Page 10 of A Life Chosen

Mathias narrowed his eyes. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut—that’s all.”

It wasn’t all, but the longer explanation eluded even him. Rayan hadn’t started out as a model soldier—far from it—yet somehow, he’d turned into one of the few people Mathias trusted completely. He had proven more than competent at every turn, his loyalty silencing the constant distrust Mathias felt with other men.

Almost a year after Mathias had dropped the skinny kid he’d found by the container terminal at Guillet’s compound, Rayan had reappeared in the Collections office. They’d been short a driver, and Tony pulled a favor with the city’s eminent nose-powder distributor. It was a last resort. Those who worked for Georges Guillet were not known for their reliability. Rayan had proven otherwise.

Mathias had never told Tony about his initial encounter with his second. He didn’t know what had compelled him to pick Rayan up that day or why he hadn’t simply left the man to his own fate. It had been remarkably out of character, struck by something he couldn’t name. Even now, the decision unnerved him. Regardless, he’d resolved things in his own way. Besides the obvious, the next best method to ensure silence was complicity. Running for Guillet meant getting your hands dirty—driving for the family, dirtier still.

Truth be told, Mathias hadn’t thought he would see the young man again. He hadn’t even asked his name. Most who landed at Guillet’s ended up running then using then dead. But he figured if the kid played his cards right, it was better than being out on the street. And then he’d shown up at the office, bulkier than before, hair cut short, a blankness about him. Gone were the eyes that broadcast every tumbling emotion, revealing the frightened boy for all to see. He’d managed that at least. Despite the time that had passed, Mathias couldn’t shake the image of the young man’s face as he’d watched his brother fall.

“This is Rayan Nadeau. He’s driving for Franco.”

Mathias showed no recognition. Neither did Rayan.

After a couple of months of Rayan driving, Tony was impressed enough to bring him on full-time. Mathias had dropped yet another second, and there was an opening that needed to be filled. He’d given Rayan one month—not that he’d bothered to tell him about that. If he didn’t show promise, Mathias would send him back to Tony. Rayan shadowed him through his daily tasks, a silent specter hovering just within earshot. Mathias was hard on him. Part of him wanted him to quit, but he showed up each morning again and again.

Mathias had him checked out that first week and came back with a folder two inches thick: child protection, father MIA, mother dead. There’d been a series of group homes before he ended up on the street, and that was when the police record began. Petty theft, carjacking. And now, as though tempting fate, Rayan had been roped into the largest criminal organization in North America. He was resilient—Mathias would give him that. He knew how to survive.

Eager to change the subject, Mathias leaned back, folding his arms. “Last night, what the fuck crawled up his ass?” He avoided mentioning Piero by name. You never knew who was listening, and he was the boss’s son after all.

Tony snorted, a look of contempt settling on his lined face. “He’s as useless as they come. Gambles away division profit and still thinks he’s in the running for a position on the council.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. “Does he, now?”

Tony waved his hand in dismissal. “Despite the inherited clout, he’s dead jealous of anyone who gets ahead on their own merit. Probably ’cause he’s got none to speak of.”

Mathias was still pissed the man had shown him up at his own promotion. Even so, it was good to know he’d ruffled Piero’s feathers. Mathias was starting to get the attention he deserved and, even better, was alienating the prick in the process.

Mathias hesitated on the steps of a house that was all too familiar. The orange brick facade, the black shutters, the boxwood hedge that marked the property line—he’d ventured out here many times as a child, often during his mother’s days of silence when she forgot he existed. He would take money from her purse and roam about the city or take the train to Longueuil and stand across the street from his father’s house, waiting for a glimpse of the man’s family, careful to make sure they didn’t see him. He’d return to the apartment disappointed, his mother exactly as he’d left her.

The first time Mathias had come, as a boy of eight, he’d followed his father home after one of the rare occasions when he’d stopped by their apartment. Mathias wanted to see tangible proof of his father’s real family, the one he went home to every night. And sure enough, Mathias ended up here. He stood behind a tree and watched Freddie Junior and his younger brother, Tommaso, kick a soccer ball around the front yard. Distracted by his father’s retreat into the house, Mathias didn’t realize he’d been spotted until the older boy was standing in front of him.

“I know who you are,” the boy hissed as Tommaso ran over, drawn by the commotion. “And I know what they call you, bastard!”

Mathias recalled the sharp pain of the boy’s foot in his guts before blackness descended. The next thing he knew, his old man was pulling him off a bloody Freddie Junior. Mathias’s fists were raw from where they’d made impact. His father yelled at him and sent him home by himself, all the way across town, as night began to fall, picking his legitimate sons over Mathias. Even at that age, he had understood.

All these years later, Mathias had still never been inside the house. He strode purposefully up the steps and rapped loudly on the dark wooden door. It was a Sunday afternoon, and he shouldn’t be here. After the visit with his mother, he’d been adamant about not seeing his old man. But it had followed him doggedly—a paralyzing need to show his father what he’d become so the man would know he’d been eclipsed by the son henever wanted.

There was a shuffling sound on the other end of the door, and it cracked open, a woman peering out suspiciously. Sofia. He barely recognized his father’s wife—time had not been kind. Her eyes widened, and the door began to close.

Mathias stuck out his hand, easily holding it ajar against her weight. “Nice to see you too. We can make this easy, or we can make it hard.”

Sofia scowled, but she was no match for his strength. She grudgingly let the door swing open. “What do you want?” she asked sourly, lips pursed.

“I’m here to see my father.”

Her frown deepened. “Federico is in no shape for visitors.”

Mathias felt a familiar clench in his stomach. He moved forward so that he towered over the slight woman. “I don’t think you understand,” he said quietly. “I’m here to see my father.”

Sofia stared him down, no doubt weighing the repercussions of refusing to let a ranked member of the family into her home.

“Fine,” she said finally, stepping back to let him in. “But I don’t want to see you here again.”

The woman had no need to worry. There wouldn’t be a next time.

“The door at the end.” Sofia gestured down the hallway. “He’s in there.”

Not bothering to knock, Mathias pushed open the door to reveal a darkened room, the curtains still drawn. His father lay under a mountain of covers, looking smaller than he’d ever seen him. Mathias was seized with a dread that stilled his body. It wasn’t simply the shock of seeing the man, who had always filled him with a mixture of hatred and fear, but of seeing him so pathetic. The cancer had robbed him of any authority he might once have held, his body pale and wasted.

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