Chapter Seventeen
R ayan was rinsing dishes in the kitchen when the front door opened and Mathias strode into the apartment. It had been three days. Three days in which his mind had run through every possibility, mining them for their potential likelihood. None of the scenarios he’d envisioned had involved Mathias simply reappearing, clothes disheveled, hair mussed, his face a mask of stone.
He walked past Rayan as if he weren’t there and closed the bedroom door behind him with a thud. Moments later, Rayan heard the hiss of the shower as it turned on. Still, he didn’t move, not quite sure that what he’d witnessed wasn’t an apparition.
Rayan waited until after the shower had been turned off, pacing the hallway to curb his impatience, before finally cracking open the door to the bedroom. He found Mathias freshly changed, his wet hair slicked back, standing by the window, smoking. Rayan hung back. He could feel the swirl of hostility emanating from the man and see it in the stiff angles of his body.
“They let you out,” he said flatly.
Mathias exhaled a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils. “Took them long enough.”
“I didn’t think you’d come here.” Rayan had assumed in the event that Mathias was released, he would immediately launch into an aggressive counteroffensive.
Unless it’s not retaliation he’s preoccupied with…
Rayan’s gaze dropped to the red marks around Mathias’s wrists. He could only imagine what the past few days had been like for him—stripped of his respect and paraded about like a prize. He felt a swell of sympathy for Mathias, who, usually in complete control, had found himself in uncharted territory.
Rayan moved carefully into the room as though approaching a wounded animal: unpredictable and prone to lashing out when cornered. “What do you need?”
Mathias stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill. “I don’t need anything,” he said stiffly and headed for the door.
Rayan stepped into his path, stopping him. “What do you want, then?”
Mathias’s eyes narrowed. He shoved past, but Rayan caught his arm and held firm. Mathias yanked it free. “The fuck does it matter?”
“So I can give it to you,” Rayan murmured. He stepped forward and softly brushed Mathias’s mouth with his own.
This time, Mathias didn’t pull away. Instead, he parted his lips, the subtlest of gestures yet all the intimation Rayan needed to take him into his arms, desperate to blunt the force of his outrage, which threatened to swallow the man whole. They moved fast, Mathias tugging roughly at Rayan’s pants. Here’s something he can control: me. And Rayan would submit himself freely. But Mathias stilled, his grip slackening, arms falling to his sides. They stood, momentarily fixed in place, before Rayan realized it wasn’t control that he wanted.
He raised his hands to the buttons of Mathias’s shirt and undid them one by one. Rayan slipped his thumbs beneath the fabric and slid it off his shoulders. He reached down to unbuckle Mathias’s belt, unfastened his pants, and let them drop to the floor. Rayan shed his remaining clothes and led Mathias to the bed, where he lowered him down on his back. Rayan moved so he was above the man and trailed his lips across Mathias’s bare skin—stomach, chest, shoulders, neck—feeling the rise and fall of each breath beneath his touch. He stroked the smoothness of Mathias’s cheek, freshly shaven, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave. Finally, Rayan reached his mouth, kissing him gently as he waited for Mathias to work loose. He felt Mathias’s arms loop around his waist, bringing Rayan to him and holding him close. They lay flush, mouths together, the heat transmitting through their skin until Mathias began to stir, as though Rayan had breathed life into him, pulling him back from the depths.
When it came to understanding the inscrutable nature of Mathias’s feelings, Rayan eschewed words and instead relied on the man’s body as an indicator of what was roiling beneath the surface. That could take the form of a fist clenched in anger or—like now—the forceful, purposeful grip of Mathias’s hands as he guided Rayan onto his back beneath him. There was an intentionality to the way Mathias commanded the muscles in his arms and legs to pin Rayan to the mattress, a conscious recentering, his body regaining the clarity his mind had momentarily lost. Finding himself once again.
Mathias held him down by the wrists, and Rayan’s arousal sprang into the gap between their bodies, demanding attention. Lowering his head, Mathias brought his lips to the tip of Rayan’s cock. His tongue teased along the slit, making Rayan groan and push against his iron grip. Where Rayan was eager, Mathias was deliberate. He intended to bring Rayan close to the edge while simultaneously pulling him back. And he was fucking good at it. Mathias took his cock deeper into his mouth, changing the pace, taking his time, sending Rayan spiraling. But before Rayan could lose himself, Mathias released him, hard and taut, from between his lips.
“Please…” Rayan protested weakly.
Mathias drew himself up, his cock curving toward the muscular lines of his stomach, and stared down at Rayan with a knowing look. “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”
Flushed, Rayan held his gaze. “You. Inside me.”
Without another word, Mathias flipped him onto his stomach. Rayan heard the nightstand drawer glide open and the snap of a lid. Then Mathias’s palm was on the small of Rayan’s back, sliding down his ass, a slick finger pressing against him to curve inside, finding just the right spot. A moan escaped Rayan’s clenched teeth. It was his fault—he’d shown Mathias how easily he could be trained. Mathias continued stretching him, two fingers now, deliberately slow, so Rayan reared against him, willing him deeper.
When fingers weren’t enough, Mathias pulled back and used his knees to spread Rayan’s legs from behind. He moved so the head of his cock rested against Rayan’s opening. Rayan could hear the thunder of his own breath in his ears. He felt Mathias’s eyes on him, making him wait. Then Mathias drove forward, and Rayan’s back arched as he was filled, a shudder spreading from his hips to his toes.
There was something intoxicating about giving himself over to Mathias, relinquishing himself to his will. Rayan had done so for years as his second, handing over his life for Mathias to do with it as he pleased. But this was different. Back then, Rayan’s devotion and desire to please had only run one way. Even now, it came as a surprise when Mathias demonstrated that those intentions were in fact reciprocal.
A hand curved around his neck, turning his head, and Mathias leaned down to kiss him, his chest pressed against Rayan’s back. They moved in tandem, an established familiarity between their bodies. Mathias lowered his forehead to Rayan’s shoulder, his arms straining as he held himself aloft, hips slamming into Rayan with each measured thrust.
Rayan’s fingers curled into the sheets—the heat, the fullness, the weight of Mathias bearing down on him was overwhelming. Mathias began to move faster, rising to press down on Rayan’s hips, forcing his legs wider and deepening the angle in a way that left him gasping. Rayan didn’t dare touch his cock, which was beading beneath him. He wanted only for this annihilation to continue—to remain in this version of reality in which only the two of them existed.
Rayan could tell Mathias’s reserves were low, his self-control depleted. The man was close, his movements no longer controlled but raw and untamed as his restraint began to crumble. Mathias circled an arm around Rayan’s chest and pulled him up on his knees. His other arm dropped between Rayan’s thighs, and his hand moved to jerk Rayan’s cock.
Arching his back, Rayan tilted his chin to press his mouth against the line of Mathias’s jaw. “Come for me,” he murmured.
With a sharp grunt, his breath cut in two, Mathias crushed Rayan to his chest and shuddered against him as he came. A wave of pleasure shot down Rayan’s spine, and he made a noise in the back of his throat, discovering he was closer than he’d realized. He grasped Mathias’s hand, still around his cock, and eased it along his shaft. Mathias, still hard inside him, rocked his hips, grazing the spot that made Rayan’s mind blur. He gave a low growl and spilled, hot and wet, through their entwined fingers.
They remained fused for a moment as Rayan caught his breath, before Mathias gradually extracted himself, his residual warmth sliding down the inside of Rayan’s thigh. Lying with Rayan on top of the sheets, Mathias’s eyes closed, and Rayan greedily searched his face for clues. Mathias opened them suddenly, catching him in the act.
“Angelo Caravella?” he asked, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “Is that your idea of a joke?”
Rayan recalled Dubois’s insistence on a name and how the memory of the two men was intrinsically linked in his mind. It had come out before he’d registered the ominous parallel. “More of a coincidence.”
Mathias shook his head, mystified. “You don’t forget a fucking thing, do you?” He let out a snort of laughter and rolled onto his back. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet. “Thank you.” The words registered like an electric shock, and Rayan’s eyes widened. “Don’t look so surprised,” Mathias admonished him. “I’m not incapable of gratitude.”
Rayan hid a smile. It seemed his former capo was capable of a lot more than he’d given him credit for. “What did Dubois make of it?”
“They couldn’t get these charges to stick, but it’s only a matter of time before there are others. Everything points to Truman. Turns out he’s kicked up a lot of dirt, and the Feds have him over a barrel. Now he’s singing like a canary.” Mathias struggled to dispel the fury from his face. He turned to Rayan, his eyebrows drawing together. “It gets murkier. Belkov has intel that Truman’s in bed with Wainwright.”
“Wainwright?”
“Roger Wainwright, chief of Hamilton PD. There are photos of them together—with hookers, money, blow, you name it. That’s the problem with a cocky bastard like Truman—he’s been greasing the wheels in all the wrong places.”
Rayan blinked as he realized what this could mean. “That kind of information… Couldn’t you use it to—”
“I’m not giving her shit,” Mathias snapped, throwing him a sharp look. “I’d rather face jail time than cut a deal with that woman.”
Rayan knew better than to challenge him. Mathias was paradoxical like that. Certain lines he had no trouble crossing. Others he upheld with a noble sort of integrity. And if there was one thing he despised above all else, it was a rat.
“Back then, what you said about Caravella,” Rayan said carefully. “The Feds start investigating, and he disappears. That was the family, wasn’t it?”
Beside him, Mathias pressed his lips together, frowning.
“This is a lot of attention,” Rayan continued, attempting to silence his own misgivings. “What will the family do?”
Mathias exhaled slowly, and there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes that Rayan hadn’t expected. “I don’t know.”
Mathias stood in the kitchen, boiling water for coffee. Two showers hadn’t been enough to forget the crawl of filth from the jail cell on his skin. Despite the fact that he’d been released, Allen had succeeded in rattling him. He’d cornered her on his turf, and she’d turned around and done the same—giving him a taste of things to come if she got her way.
Mathias poured the water from the kettle over the ground coffee in the press and eased down the handle. Rayan appeared next to him, silent on bare feet, and took down two cups from the cabinet, which he placed on the counter. Mathias filled them both with coffee and slid one in Rayan’s direction before taking a frying pan from the drawer and placing it on the stove.
After Dubois had dropped him off, Mathias had made his way to the nearest metro station and taken the train to Beaubien. From there, it was a short walk to the safe house. When he arrived at the apartment, he wanted only to scour himself. He stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to warm, convinced the cold, not the memory of that empty cell, was making him shiver. He stood under the water for a long time, letting it thunder down on his shoulders as he tried to clear the fog from his head. It wasn’t until Rayan had taken his arm and he’d felt the warmth of the man’s skin against his own that Mathias had realized how deeply he’d retreated into himself.
While Rayan drank his coffee at the counter, Mathias took eggs from the fridge and punched bread into the toaster. He fried the eggs with one hand while sipping his coffee with the other. Then he set the toast onto two plates and piled the eggs on top, sprinkled with a dash of salt and pepper—simple, unembellished. Mathias viewed cooking as he did most of life’s obligatory tasks—not to be enjoyed, merely to be completed.
He pulled up a stool beside Rayan and placed the plates down on the counter, surprised to discover he was famished. As they ate, Mathias noticed Rayan was wearing one of his T-shirts. He’d brought so little with him from Toronto. Slightly too big, the shirt hung low around his neck, revealing the line of his collarbone. He must have found it in the bedroom dresser. It was unsettling how much Mathias enjoyed seeing him in it.
The safe house had been the easiest place to disappear, at least temporarily, but it wasn’t the real reason he’d found himself here. The gravity of what Rayan had done by contacting Dubois wasn’t lost on him. He’d extracted himself from his old life at a great personal cost, only to throw himself back in for Mathias’s sake.
Here it was again: the impossible situation. Their lives were fundamentally incompatible but inherently intertwined. Whereas before, Mathias had attempted to cut himself off, now the prospect was unthinkable. He was in far too deep, his grip on Rayan unable to be prized open. He didn’t know how to unravel what they had without unraveling himself.
“Are we going to pretend you didn’t spend the last three days in jail?” Rayan said finally, pushing away his empty plate. His voice was measured, as though he’d been waiting to bring it up.
“High chance I’d end up there eventually,” Mathias said blithely, unwilling to touch on the fear that lurked in his mind. He stood, reached for the frying pan, and spooned the remaining eggs onto his plate.
“Different when it actually happens, though,” Rayan said, staring back at him.
That look was dangerous, the way it cut through everything else and aimed right for the jugular. It made Mathias want to confess to things he’d never uttered aloud.
Mathias placed the pan back on the stove. “I went to see your father.”
Maybe he said it to turn the lens back on Rayan—distract him from his calm observations, which hit a little too close to home. Rayan’s eyebrows shot up. He stood jerkily.
“What?” He practically spat out the word as his fists clenched at his sides, angrier than Mathias had ever seen him.
Mathias shrugged. “You and my mother seemed awfully close—I thought he and I could be pals.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Mathias!”
Mathias relented, seeing how affected he was by the news. He hadn’t expected Rayan to take it quite like this. “Allen tracked him down. As it turns out, he had several choice things to say about you to the police.”
Rayan shook his head, his face furrowing in confusion. “About what? I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”
Mathias hesitated, realizing the nature of what the old man had said. But Rayan had a right to know—it was his father, after all. He took out his phone and pulled up the document Gagnon had sent him. He handed it to Rayan. Rayan’s eyes darted across the screen, and he grimaced then placed the phone face down on the counter.
“It’s a crock,” Mathias said. “Not that it matters. I convinced him to reconsider his testimony.”
“Did he…?” Rayan spoke haltingly. “Was he…?” He gave a ragged sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t care.”
Mathias was struck by how young he appeared in that moment, as though mention of his father had revealed something of the boy within. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”
Rayan tilted his head, and his mouth curled into a half smile. “What for? I have nothing to say to a stranger.” He rubbed his palms across his cheeks, smoothing something that wasn’t there. “I’ve always been half a fucking stranger.”
Mathias recalled the dilapidated house and the old man’s yellowed eyes, his biting commentary. He thought of the inscription etched carefully in the book from Rayan’s mother, black ink in a steady hand: I can already see the man you will become, noble and kind. Someone to be proud of.
“You’re nothing like him,” Mathias said. “You must be all her.”
Rayan’s eyes, wide and unblinking, flew to Mathias’s face. Then he turned and walked to the window, concealing his expression. Outside, the snow was falling once again, floating silently from the sky and muffling the noise from the street. Mathias stared at Rayan’s shoulders, broad beneath the plain white T-shirt, and the curve of his neck as his head angled toward the window. He could see Rayan’s face reflected in the glass, his brown eyes shining.
“You were right, though,” Mathias said into the silence. “Maskinongé’s a shithole. Lucky you got out when you did—plane or no plane.”
Rayan gave a short laugh and brushed the back of his hand beneath his nose. When he turned back, the sheen in his eyes was gone.