A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

F rances sat on the sofa in her living room and looked down at the coffee table, where she’d assembled the contents of the envelope Rayan had given her. Across a series of twelve photos was a damning account of evidence against not just Hamilton Police Chief Roger Wainwright but the entire Hamilton Police Department. There was an image of Truman handing money to Wainwright in a swanky restaurant and another of the cop smoking a cigarette while his subordinate slipped a suspicious-looking envelope to the Reapers’ head outside one of his strip clubs. Even more perplexing was the photo of Truman holding open a car door for the HPD chief, who was leaving the vehicle with his arms around two scantily clad women. Knowing what she knew about the women in Truman’s employ, the legality of both their profession and their presence in the country—not to mention their age—was very much in question.

She sighed and picked up the bottle of beer sweating on the coaster by her elbow. She took a long swig and set it back on the table. She had a professional obligation to raise those allegations of corruption against Wainwright with the deputy commissioner. And the second she did, the full force of the RCMP would descend on the case. As Gill had said, it came down to optics, and a right-leaning government hard on crime would jump at the chance to throw the entire weight of its resources at the first sniff of police corruption. What she had on the table before her was more than a sniff.

But by handing in this evidence, she was bound to her deal with Rayan. That meant putting the Montreal investigation, already mired, on ice. The tip-off had centered on Mathias and his involvement in the Reapers-assisted shipments. With him off-limits, there was nothing left to keep it going.

It was the perfect tactic—to turn the eye of the law back on itself. Meanwhile, Mathias Beauvais and the host of other family players assembled in Montreal would return to being inconsequential, flying under the radar and escaping capture once again. Her hand had been forced. If it was ever discovered that she’d withheld these photos, she would be implicated in the fallout—sixteen years of clawing her way up the chain of command would be down the fucking drain.

Frances reached over to pick up a close-up image of Truman and Wainwright sharing a drink, the Reaper’s mouth turned up in a grin. This evening, cornered in the back room of that dingy warehouse, she’d realized there was nothing Truman wouldn’t do to protect himself, be it bribing the chief of a municipal police department or quietly dispatching a federal inspector who’d asked one too many questions. Why had Mathias, then—cut from the same cloth—come to bail her out?

And then there was Rayan. Frances pulled her laptop from the bag by her feet, placed it on the table beside the mosaic of photos, and logged into the agency database. She typed in the young man’s name and pulled up the case file she’d created then scrolled through her notes—the attempts she’d made to connect him to the Montreal crime family and his father’s disjointed testimony, which the old man had recanted several days later over the phone, flustered and speaking in a panicked mumble.

It was an empty case full of dead ends and question marks. She still hadn’t been able to determine the true nature of his activities in Toronto or the reason for his sudden reappearance in Montreal. And then, after interfering with Truman’s plans, he’d handed her the envelope of photos.

What do I do to make sure it’s not him?

It didn’t make his or Mathias’s actions any clearer. But what did that matter now?

Frances moved the cursor over to the file settings and selected a tag from the drop-down menu. The case updated, a red label appearing over Rayan’s photo: Suspended.

On the sofa beside her, Frances’s phone rang. It was her sister.

“Brie’s final recital was today. You said you would come,” Diana said when she picked up, her tone accusatory.

Frances rolled her eyes. As if she’d spent the night lounging around watching television. She could still conjure the smell of the gangster’s breath as he’d leaned in, his fingers digging into the flesh of her wrist.

“I’m sorry. Tell her I was sad to miss it.”

“Were you, though? I thought you said after Ethan that you wanted to start putting family first. Prioritizing the relationships in your life.”

“That’s unfair, Diana,” Frances said, the heat rising to her cheeks. Her sister was clueless, completely off base. “Of course that’s what I want. But I’ve got things on my plate—people relying on me. I can’t just drop everything for a dance recital.”

She felt a coldness descend on the other end of the line. “I saw him, by the way,” Diana said. “Ethan, at the supermarket the other day. With someone else.”

Frances wondered if her sister had been saving up that particular piece of information, waiting for a time to invoke maximum effect. Well, now was as good a time as any. It seemed she was getting the stuffing kicked out of her tonight.

“Oh?” she replied breezily. “And…?”

“She’s young, blond. Probably desperate to lock him down. I remember Ethan was keen to have kids. He waited for you long enough.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, Frances. I believed you this time. I thought what happened with Ethan was enough for you to take stock and figure out what really mattered. And I thought me and the kids were part of that. But it’s the same as always—you get so caught up, so obsessed, you can’t cut yourself loose. You know, at the end of the day, no matter how many cases you solve, you still have to come home to yourself—”

Frances hung up the phone, reached for her beer, and drained it. Then she stood and walked to the window, goose bumps prickling across her skin.

In those horrible weeks of fighting before they finally broke up, Ethan had accused her of choosing work over him. “You’re not your job, and until you realize that, there’s no room in your life for anything else.” She hadn’t disputed it. After all, he was right.

And then it hit her—what had almost happened tonight. Frances felt her chest tighten and her breathing go shallow. She placed a hand on her stomach and tried to pull the air into her lungs, long and slow, but it kept catching in her throat. She stared out the window at an unfamiliar city, standing in an empty apartment that wasn’t her own, completely alone.

Mathias drove to Laval, navigating the route through the city streets from memory, his thoughts elsewhere. He’d talked a big game to Truman about the family’s backing, but the truth was they’d already begun to distance themselves from him. Mathias had become too dangerous, a man with a target etched on his back. It wasn’t just Allen and her rabid pursuit of him-—he’d now made an enemy of the Red Reapers. And with Giovanni’s lofty plan to convert Collections into another faceless corporation, Mathias found himself pushed even further to the periphery. He’d been reduced to what he’d always despised among the bloated ranks of family elite: deadweight.

Disappear with me. Rayan’s words circled his mind.

Leaving was not an impossible prospect logistically. The question wasn’t whether he could do it but what it would mean if he did. He’d left the city before when he’d been reassigned to Hamilton, and the experience had been seared with humiliation.

Why doesn’t this feel the same? What exactly am I fighting to hold on to in Montreal? Mathias reached for the desire that had fueled his ambition from the very beginning, when he had first started out with the family and refused to take no for an answer. But he couldn’t find it.

And then there was Rayan. After tonight, it was clear that he was no longer equipped to live in this world, and Mathias was doing him no favors by keeping him here. Rayan was stuck in limbo, torn between Mathias’s life and his own.

Mathias pulled the car up outside Chateau Suzdal and cut the engine. A Russian soldier led him into the front of the restaurant, where the tables were strewn with the remains of a large gathering. Belkov sat at a booth in the corner, drinking.

“Eightieth birthday,” he announced when Mathias sat down across from him. Belkov flipped over an empty glass and poured him a drink. “Can you imagine getting to be that old?”

“I’d rather take one to the head,” Mathias said, picking up the glass.

“Likewise,” the Russian replied. They lifted their glasses in unison and downed their shots.

“Truman’s cut off. Thought you should know, in case he decides to start something.”

“Let him try.”

“Give Gurin a heads-up. The Reapers have more weight to throw around in Hamilton.”

Belkov nodded. “While I appreciate the warning, what does this mean for everything else?”

Fuck all. Mathias felt the shift in him then—the slow admission of defeat. “Allen’s not backing down.”

“And the family?”

“What about the family?”

Belkov gave him an indulgent look. “Come on, Mathias. I know how they get when the cops start sniffing.”

Mathias fixed the man with a hard stare.

Belkov returned a knowing smile. “And so do you. Seems you’re backed hard into a corner, my friend. Not much left to do except—” He laughed, shaking his head in awe. “No, could it be? I never thought I’d see the day when you’d hightail it out of Montreal.”

“I’m not running,” Mathias snapped. Yet wasn’t that exactly what he was considering? “But perhaps it makes sense to leave for a while, see if the heat dies down.”

“What does the big boss have to say about that?”

It’s nothing personal, just self-preservation. “I imagine he’d be relieved.”

“His loss,” Belkov grunted. “So you came here to plead for my cooperation? Make sure as soon as your ass is gone, I don’t slam my boot down on Bianchi’s throat?”

“No. Though maybe you’d consider that basic courtesy on account of our history.”

The Russian snorted.

Mathias was struck by the realization that this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself at odds with the family, and both times, the Bratva boss had held firm, refusing to pull away. He remembered how after Junior’s attempted hit, Belkov had become enraged at Mathias’s insinuation that he’d offer up his own soldiers as cannon fodder. There is still loyalty among us, he’d said.

Mathias gave a wry smile. Loyalty could be found in the strangest places. “I will give my thanks, though. For your assistance over the years.”

Belkov cocked his head, observing him carefully. Then he reached his hand across the table, and Mathias shook it. “I can’t make any promises for Bianchi or that group of yours, but for you, I’ll extend a personal guarantee. No matter where you end up, if you find yourself in need of assistance, the Bratva will answer.”

Mathias released his hand with a curt nod, and Belkov filled both their glasses to the brim. “ Santé .” Mathias brought his final drink with the Russian to his lips and downed it.

When Mathias let himself into the safe house, Rayan was sitting on the sofa with a book splayed across his lap. Mathias stepped over to the small table in the corner of the living room and saw Rayan had made his move. He took in the state of the board then lifted his queen and captured the man’s rook. “Check.”

Rayan was looking at him, his expression guarded.

“But you knew that already.”

“I had a feeling,” Rayan said, closing the book and placing it down beside him. He stared at the cover, appearing to choose his words carefully. “You were right, earlier. I hesitated.”

“Rayan—”

“I thought I was still that person, but I don’t think I am anymore.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

Rayan’s gaze snapped to his face, and Mathias moved into the room. He stood across from Rayan and slipped his hands into his pockets, his fingers grazing the smooth edge of his lighter, which he traced absently with his thumb. “What do you know about Northern France?”

Rayan blinked, taken off guard. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“There’s a property I own in Calais, a small coastal city.”

Recognition slowly registered in Rayan’s eyes. “There was always a plan B.”

Mathias sighed. “I’ve been doing this a long time. It would’ve been foolish not to have one. Just never thought I’d have to execute it.”

“So you’re leaving.” The statement filled the room, lodging in the space between them.

Mathias looked at Rayan—the swell of his lips, those unwavering brown eyes. “Will you come?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation.

“You don’t know the first thing about the place,” Mathias scoffed.

Rayan shrugged and got to his feet. “It doesn’t matter.”

He thought about the way Rayan waited until he believed Mathias was asleep to burrow against him, how soft his hair was when wound through Mathias’s fingers, how his forehead furrowed while he was reading, silently mouthing certain words as if committing them to memory.

“Why?” Mathias asked hollowly.

“When you left me at Guillet’s, you told me my time would come,” Rayan said. “You looked at me like I had a future. And now I have one because of you.”

Mathias frowned. He remembered the exchange only vaguely. He’d been compelled by the need to offer Rayan something—a shred of hope to bookend their grim encounter. At the time, it had felt like tossing scraps to a dog under the table, but it had clearly meant something to the man.

Rayan walked over to stand before Mathias. “You say you’re not a good person. You act like there’s nothing behind the wall. But I’ve seen it. Good isn’t a fixed state—it can be there when you think it’s not. And when it’s someone important, it’s there in everything you do, even while you look the other way—even when no one else can see it.”

That first day in Cyprus, when Rayan had believed Mathias had come to clip him, Mathias had thought if his intentions could be so plainly mistaken—if his love, already strange and fledgling, was indistinguishable from the threat of death—then he truly must be a monster. Yet Rayan had seen him, all of him, and wanted him anyway. For two years, he’d stood by the door each time Mathias left, a look in his eyes as though willing him to turn back, and said nothing. Because they both knew that was how it had to be.

Could it be different? Does such a reality exist? Mathias had been convinced it didn’t and his very being was molded in the shape of his allegiance to the family. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Mathias said quietly.

“Nothing ever is.”

Of course Rayan knew that. “Come here.”

Rayan stepped into his arms, and Mathias pulled him close. He brought his mouth to Rayan’s and felt the whir in his head cease as he kissed him—soft, slow, impossibly warm. Mathias brushed his fingers against the man’s cheek, and Rayan leaned into the touch.

“What made you change your mind about leaving?” Rayan asked.

Mathias stared down at him. That uncurbed softness had the power to bend him. “You can’t stay here, Rayan,” he said finally, no longer able to deny the truth. “And I can’t stay without you.”

Something imperceptible flickered in Rayan’s eyes, then he dropped his head and pressed his face into Mathias’s neck. “You know I love you,” he said, his voice a fierce whisper.

The words were hard enough to hear and even more impossible to say. They revealed a missing part of Mathias’s programming, a language never used that had long been forgotten.

“I know,” Mathias said.