Page 86 of A Life Chosen

Mathias lowered his club, reaching for the cigarette between his teeth. He watched the white speck of the ball tumble down the green and stop several feet from the twelfth hole.

“Decent backswing you’ve got there, Beauvais,” Enzo Carbone declared, slapping him on the shoulder. “Not bad for a rookie.”

Mathias shrugged. “I didn’t get into the game to play golf.”

It was a clear August afternoon, the blue sky stretching above the Cedarbrook Golf Course in West Montreal. From behind the wheel of the cart, Armando Bernardi chuckled, knocking back his third beer. “But here’s betting you’re no stranger to a club.”

The remaining members of the Quintino laughed. The man wasn’t wrong. A nine iron made a particularly satisfying sound when it hit bone.

“Wait till you get to be our age, Beauvais,” Gabriele Giordano warned conspiratorially, sitting beside Armando and nursing a can of Labatt Blue. “You’ll come around.”

Mathias doubted it. He surveyed the clusters of men dotting the course—a sea of gray hair and designer polos. He was no more partial to golf than he was to most mindless leisure activities. Aside from it being a way to mine information, he didn’t see the point.

Enzo lined up his shot and swung. The ball arched through the air to land close to his own. “What do you make of the construction-bid changes?” he asked as Gabriele and Armando came down to join them on the grass.

“We need to tread lightly,” Mathias said, squinting against the sun. “The new government campaigned on the back of harsher legislation. I’d hold off on any bids until they find the next tree to bark up.”

Armando snorted, selecting a club from his bag and weighing it in his palm. “The Feds are getting bolder, that’s for sure. Heard one of De Luca’s drivers was caught with a wire the other day.”

“Are we in need of a scapegoat?” Enzo asked, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Toss some meat their way to throw them off the scent?”

Gabriele lit a cigarette, crossing his arms. “I have some names if you want them.”

“I’ll let you know,” Mathias said tactfully, watching Armando ready his ball.

“And what does boss make of it?” Enzo cut in.

Gabriele pulled on his smoke and sent a cloud downwind. “Boss doesn’t want to upset the apple cart. Not yet, anyway.”

They all watched Armando take his swing. The ball jetted sideways and bounced into the sand. “Fucking piece of shit!” he hollered.

Enzo chuckled. “Maybe Beauvais should give you some pointers.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Mathias smirked.

Gabriele eyed him with amusement. “If I’ve learned one thing, that don’t apply to you.”

The four councilmen walked back to the cart, and Armando took his seat behind the wheel and steered them across the course to the next hole. Mathias stared out at the brilliant green of the fairway and the line of maple trees along the perimeter, lush with summer leaves, his mind pulling him back as it always did. It had been almost four months since his return from Cyprus, and the only thing that kept the thoughts at bay was the sheer amount of work. Mathias had taken Collections in the end, unable to let the division fall into Franco’s slippery fingers. Tony would have been rolling in his grave. The least he could do was ensure that the man’s legacy didn’t go to waste.

His responsibilities to the Quintino ate into the limited time remaining, and then there was Hamilton. The family had installed a new regional head there, but for high-level negotiations, Truman refused to deal with anyone besides Mathias. Using their shared clout, Mathias and the Reapers’ head had been able to stamp out Nostra dealings all the way to Ottawa, so every month or two, he made the trip out there and entertained Truman’s whims—less indulgently now that he’d risen so high in the family’s ranks.

Still, in those elusive moments of downtime—driving between the two cities, stuck in traffic, or lying in bed before falling asleep—he thought of Rayan.

Mathias had been able to unite warring criminal factions and forge alliances with irrational lunatics. He had a knack for manipulating people, convincing them they were getting exactly what they wanted, when he was really bending them to his will.Yet here he was, powerless, unable to influence the outcome when it mattered most. Because Rayan was an enigma. Mathias had no idea what the man wanted or how to give it to him.

The envelope was small, the size of a postcard. It sat on top of the pile of mail inside his collection box in the building foyer. Mathias retrieved the stack of letters, stepped into the elevator, and punched in the access code for his floor. Once inside the apartment, he turned the envelope in his hand, noting no return address, then tore it open with his thumb. Inside was a single cream-colored card. On it in neatly printed script, was an address:18 Lower Jarvis, Box 4001.The city and country had been left out, as had the postal code.

Mathias flipped the card to reveal a tiny brass key taped to the back. He removed it, placing it down on the counter, and turned to study the handwritten text on the front. When he was sure he’d committed it to memory, Mathias picked up the envelope and walked over to the sink. He slipped the lighter out of his pocket and held the flame to the corner of the card, watching as the paper caught and seared through the ink. After flicking the burning card into the sink, he lifted the envelope, and it met the same fate.

Two weeks later, Mathias rounded the corner of Lower Jarvis and King, just west of Toronto’s distillery district. He pushed open the glass doors of the Canada Post office at 18 Lower Jarvis, grateful for the relief of the air-conditioned interior. The country was in the midst of a heat wave, suffering through record high temperatures despite the summer having officially come to an end. Water levels along the Saint Lawrence River were low, so the ships were restricting cargo, reducing import volume between the provincial ports and fucking with his margins.

Inside the store, across the far wall, were rows of small gray mailboxes. Mathias walked slowly, scanning the numbers, and stopped in front of 4001. Not for the first time since the envelope had arrived, he felt a flare of annoyance at being jerked around on some cryptic scavenger hunt.

The box opened easily. It was empty except for a plain silver key tied to a slip of blue paper.#317, 55 Erskine Avenue,the note said.

Mathias held the key in his palm, stilling the sudden race of his pulse. Then he pocketed it, locked the mailbox, and stepped back out onto the street.

The door to the apartment opened to reveal a small sun-soaked living room. Ceiling-high windows faced the street, cracked open slightly to let in the air. It was stripped back, the interior designed with the blocky quality that dominated the brutalist buildings this side of town. Books littered every available surface, piled by the door and on the coffee table. But the man had made an effort with the furnishings, keeping the feel of the place simple and clean.

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