent, as a favor, to drive for the family. When he’d arrived at the Collections office and seen Mathias, he’d been transported back to the day of Tahir’s death. He remembered in the car, as they sped through the city, how he’d been too afraid to look at the man beside him in the backseat. He’d felt a tug as though he were being torn in two, half of him left at the port with his brother, the other half a stranger headed into the unknown to start a new life chosen for him.

It was less strange now. In fact, it was the most constant Rayan’s life had been since he’d left his childhood home. Yet here he was, still hiding.

Chapter Six

Mathias’s promotion didn’t change much in regards to the work—he’d already managed most of the division’s business and construction clients, and any he hadn’t were now firmly under his jurisdiction—but it formalized his place as Tony’s second-in-command. While this had been obvious to everyone for as long as Rayan could remember, the new title made it official. And Mathias wasted no time using it as an opportunity to jettison the last remaining dregs from his roster. Anything street level went to Sonny, which was about as much responsibility as he could handle. Mathias had even attempted to rid himself of the Russians until Tony—who hated Belkov with a passion—put his foot down.

“So this is less a commercial split and more all the shit you don’t want to manage yourself?” Mathias had asked, and the old man had agreed with a snigger.

The two were volatile together, but the Collections head had always been somewhat of a mentor to his boss. Rayan knew part of the reason Mathias had stayed in the division for as long as he had was that he respected Tony. They had a mutual understanding—as long as Mathias made money for him and Tony let him off leash to manage things on his own, they were both happy. Not that anyone could tell.

One late morning, they were on their way to a visit with Hubert Leblanc, a two-bit Quebec businessman who ran a handful of car washes around the city. Rumor was he’d recently started taking in a considerable amount of cash. The man was clearly laundering. For whom, they had yet to find out. It wasn’t them—that was for sure. After all, the family had its own ways of making dirty money clean. But Leblanc wasn’t being nearly as careful as he should be, and Mathias had enough motivated police personnel in his back pocket to rat out any rival business that didn’t toe the line.

There was a loud bang, and the car shuddered, lurching to the right. Rayan pulled over to the side of the road, and they both got out.

“Tabarnak,” Mathias muttered, kicking the flat with the toe of his shoe. It was amusing that at times like these, his cursing was so very Quebecois.

“I’ll call someone,” Rayan said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

He shook his head dismissively, walking over to the trunk. He pulled out the jack and dropped the spare onto the pavement. Then he shrugged out of his jacket, threw it over the hood, and began rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

Rayan stood, phone in hand, as Mathias shimmied the jack under the Mercedes and began to turn the handle, the car lifting with a creak. A not unfamiliar stab of shame hit him as he simmered in his own uselessness. He was more adept at stealing cars than fixing them—one of many life skills omitted from his upbringing.

He crouched beside him. “Let me. I’ll never live it down if the office knows I let my capo change a goddamn tire.”

Mathias glanced at him with a smirk, a line of sweat already forming across his brow. “Then I suggest you watch closely. You might learn something.”

Rayan did as he was told, watching as Mathias unscrewed the flat and yanked it off the hub. He pushed it toward Rayan. “Make yourself useful, and throw this in the trunk.”

When he returned, his capo already had the spare on and was tightening the lug nuts. He stood, looking at Rayan expectantly. “Now, bring it down.”

Rayan knelt, unwinding the jack in the opposite direction and slowly lowering the car to the ground. He stood to stow the jack with the flat. Behind him, Mathias shrugged on his jacket, grumbling about the fucking Quebec roads. As if the family hadn’t been skimming a fat slice of profit off road construction for the past twenty years.

Slamming the trunk shut, Rayan heard his boss’s phone start to ring. He rounded the car to see Mathias staring at the screen as it lit up, an odd look on his face.

The number that flashed across the screen was one Mathias knew by heart but had never saved. The phone rang three times before he finally picked up.

“What?”

“It’s me.” His mother’s voice was tight.

Mathias felt himself tense. There was no reason for her to be calling him at this time, on this number, unless…

“He’s gone,” she said in a low whisper.

A buzzing filled his head, and Mathias leaned hard against the car. “Where is he?”

A small sob came through the receiver before Marguerite spoke. “Hospital Notre Dame, on Sherbrooke.”

His mother continued speaking, but he no longer heard her. He lowered the phone from his ear, looking over at Rayan, who was standing before him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“Boss?”

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