Page 28 of A Life Chosen

The warning was clear. Rayan felt the tension leave him as they returned to the car, replaced by a growing numbness, a black curtain descending upon the whirl of thoughts.

Mathias closed the door of his apartment behind Rayan. As he walked down the hallway, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the spray of red scattered from chin to forehead. He raised an arm, wiping what remained of the kid from his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

Rayan stood in the living room, watching him silently. After Mathias had relieved him of his driving duties, he’d retreated into himself, not saying another word.

“Stay here,” Mathias instructed, avoiding his gaze. He knew if he didn’t, something would push itself to the surface, and he could not deal with that right now. There’d been plenty of close calls over the years, but never had he so clearly owed Rayan his life. “I need to make a call.”

His second nodded woodenly.

Mathias continued down the hall. He stopped first in the bedroom, shedding the offending jacket and shirt, before moving through to the bathroom, where he splashed searing-hot water on his face then rubbed it hard with a towel. Only when the skin was raw did he stop, throw on a clean shirt, and retreat to his study.

Mathias lit a cigarette, restlessly pacing the room. He took a drag, then another, before finally sitting down at the desk and picking up his phone. Giovanni answered on the second ring.

“Your line secure?” Mathias asked.

“Always,” the old man replied.

“Paterlini’s kid is dead.”

“Junior? What the hell happened?”

“He tried to blow my fucking brains out, for one.”

“What?”

“Whacked two Bratva soldiers while he was at it.”

There was a long pause.

“Who knows about this?” Giovanni asked.

“You. Belkov shortly, I’d imagine.”

They both sat with that, slowly realizing the wider implications.

“He was working with Piero,” Mathias said quietly. “Said something about overhauling the family. That I was the first of many.”

“Jesus,” Giovanni hissed. “The fucker’s planning a coup.”

“This needs to go to the boss.”

Giovanni sighed. “With the kid dead, it’s your word against his.”

“And his daddy and Russo go way back—yes, I know how this looks,” Mathias growled.

“Piero will deny any involvement. The boss won’t back you over his son. There’s no going back from an accusation like that.”

“You want me to stand here and take this?” Mathias asked, incredulous. “Wait until he tries again?”

“He won’t. Not right away. With how this has gone down, he’ll lay low, wait for things to blow over, before he tries anything. We need to hold our cards tight. And right now, Piero doesn’t know what you know.”

The old man had a point.

“Until we have more, we treat this as a shoot-out. The Russians fired first, the kid got hit, you finished them off.”

Mathias saw the flash from Junior’s gun as he shot twice in quick succession. Felt the metal barrel pressed against his head, still hot. “No doubt the same story they were going to tell when I turned up dead.”

“Count yourself lucky, then.”

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