Page 33 of A Life Chosen

Mathias remembered the curl of Junior’s mouth as he plugged the Russian soldiers. Retaliation. Piero didn’t like being told no.

“I’d say it worked out perfectly. You got your excuse to wage war against the family, and I’ve been benched. Not as satisfying as me being dead, I’m sure.”

“Nyet,” Belkov spat, suddenly angry. “I did not agree to send my men like lambs to the slaughter. You Italians, your old ways are crumbling, disintegrating with all the infighting. But the Bratva…” He pulled his shirt aside to reveal the black stars inked crudely on his sternum. “There is still loyalty among us.”

Mathias studied the Russian carefully. He hadn’t expected this. “What was he offering?”

“Piero had quite a few—how you say—carrots. We’d take Laval, everything east of Rivière des Mille Îles. No more port fees, no more product blacklists.”

“He’d be a fool to give you that much power,” Mathias scoffed.

“To gain even greater power, sometimes you have to give some up.” He shrugged. “Russo’s boy wants to take over, but that is not what big boss wants, no? So he will force the family’s hand.”

Separate pieces began to click together in his mind, blurred edges coming into focus.

“Aren’t you curious, Mathias?” Belkov asked, the slyness returning, “about why I called you here? We have both been crossed. Perhaps we can both get even.”

Mathias snorted. “You’re just looking for another pawn to use against the family. If I’d been whacked by Piero’s little apprentice, you would’ve been overjoyed.”

Belkov began to laugh. “Think. Why would Piero want the Bratva to start a war with his own family?” The old man pulled out a slip of paper from his breast pocket and slid it across the desk toward Mathias. “Because in war, there are casualties.”

Mathias picked up the paper and unfolded it. There, staring at him in black ink, was a list of names:Mathias Beauvais,Giovanni Bianchi, Enzo Carbone, AntonioGiraldi, Filippo De Luca.Mathias felt his pulse thud. Loyalists to Russo. He folded the paper and handed it back to Belkov.

“You would have been the first,” the Russian said.

The first of many.

Belkov was freely admitting his attempted collaboration with Piero, not caring about the repercussions for Mathias, Russo, and the whole family, yet this was the closest he’d come to glimpsing Piero’s master plan. It seemed too elaborate for Belkov to have simply concocted.

“I’ve known you long enough, Belkov. You’re telling me this so you can play us both at the same time.”

“Then tell me, Mathias: why does no one know about the hit against you—that it came from inside the family? Why cover that up?”

Mathias set his jaw, refusing to show his hand. It was coming from all sides, the truth twisting and warping around him.

“Perhaps you’re biding your time. I can bide my time, too, if the price is right,” Belkov said.

They looked at each other, neither averting his gaze.

“Piero’s proposal was appealing. I’m not opposed to working with the family to help solve your little squabbles,” Belkov said. “But I don’t want to back the wrong horse.”

What he was proposing was as good as treason. It was also a compelling development.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mathias said finally, giving the Russian a pointed look.

“Of course you don’t.” Belkov smiled knowingly, a silent understanding passing between them. Then the man slammed his palms down on the desk. “Come. Let us drink to you coming here today.” He pulled out an unmarked bottle of clear liquor and several shot glasses. “To honor my men. Nothing is forgiven, but maybe we can look ahead to what will come.”

Mathias observed the Bratva boss skeptically. “How do I know that’s not laced with arsenic?”

The older man laughed, sloshing liquid into three glasses. “Give me some credit, Mathias. There are more creative ways to kill a man. And this”—he held up the bottle as though it contained the elixir of life—“is the good stuff.” He slid a full shot toward Mathias then glanced over at Rayan. “This one too.”

Mathias was about to object when his second pulled out a chair and sat down. He gave Rayan a sidelong glance. The man looked back, giving nothing away. Rayandidn’t drink. Mathias had never asked him about it, simply taking it as another cryptic detail he kept close to his chest.

“Nostrovia!” the Russian crowed, lifting up his glass as Rayan and Mathias did the same.

The vodka seared his throat on the way down, like battery acid.

Rayan winced, and Belkov grinned. “From my uncle in the old country. He makes it himself.”

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