A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Fourteen

R ayan woke well past noon with a pounding headache. His mouth felt dry, and flashes of the conversation he’d had with Mathias the night before filtered into his brain. Rayan had been unfairly upset, his own feelings of futility running up against his fear of Mathias’s intolerance for weakness. But Mathias’s reaction had been surprisingly measured. In fact, he’d said far less than he deserved to say under the circumstances. Rayan felt a sting of humiliation at his behavior, recalling Mathias’s expression when he’d closed the door in his face. He knew the liquor was a mistake, but he’d spent the day stuck in his head and had been desperate to erase the image of his brother from his mind.

Attempting to sit up, Rayan found his limbs uncooperative, pinned to the bed by a looming dread. The feeling transported him back to those isolated days in his apartment, waiting for the wound in his shoulder to heal. Then, he’d been trapped by his own physical limitations. Now he couldn’t leave for fear of being seen—not just by the Feds but by the family as well.

Rayan had to remind himself that he wasn’t alone and this time was different. He ordered himself up out of bed and walked to the bathroom to wash his face. The room had an enormous clawfoot tub—ornate and indulgent—that seemed out of place among the rest of the modern fittings. Rayan assumed it had been an original feature and was too cumbersome to remove from the apartment. It stood against the wall, empty with promise.

He stepped into the living room and peered out the window at the deluge falling outside. The sky above was an ominous swathe of dark-gray clouds. Rayan went about gathering the notes he’d brought with him and laid everything out on the dining table. Mathias was right—while his work was pretentious and ultimately meaningless, it was still something. Sitting, he began to go through what he had. There were gaps—books and readings he’d left behind—but possibly enough with him to push through. He tried to focus and get his mind to clear, only to discover that his words had turned to hieroglyphs in his notebook. The chill was still there, having settled against his bones, his body stubbornly refusing to warm.

Rayan tossed the notebook down onto the table and strode back to the bathroom, where he filled the clawfoot tub with scalding water. Then he undressed and lowered himself in to his chin. The heat permeated his body, seeming to cross the threshold of his skin and silence the jangle of noise in his head.

Rayan lay still and found his thoughts straying once again to the file. Ever since Allen had brought up his state record, he’d wrestled with an intense need to know what it contained. Perhaps because it wasn’t just the inspector who was well acquainted with the minutiae of his past but Mathias as well. They had been there all this time—the missing parts of his life that he’d tried to piece together. Rayan had lost faith in his ability to tell which of his memories were real, and it was possible that what he knew about himself and his experience growing up was riddled with self-deception. Now that he’d seen what had become of his brother, he could no longer rely on the fantasy of denial.

Rayan hadn’t been in the tub long when Mathias appeared in the doorway to the bathroom. He stepped into the steam-filled room, his dark hair damp from the rain, and stared down at Rayan with a quizzical look on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re drunk again.”

Rayan shook his head, chastened. “About that. I—”

“Save it,” Mathias cut in. “I’m not in the mood for woeful excuses.”

Rayan swallowed the empty words. Not sure what else to say, he raised an arm instead, woozy with warmth, and beckoned. “Join me.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow, and Rayan waited for the snide remark. But there was a reluctance about him—Rayan had felt it the previous evening as well—as though Mathias was handling him carefully. Rayan felt a prickle of shame. The last thing I want is his pity.

Then Mathias was reaching for his Rolex, snapped it off his wrist, and placed it on the large marble vanity. He began to undress slowly, methodically, as though aware of Rayan’s eyes unabashedly appraising his body. It was magnificent, as though chiseled from marble, and Mathias inhabited it with the confidence of someone who knew exactly that.

Mathias lowered himself into the water, and it rose to the very brim, threatening to spill over. Rayan drew up his knees, and they sat across from each other, Mathias’s feet brushing the outsides of his thighs. “Reminds me of being a kid,” Rayan said.

“How so?” Mathias asked, cupping his hands and bringing the water to his face.

Rayan smiled, curious. “You didn’t take baths as a kid?”

Mathias slid down so his chest was submerged. There was a splash as the water tipped over the edge of the tub and down to the floor. “Used to clean my clothes in the bath until I figured out how to work the washer.”

Rayan stared at him and he looked back, impassive. “You were alone a lot, growing up?”

“I learned English from watching hours of television,” Mathias said, turning his hand beneath the water. “You read books. I got stuck with a little black box for company.”

“And your mother?”

Mathias snickered. “Suffocating or absent entirely. Once she disappeared for a week when I was eight. Turned out she was in Paris, visiting a friend.”

Rayan frowned. “Weren’t you afraid?”

“No,” Mathias said, gray eyes snapping to his. “And if I was, you think I’d have told her?”

Rayan recalled the photo of Mathias he’d seen in his mother’s entranceway. He knew now why he’d felt the need to take it. He’d wanted to get him out of that apartment and away from her. “I’m sorry,” Rayan said into the quiet of the room.

“Please,” Mathias scoffed. “Your family wasn’t exactly the Bradys.”

“No, but my brother looked out for me. You had no one.”

Mathias pulled himself up and leaned back against the edge of the bath. “Kids are soft. They like to make up stories.”

Rayan studied him, the weight of things left unsaid filling the space between them. Mathias’s gaze dropped to his chest, to the raised white dimple just below the clavicle. “Does it still give you trouble?”

“Sometimes,” Rayan admitted. “It’s not so bad.” There was a soft trickle from the tap and the faint echo of water lapping against cast iron. “I kind of like it now. This way, I won’t forget.”

Mathias was silent for a moment then placed his hands on both sides of the bath and drew himself up. “My skin’s about to peel off.” He stepped out and took down a towel, a small puddle of water appearing on the floor at his feet.

Rayan moved to follow, goose bumps breaking out across his skin as his body hit the cold air. He raised himself from the bath, feeling flushed and wobbly. Mathias reached toward the rack for another towel and handed it to him.

Rayan brought it to his head and rubbed it through his wet hair. “Has the rain let up?”

He lowered the towel to find Mathias looking at him with a bemused expression. Rayan realized they were inches from each other, completely naked, the heat rising from their steadily cooling bodies. And he’d asked about the weather.

He lurched forward, and Mathias’s arms encircled his waist as Rayan kissed him. Mathias pushed him backward until he bumped against the vanity, and then the man was lifting him up onto the edge, spreading his thighs as he ground his cock against Rayan’s. Since leaving Toronto, Rayan had felt neutered, an emptiness snatching away any trace of feeling. Now it surged back to life. Mathias’s hands on him and the feel of his warm, wet skin beneath Rayan’s fingers stoked a fire he hadn’t realized had gone out.

He suppressed a moan as Mathias nipped his ear with his teeth and ran his mouth down the side of his neck. Mathias’s hand moved between Rayan’s legs, capturing his cock and running it through his fist. Then Rayan was pushing him back and getting to his knees on the bathroom floor. He looked up at Mathias as he brought him to his mouth. Mathias let out a hiss as he took him in to the root, one hand reaching out to grip a fistful of Rayan’s hair. They moved together, Mathias guiding him with his hand while Rayan gripped the back of the man’s legs. Rayan refused to touch his own cock as it curved upward toward his stomach, his head buzzing as Mathias slid back and forth between his lips. The pace was at first steady and restrained then abruptly quicker, with a growing urgency to their movement. Rayan dug his fingers into the taut muscle of Mathias’s thighs, a hum of pleasure rising in his chest.

“Rayan,” Mathias warned, his voice thick.

But Rayan would not relent. He wanted Mathias’s release—wanted it sliding down the back of his throat. He felt the clench of fingers in his hair, and then Mathias was coming, his face clouded, teeth bared. Rayan swallowed and let him slip from his mouth.

Mathias stood unmoving, breathing hard. Then he reached down and pulled Rayan to his feet and wordlessly led him into the bedroom, where Mathias doubled him over on the bed, hands pressing down on the backs of Rayan’s knees. Mathias brought his mouth to the base of Rayan’s cock then slowly, achingly, moved it lower.

Rayan made a sound that wasn’t his own, something bestial tearing from his lungs. Mathias held this card close to his chest. He’d discovered, after the first time, that it had the power to annihilate Rayan—get him from nothing to coming in a matter of moments. It was mostly the thought of Mathias holding him down while he ate him out that rendered Rayan completely fucking senseless.

Wait . The word was close to Rayan’s lips despite his entire body crying out please . Fortunately, he was no longer capable of forming intelligible words. He thrashed his head to the side, almost biting through his lip, the feeling both too much and not enough at the same time. Mathias moved his tongue languidly, undaunted, reducing him to an incoherent mess. Unable to fight the overpowering urge, Rayan reached desperately for his cock, managing only a few short jerks before he came with a force that blurred his vision, a guttural howl wrenched from his throat.

Mathias released him, and Rayan slumped back on the bed, his body deadweight. After moving to lie beside him, Mathias kissed his shoulder as Rayan returned to himself. “Look at you, all wrung out,” Mathias said.

Rayan curved into him, pressing against the heat of Mathias’s naked body. The heaviness had lifted momentarily, allowing him to see past the darkness that had descended. “I haven’t given up,” he said into the man’s chest.

“Good. Because this could go any number of ways, and I need you to keep a clear head.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Rayan said, smarting at the familiar reproach. That had always been his problem—feeling too much.

Mathias pulled himself up and leaned back against the headboard with a sigh. Only then did Rayan notice how tired he looked. He’d been so addled the past few days that he’d no idea what Mathias had been contending with.

After a moment, Mathias spoke. “He wore a white shirt and had your eyes.”

A hot jolt seized Rayan’s stomach, and he sat up. “Stop,” he said forcefully.

“You wanted to talk about him, so here we are.” Mathias turned to look at him. “He was coming down from something. It must’ve been a decent hit because I noticed the twitches.”

Mathias had never spoken about what he remembered from that day. Somehow, it made it more real after all those years existing only in Rayan’s mind. “He was manic,” Rayan muttered. “I hadn’t seen him in days. It had been getting so bad he barely recognized me anymore.” He noticed he was gripping the sheets and stared down at his hands.

“He told me no matter what happened, he wouldn’t leave me.” It was the first time Rayan had said it out loud—not realizing, until he’d spoken the words, how tightly he’d held onto them.

Mathias’s face softened. “It was a doomed promise, Rayan,” he said quietly. “One you keep until you can’t.”

“I know,” Rayan said with a half smile. “I just didn’t realize how much I believed it until he was gone.”

Mathias was getting dressed in the bathroom when his phone began to ring. Still in bed, Rayan listened as he picked up. There was a long pause.

“I’ll be there,” Mathias said, the words coming out muffled through the half-open door. Mathias stepped into the bedroom shortly afterward and slipped on his jacket. “I brought food.” He gave Rayan a pointed look. “Hands off my booze.”

A flare of heat rose to Rayan’s face. Then he felt Mathias’s hand on his neck and the press of his lips against his hair before the man turned and strode out of the room. The sound of the front door closing always left a hollow ache in Rayan’s chest.

He threw on some clothes and wandered out to the dining table, where he’d left his books. Beneath the pile of notes was his laptop. He opened it absently to discover an email from Professor Hofstein. Rayan paused, his finger hovering over the trackpad, unwilling to open it. He stared at the subject line. It was a reminder of that other life and how arrogant he’d been to call it his own.

Frustrated at his own indecision, Rayan clicked open the message and skimmed through the professor’s friendly greeting. In the remainder of the email, Hofstein expressed his concern for Rayan’s increased absence from class and their appointed meetings.

Rayan thought about his thesis—almost complete—sitting in a folder on his computer. He’d told Mathias he hadn’t given up, but it was naive to think there was still a place for these things. Why should he be allowed to start over? The world didn’t owe him that. The world owed him nothing.

He reread the professor’s kind words and then moved the cursor to the top of the email, which he swiftly deleted. After closing the lid of his laptop, he stalked into the kitchen. On the counter were a brown paper bag of groceries and a fabric tote containing something else. Rayan reached for it and pulled out a lacquered wooden chess set. The lid of the box opened to reveal a board and two rows of beautifully carved pieces, black on the right, white on the left.

It had started as another lesson, one more thing he’d never learned. While visiting Rayan during his first year in Toronto, Mathias had discovered he didn’t know how to play. Rayan had gone out and bought a set and made Mathias teach him. They would leave the game set up in his living room, with a silver quarter on the table beside it. Every time Mathias was in town, he would make a move and flip over the quarter so Rayan knew it was his turn. He was heads, Rayan tails. Their games would last months, a sporadic flurry of movements giving way to nothing, marking the time together and apart. So far, Rayan hadn’t succeeded in beating him. Mathias had a knack for anticipating potential moves before they appeared and planned his victory several turns in advance.

Rayan took the board and set it up on the side table in the corner of the living room, where he placed each piece in its assigned square. He picked up the white pawn and moved it two spaces forward. Then he retrieved his wallet, extracted a silver quarter, and left it beside the board, heads up.

This time, Mathias went alone to see Belkov. A thick-jawed Russian soldier escorted him into the office at the back of Chateau Suzdal, where he found the Bratva boss with his feet up on the desk.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this, Beauvais.”

Mathias scowled and pulled up a chair.

“Gurin called,” Belkov said with a smirk. “With some more information about our Hamilton associate.”

“You seem awfully pleased.”

“Pleased, not pleased—that’s not important.” Belkov waved a hand dismissively. “The point is, you, my friend, are in trouble.”

As if I didn’t already know that.

“Gurin looked into what the cops have on Truman. The Reapers have been gunrunning, working with other chapters across the country, only to find themselves tangled up in a Border Services investigation. Not trivial, either—we’re talking a national sting operation.”

Mathias felt a pounding in his head as his anger unfurled.

“And that’s just the start. They’ve caught Truman personally handling product. He’s staring down the barrel at jail time—has a trial date coming up in the next month or two.”

“So, what—the Feds have promised him immunity for handing me over?” Mathias asked.

“The Feds have promised him something—that’s for sure.” Belkov spread his palms. “Looks like you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament.”

Mathias narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to try and strike a deal?”

Belkov chuckled. “Always thinking the worst of people, aren’t you, Mathias? Thing is, shortly after the whole business with Russo, when Truman and I parted ways, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get my hands on a little insurance policy in case the man ever decided to misremember the particulars of our short-lived alliance. The Reapers and the Bratva have a… how would you say? Tumultuous history.”

“Where are you going with this?”

Belkov swung his legs down and bent to open the top drawer of his desk. He took out a small brown envelope, which he placed between them. “Leverage. I no longer need it now that he’s come after you instead. And it’ll only go to waste if Truman ends up in one of our fine correctional institutions.”

Mathias lifted the envelope from the desk and opened the flap to find a small stack of black-and-white photos.

“All sorts of surprises came up when my men started digging,” Belkov said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Mathias pulled out the stack and peered closely at the faces in the first shot, tempering his astonishment. “Is that—”

“You’d better fucking believe it.”

Mathias looked up at the Bratva boss, whose mouth was stretched into a cocky grin.

“Bet you’re glad for all those favors now, Beauvais. I just gave you a chunk of solid gold.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Mathias stared down at the images in his hand. “He can’t be this fucking stupid.” He inspected Truman’s profile in the next photo and the slackened grin of the man beside him. “You’ve really captured his good side.”

“Always knew having dirt on Truman would come in handy. Take it. Use it as a bargaining chip with the Feds. They hate us, but they hate an inside job even more. Stings when it’s one of their own.”

Mathias felt an immediate kickback at Belkov’s mention of collaborating with the RCMP. The photos were damning—and he didn’t doubt they had the potential to bring Allen to the negotiating table—but the idea pushed up hard against the reputation he’d built for himself. If he was to demand respect in this world, his word had to mean something. Mathias wasn’t a rat. The thought of going to that smug woman to plead his case and giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten to him was just as impossible as handing himself in.

“And I’m to believe you’re doing this from the goodness of your heart?” Mathias sneered.

Belkov shrugged. “Let’s say I have a shared interest in Truman going down. Our Hamilton operations have been stifled as of late. I could use the breathing room.”

Mathias thumbed through the photos absently. He’d been strangely undecided on how to proceed with Truman. It wasn’t as simple as confronting the Reapers’ head. He had to try to figure out exactly what Truman had given Allen first.

“So, you’ll stand to gain no matter which way this falls,” Mathias remarked.

The Bratva boss couldn’t hide his glee. “And that, Beauvais, is where you’d be right. That man has been a thorn in my side for years. Your can of worms happens to be my lucky break.”