Page 37 of A Life Chosen

Giovanni held out his hands. “With you out of town, they’re hoping things will settle down with the Russians and Paterlini will be appeased. When the situation is less sensitive, we can look at getting you back.”

Mathias stood, pulling on his jacket.

“Mathias, you’re young, you’re talented,” Giovanni continued, assuaging him. “Be patient, stay alive. There’s several ways this can go yet.”

Mathias dropped a handful of bills on the table, turning to leave without another word.

Mathias stood in the living room of his apartment in pitch darkness. The blinds were drawn, the lights off. He held a full glass of Macallan, not his first. He was past drunk, having started early with Belkov’s little game of chicken, and was now entering the realm of false lucidity, as though the world tilting beneath his feet was exactly how it was supposed to be.

He swilled the harsh liquid in his mouth before swallowing. His grip on the tumbler tightened, and Mathias wondered how easy it would be to crush in his hand. There was a dullness about him that he couldn’t shake. Perhaps a fistful of glass splinters might wake him up.

The family had always made it clear that there were those in its ranks who were worth more than others. Even Rayan, far on the periphery, knew that, yet Mathias had believed he was capable of moving beyond his station. He was a fool.

He felt a deep rage churning in his chest. It stole his breath, narrowing his vision. Mathias had no choice but to take the fall. And he would stand by and smile through it.

In one fluid movement, he hurled the glass at the wall, where it shattered into tiny shards. The act did nothing to ease the fury pumping through his veins. He picked up the half-empty bottle of scotch from the coffee table and threw it against the glass shelving. All of it came down in an almighty crash. Mathias stepped forward and swiped his arm across the bar cabinet, sending the contents tumbling to the hardwood floor. Throwing his weight against the cabinet itself, he overturned it onto the ground, glasses and bottles spilling out and shattering at his feet.

He caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror, a shadow of a man in the darkness. Crunching over broken glass, he strode to the mirror, surprised to find that despite everything, there it was—the same face looking back at him. He raised a fist and smashed it into the glass. His hand came away a bloody mess. He exhaled slowly, looking down at his bleeding knuckles as he gingerly flexed his hand, opening and closing it. Finally, he had something to supplant the fury, the blackness in his head clearing as the pain kicked in.

Chapter Thirteen

Rayan had heard nothing from his boss for two days. Not that he’d initially noticed through the haze of a punishing hangover. His recollection of that night was hazy, and he had a nagging feeling he’d said something stupid, reinforcing his determination to avoid alcohol altogether. Attempting to keep up with Belkov had not been one of his smarter decisions, but Rayan had been overcome by the need to prove something to the Russian mobster, who had, for the first time, invited him to the table as an equal.

At first, Rayan had given Mathias space, knowing how complicated things had become. But when his capo would not answer his calls, Rayan began to worry. He decided he would go over. The worst Mathias could do was rail against him. At the very least, checking on him would assuage Rayan’s fears.

He stood in the lobby of Mathias’s building, waiting for the elevator. Once inside, he punched in the private access code, allowing him entry to the top floor. Rayan stepped out into the plush foyer, stopped outside the man’s front door, and pressed the buzzer. He waited, hearing nothing from inside the apartment. Figuring Mathias wasn’t home, Rayan was about to leave when the door swung open.

“What are you doing here?” Mathias stood shirtless, a towel around his neck, cheeks shaded with stubble. Just below his ear there was a tiny bloom of blood as if he’d nicked himself.

“Checking you’re still alive,” Rayan shot back, suddenly irritated. His boss didn’t appear incapable of picking up the phone. He strode past him into the apartment. As Mathias closed the door behind him, Rayan saw the bandage around his right hand. “Christ, your hand.”

His capo ignored him, walking back down the hallway to the bathroom, and Rayan followed. He stopped as he heard a crunch underfoot. The mirror hung askew, the glass shattered. He passed the living room, taking in the chaos. The room, immense and sparsely decorated, had been completely trashed. What looked like ithad once been a glass shelf hung haphazardly from a screw on the wall, the rest of it in tatters on the polished wood floor. Pools of liquid drenched the floorboards near an overturned cabinet, and the whole room smelled strongly of alcohol.

The door to the bathroom was open, and Mathias bent over the sink filled with water, his cheeks frosted white. Held awkwardly in his left hand was a razor, its base clenched at a strange angle as he attempted to bring it to his face. Resting on the basin was his bandaged hand, the fingers forced straight.

As Rayan entered, his capo glanced at him in the mirror, his mouth set in a scowl. Mathias was a master of many things, including the impeccable shave. It was strange to see him so out of his element.

He threw the razor down into the sink with a clatter. “What are you looking at?” he growled.

Rayan stepped forward, dropping a hand into the warm water and fishing out the razor. “Let me.”

His boss looked at him warily but said nothing. Mathias was several inches taller than him, so Rayan placed a hand beneath the man’s chin and tilted his face at an angle. He moved the razor to the base of Mathias’s neck and drew it up to his jawline, each stroke slow and methodical. He was aware of Mathias’s eyes on him and the tension in his neck as Rayan slid the razor along the contours of his throat. He shook it out in the sink and started on his face. This close, Rayan could feel the steady brush of Mathias’s breath, all thoughts focused on keeping his hand steady.

He finished the last stroke, and Mathias wrapped his hand around the wrist holding the razor. The man pushed him against the sink, and Rayan felt the smoothness of his freshly shaven cheek graze his own. Then Mathias stepped back abruptly and walked out of the bathroom.

Rayan found him in the bedroom, getting dressed. “Your hand.”

“Martin’s seen it,” he replied, shrugging on his shirt. “It’s fine.”

Without a word, Rayan moved toward him and began on the buttons. His capo’s frustration filled the room. Mathias’s eyes were trained on him as he started at the collar and made his way down. Rayan felt the movement of the man’s chest, slow and measured beneath the fabric under his fingers. He was aware of the warmth of Mathias’s skin as it brushed against his knuckles. It felt like a feat of restraint not to place a hand on his bare stomach and draw it across the map of muscle that was his chest.

“Since you’re here,” Mathias said stiffly when Rayan was done, picking up his jacket from where it lay on the bed. “Might as well come for the show.”

Rayan blinked. “Where’re you going?”

Mathias pocketed his cigarettes, his phone. “To see the boss.”

Only weeks ago, the same prospect had been met with anticipation, the promise of something great. And now it was as though he was en route to his execution.

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