Page 4 of A Life Chosen

We.He knew exactly who she’d persuaded to make that happen. Mathias set his jaw, saying nothing.

His mother was Parisian and hadn’t let the move to Canada erode her staunch national superiority. Quebec culture never ceased to repulse her, and she couldn’t understand why the local government was so eager to preserve what she believed to be a flawed bootleg of the original.

“But you’re looking good,” she said, walking over and giving him a charming smile. “You know, you remind me of your father in those early years.”

Mathias felt his temple twitch. “Before he married someone else?”

His mother’s face darkened, her keen temper flaring—a trait Mathias had inherited. As a child, he’d learned to avoid the worst of her moods. As an adult, he deliberately stoked them.

Calming herself, Marguerite moved toward the table, absently poking through the bag from the boulangerie. She retrieved the thick white envelope Mathias had placed at the bottom and slipped it into her purse, which sat on the counter. Herlife had long been financed by dirty money, first his father’s, now his. Yet she still had the gall to act like it was beneath her. Mathias took pains to avoid visiting his mother. When he did, it only served as a reminder of how much he disliked her. Still, it was an enduring obligation he couldn’t seem to shake.

“Your father’s not well,” Marguerite said after a long pause. She continued unpacking the contents of the bag, not looking at him. “Lung cancer. It’s terminal.”

Mathias frowned. This was the first he’d heard of it. Then again, he’d made a conscious effort to avoid anything to do with his father for the past decade.

“They say he doesn’t have long,” she continued.

Mathias felt a dull ache behind his forehead, tightening like a vise. So the old man was dying.

Marguerite glanced up and gave him her most pitiful look. “I want you to visit him.”

He let out a snort of laughter. Over the years, his father had made it very clear how little he needed Mathias and his mother. “He’s got his real family for that. Wasn’t that the plan all along—play the odds to make sure he had someone by his side when he keeled over?”

His mother’s expression turned stony, her light-blue eyes darkening into tiny pins. “How you dare to act so ungrateful is beyond me,” she said, her voice wavering. “After all he’s done for us—”

“Ungrateful?” Mathias’s fists clenched instinctively. “We both know who benefited the most from this little arrangement. Should’ve listened to him and got rid of me when you had the chance.”

His mother’s hand came flying toward his face. He caught it easily and squeezed her wrist in warning before letting it drop. They’d established the futility of these outbursts a long time ago. Standing in silence, they stared each other down.

“The old man deserves everything he gets,” Mathias muttered finally. He left his mother standing in the kitchen, slamming the apartment door behind him. As he scaled the stairs to the street, the ache in his head grew to an insistent throb.

They’d completed the last job of the day—an impromptu visit with a surprisingly accommodating city councilor—and Rayan was driving them back to the office when Mathias’s phone began to ring. It was Tony.

“Sonny has a runner. Owes shy of fifteen grand. Not a good look if we don’t catch him quick.”

While Mathias had assisted in expanding the division’s share of white-collar lending, Collections still relied heavily on protection fees—overseen by Franco Ricci—and rounding up betting arrears. That particular task fell to Salvatore “Sonny” Alvisi, who was always letting clients one-up him. He doled out money like the family was some kind of charity.

“Let him clean up his mess,” Mathias said.

“His mess becomes our mess when punters start thinking they can borrow and run.”

Mathias lowered the phone. “Pull over,” he instructed Rayan. The man slowed the car, turning onto a side street. “It’s past five, Tony. I’m not chasing Sonny’s fuckups all evening.”

“Then you better start looking.” The line went dead.

Mathias swore under his breath. He punched in Salvatore’s number, and he picked up on the first ring. “Who’s the runner?” Mathias asked.

“Mathias!” He sounded out of breath. “Fuckingmedigan, Connor Armstrong. He’s deep in the hole.”

“And you gave him more money?”

He began to stutter. “Did right by us before. I reckon he’s been borrowing to pay someone else.”

In the background, Mathias could hear the roar of a hockey game and the murmur of voices. “Where are you?”

“I’m hitting up a couple of the regular spots, see what I can find.”

Mathias clicked his tongue. “He’s done a runner, Sonny. He’s not going to be at the regular spots.” He hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket. “You’re a gambling addict who owes money to the mob. Where do you go?” he muttered.

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