Page 73 of A Life Chosen

“Must be tough,” Mathias mused as he helped Rayan into bed. “Not much you can do with a busted right arm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Rayan said nothing. He’d grown too good at pretending there was nothing to want.

“How long has it been?” Mathias asked, pulling at the bedclothes, his hands moving on their own, so used to laying claim to Rayan’s body that he found himself unable to hold back.

Rayan grabbed at the sheet, the muscles in his neck tensing. “Don’t.”

“How long?” he asked again, fingers snaking beneath the waistband of Rayan’s sweats.

He jerked, his good hand gripping Mathias’s wrist, attempting to hide the constriction of desire that pulled at his features. Mathias could already see the telltale flush along his neck and hear the quickening of his breath. Then, as though accepting the futility of his resistance, Rayan let go.

Mathias captured his cock in his fist, and a low moan escaped the man’s mouth. Rayan’s eyes flew to his face, staring up at him. Mathias was struck by the image of that same face wrenched in agony as he held him down on the kitchen table.

He froze, heart thudding. Releasing him, Mathias turned away. “You should rest,” he said, catching a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror, lust filling his pupils.

Mathias stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. He seethed with need, cursing his own weakness. Retrieving his phone and keys from the counter, he spotted the battered Saint-Exupéry paperback in a stack of books on the windowsill. Mathias picked it up, the cover falling open to reveal an inscription written neatly in black ink. He read it slowly, the words burrowing beneath his skin. Then he snapped the book shut and tucked it under his arm as he strode out of Rayan’s apartment.

Mathias was once again seated in the VIP room at Le Rouge, watching the collection of family elite—albeit slightly diminished—shuffle through the door. It was the first meeting presided over by the new boss, a gathering both necessary and fraught.

Any major leadership upheaval saw members take sides, however discreetly. After weeks of bloodshed, Giovanni Bianchi had established himself as the undisputed head of the family. From here, the only way was forward. The group had come together anew, putting aside the fracture of disagreement to focus on its survival.

Mathias noted a new deference in the way the old guard treated him. While in the past they’d merely tolerated him, now his presence necessitated respect. They were afraid of him, of what he was capable of. No one in the family’s history had executed a takeover with the weight of rival factions. Mathias had left the city slighted only to return unassailable—not least by the fact that his bullet had felled Giorgio Russo’s son.

Truman and the Reapers had departed Montreal with a substantial increase in port access and a formal extension of their territory as far east as Gatineau—a generous reward for taking some of the heat off the family and proving a valuable resource in the campaign against Piero. Mathias’s alliance with the man meant Giovanni was reluctant to relieve him entirely of his Hamilton duties. Considering how much still remained in the air, Mathias would see what he could do about that.

At the moment, his focus was on cleanup—reestablishing the status quo and ensuring that the city’s various groups remain compliant. That and placating the cops. The family had stirred up enough trouble for the RCMP to get involved, and Federal attention demanded Federal-sized bribes. Fortunately for Mathias, he hadseveral contacts embedded in the national HQ and maintained a charitable relationship with the chief of the municipal police.

The previous evening, Mathias had met with Belkov, who’d celebrated the news of Truman’s departure, claiming to notice the diminished stink. They were still exploiting the Russian’s muscle. His soldiers mixed in with their own as they moved through the city, stamping out sedition. In return for his support, Belkov had been awarded formerly disputed territory south of the city, padding the Russian supply route through to the States and legitimizing the group’s position.

As a gesture of goodwill, Mathias had personally removed protection fees for the Bratva in Montreal and indefinitely extended the port waiver, paid for with the cut he’d negotiated on the Reapers’ narcotics imports. In the end, it was a small price to pay to keep the Russians on their side. The last thing the family needed was a war on multiple fronts.

The waitress brought over his refill and placed it on the table before him. The division heads were seated to his right—with the notable exception of Collections, an absence that weighed heavy on Mathias. To his left, the remaining members of the Quintino had taken their seats: Enzo Carbone, Gabriele Giordano, and Armando Bernardi.

The boss sat at the head of the table, in no hurry to start the meeting. Giovanni had proven unflappable over the last several weeks, executing his takeover with a calculated precision. There was no question he was ready for the job, the past year merely serving as a rehearsal while Russo’s health slipped deeper into decline.

Giovanni had known something different was needed to guarantee his rise to the top. Sentiment would always lean toward a bloodline succession—the family was nostalgic that way. Which was why the man had sought him out, even back then, the kernel of a plan already taking hold. Because Mathias was something different, and he’d wielded that difference, turning it into his strength. Nostalgia didn’t stand a chance against brute force.

Finally, the boss raised his glass, and the room stilled. Mathias felt the tension, thick as fog. This was the first handover he’d witnessed in his lifetime, the bloody aftermath of Giorgio Russo’s ascent to power having occurred long before he was born.

“In this room today, we come together as a family,” Giovanni announced. “Against us is the teeming horde that exists outside these doors. Let us remember that first, especially now.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the assembly of men tired of the bloodshed and infighting—men who’d much rather things returned to normal.They wanted to go back to receiving thick envelopes of cash and enjoying the finer things in life: women, food, booze.

“I’d like to acknowledge a great absence in the room,” the boss said soberly. “That of our distinguished leader, Giorgio Russo, who steered the group through fifty-two years of legacy in this town.” He gave the assembly a moment to acknowledge this extraordinary feat. “And I would be remiss if I didn’t honor Collections head and longtime friend, Antonio Giraldi, who was taken too soon and whose advice and expertise will be sorely missed.”

Giovanni caught Mathias’s eye, and he brought the scotch to his lips and drank in Tony’s honor. The funeral had been modest. The disruption to the family’s equilibrium meant the man wasn’t extended the full rites of someone in his position. But his family had been taken care of—Giovanni had made sure of that—his wife and a daughter about Mathias’s age, who had the old man’s eyes. Tony had never spoken of them. All those late nights at the office, working and drinking, Mathias hadn’t realized there was anyone waiting at home. Tony’s wife had stood by the casket, nodding blankly while mourners filed past to shake her hand and offer condolences, like a stranger in a room full of people.

Rayan, barely walking at the time, was furious when Mathias had refused to let him attend. But Mathias’s concern for his safety, a paranoia that hadn’t eased since the day of the shooting, had ultimately won out. Rayan had always seemed untouchable, possessing an uncanny ability to emerge from danger unscathed. That illusion had been shattered. Mathias knew now how vulnerable he was, how easily he could die. In the end, it was good Rayan hadn’t gone. He still blamed himself for Tony’s death, and knowing the old man had left a family behind would only further his guilt.

“My appointment means theQuintino are a member short.” Giovanni paused, allowing the implications of that fact to settle. “The council and I have discussed at length, and Mathias Beauvais has been put forward for the role. Mathias has proven his dedication, his ability, many times—and to great esteem in recent weeks. I welcome his counsel.”

Mathias gripped his drink, feeling the eyes of men he’d once deferred to shift to him—men who’d known him simply as Federico Mancini’s bastard son.

The boss turned to him, fixing him with a measured stare. “So, Beauvais, what do you say?”

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