Page 52 of A Life Chosen

Rayan glanced at the stove. “Almost ten.”

“Fuck,” Mathias muttered, pulling himself up and gripping his head. He winced.

He was dressed in a plain white shirt and sweats. He must have come out here once Rayan had fallen asleep. After pouring coffee into both mugs, Rayan picked one up and walked over to the couch, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the dining table as he passed. He set everything down on the coffee table.

Mathias glanced up, eyes still groggy. Mathias late at night and first thing in the morning had chinks in his armor. Rayan found himself compelled by those small snatches of the man beneath. He leaned in and kissed him. Mathias moved a hand to Rayan’s neck, his kisses languid, as though still half asleep. The coffee abandoned, Rayan knelt. He took Mathias out of his pants and into his mouth, his own cockstiffening as he looked up and saw the desire in Mathias’s half-lidded eyes, the tiredness and frustration momentarily erased. He couldn’t do much about the man’s current situation, but he sure as hell could do this.

Still wet from the shower, Mathias hung up his phone, swallowing a string of curses. He turned to Rayan, who was buttoning his shirt in the bedroom. “I have to straighten something out.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Mathias sighed.Did I expect him to sit here, staring at the wall?“Fine,” he said grudgingly.

Rayan strapped on his holster, attempting to hide how pleased he was.

As Mathias dressed, he tried to pinpoint what felt different. Like a change in frequency, a shift in the air. The past few weeks had been brutal, a series of setbacks, one after the other. Mathias couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, subsisting on coffee and booze in equal proportions. And then this man had appeared amid a sea of hostility—a city out to get him—and Mathias’s lungs had filled, his head clearing, righting him somehow. They fell back into their former roles as if it were second nature.

“I don’t know why Russo let this fester so long,” Mathias muttered as they drove through the city, relieved not to be stuck in the car with only his thoughts for company. The situation was worse than he’d thought. Moretti—and the family by extension—was a laughing stock in Hamilton, having allowed rival groups free rein for years. “Moretti’s been collecting protection money but leaving clients to fend for themselves. Almost everyone’s defaulted to paying the Reapers, and anyone who hasn’t gets visits from Truman’s heavyweights until they eventually come around.”

“But this one’s still on the books?” Rayan asked as they pulled up outside a cluster of adult stores on the strip, each one indistinguishable from the next.

“For now,” Mathias said grimly, cutting the engine. “Joseph Sylvester, the only big player we have left. Hates the Reapers. Prefers to deal with the family. He’s already been hit once this week. This keeps up, and he’s gone.”

A man with a face full of tattoos stalked toward them as they got out of the car, and Rayan stepped forward instinctively. It was one of Sylvester’s collection of thugs.

“Second time this week,” the man reported with a scowl. “Said next time, they’ll leave with the till.”

“Where’s Sylvester?” Mathias asked.

“Inside.”

Together they descended the stairs that led to Foxglove, Sylvester’s George Street club. The tattooed man gave a nod to the bouncer standing by the entrance, who pulled open the iron security gate, ushering them inside. Beside him, Rayan’s eyes widened. It was several steps farther down the rabbit hole than Le Rouge. Glass windows, like shop fronts, housed performers in different combinations, fucking in various ways. People—almost all men—lined the windows, leering. Despite everything Mathias had seen on the job over the years, even he’d been taken aback by the vulgarity of the spectacle. He and Rayan were led past the punters to the bar, where several men sat around, drinking.

“Mathias Beauvais,” Sylvester announced as he emerged from the back room, a martini glass perched between two limber fingers. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

He drew out the wordpleasurein a way that set Mathias on edge. At any other time, in any other circumstance, he would have knocked the man’s teeth out. But in Hamilton, Sylvester was one of the family’s biggest clients. He owned a handful of clubs on the strip and multiple other establishments across the city. Mathias had to handle him with a mixture of care and intimidation, walking a fine line between respect and derision. In Montreal, Mathias had never had to play nice. His reputation and the weight of the family’s presence in the city spoke for him. But here, he could rely on neither.

The slight man’s smile tweaked as his gaze shifted. “Who is this?” Sylvester stared past him at his former second with an enamored sparkle in his eyes.

Mathias had almost forgotten about Rayan. “I’ll talk to Truman,” he said, ignoring the man’s question. “Get him to pull back his muscle.”

He was hedging. The head of the Reapers had proven elusive. Without an introduction, Mathias was floundering. He had one more card up his sleeve, but he was reluctant to use it.

Sylvester waved him away. “Yes, yes, but first, what is your name, young man?”

Rayan shifted uncomfortably, remaining silent.

“Does he speak English?” Sylvester asked, turning to Mathias.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mathias replied.

Cornered, his former second spoke his name flatly.

“Rayan!” Sylvester trilled. He took a sip of his martini. “You are simply beautiful. Where are you from?”

“Montreal.”

“Enchanté,” the older man simpered, raising a neatly arched eyebrow.

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