Page 69 of A Life Chosen

“In a way, he had it coming,” he continued. “He was reckless. We were homeless. Our days were numbered…” He flinched, not quick enough to wipe the pain from his face.

“You need to rest.”

Rayan took a shuddering breath. “I should have gone first, made him stay at the office—”

“Don’t insult the man,” Mathias cut in. “You think you could convince Tony to do anything?” But the thought pierced him. If Rayan had gone first, would he be here right now?

Rayan closed his eyes once more, his face slack with fatigue. “I know what he meant to you.”

In all the chaos, Mathias had avoided thinking about Tony. He felt the ache finally enclosing. In his own father’s absence, the old man had taken him in like a bothersome wayward son. He’d vouched for Mathias when no one else would and seen his potential despite the marks to his name. And Mathias had never thanked him for it.

He watched as Rayan slept. Sleep didn’t come easy for him. Mathias wondered how much he was to blame for that, and for all of this. Rayan did not belong with the family. He never had. The man had no interest in money, status, or power games. He was a good soldier, but only practice had taught him that. Mathias didn’t spare a thought for those who fell on the wrong side of his gun. Rayan remembered each one.

He felt a hollowing as the truth closed in. Rayan stayed because of him. He wouldn’t leave so long as Mathias needed him. Yet while he remained with the family, Rayan would always be in the firing line, his life forfeited.

Rayan had become a liability to Mathias—to his ability to function and fulfill his obligations. He’d encountered many situations over the years, some far more treacherous, but never had he felt fear like when he’d pulled into that parking lot. Mathias had nearly lost himself, paralyzed with indecision, his mind shutting down. He could not risk being this immobilized again.

He leaned forward, brushing Rayan’s hair from his forehead. Then he gently extracted each of Rayan’s fingers and moved his hand away from the warmth, the life that pulsed through the man’s body, distancing himself from the fear.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

“It’s like a fucking homecoming,” Truman crowed as they stood smoking outside the lumber sheds at La Fabrique Allwood, waiting for Belkov to emerge.

They were in Laval, back on Industrial Boulevard, the shadow of that fateful afternoon with Junior still lingering even a half year on. The Russian was theatrical like that, bookending experiences, finishing them where they started. The place set Mathias’s teeth on edge. He thought of that day often and how differently things might have turned out.

“Been years since I’ve set foot in the city. The broads, I swear.” He whistled. “Like they all flew in from Paris.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mathias cautioned absently, more focused on what was happening inside the shed than on the man’s appraisal of Quebec women.

Truman laughed. “Yeah, yeah. But we came through, eh?”

The eight men on their list had been whittled down to two, Mathias’s gamble on Truman paying off. Belkov and his men had proven equally efficient. The municipal police were scrambling. The Red Reapers hadn’t been seen in Montreal for decades, and their reappearance coincided with the passing of notorious mob boss Giorgio Russo. When it came to family infighting, the cops usually kept a wide berth, but it had been five days, and the bodies were still piling up.

Information swirled through the underground. The Russians and the Reapers were working with the family establishment, all of them vying against Piero’s claim to leadership, acting as a deterrent to the remaining groups, who had yet to choose a side. In the melee, they’d lost a couple of De Luca’s men when Filipo Abruzzo—Piero’s longtime crawler—holed himself up in his third-floor apartment and started taking shots. They’d gotten to him in the end, but not before the two soldiers had bled out on the sidewalk.

“You came through,” Mathias agreed. “And there will be spoils.”

“You’d better fucking believe it.” Truman grinned, sucking on his cigarette.

Belkov appeared with blood speckled across his gray suit jacket, a giddy smile on his face. He’d been the one to smoke out Silvano Paterlini, so Mathias had given him first rights—provided he kept the man alive. Piero was still proving elusive. Any clues they were able to extract from his loyalists quickly led nowhere. Mathias had trawled the city, exhausting a shared trove of safe houses, only to turn up nothing. He was banking on Paterlini squealing. The old man was high enough in the family hierarchy and close enough to Piero to have the greatest insight into his master plan.

“I told you I was patient,” Belkov announced, joining them as the sky became mottled with heavy gray clouds. “It was a long wait but worth it. Blood for blood. Tastes sweet.”

“I said talk to him, not tear him to fucking pieces.” Mathias scowled. “Tell me you got something.”

“I got more than something,” Belkov said with a smirk. “Says Piero moved Tony to the top of the list. He knew the Quintino were about to make their announcement and wanted to set an example.”

Mathias brought the cigarette to his lips, swallowing the anger.

“Russo’s boy has a safe house Paterlini knows about, in Hochelega. He’s hiding right under our noses. And don’t worry—Senior’s still alive.” The Russian snickered. “Didn’t want to end things too quickly.”

Mathias nodded, the information slotting into his head, revising the course of action. If Paterlini wasn’t bluffing, they almost had him. “If that’s the case, I’ll go pay my respects.” He signaled for Jacques, and the two of them walked toward the shed.

“Don’t forget, he’s mine,” Belkov called to his retreating back.

Inside, Silvano Paterlini was chained to the exposed steel framing on the far wall. Several Bratva men stood off to one side, more animated than usual, high on bloodlust. The Russians had taken to the old man, intent on ensuring that their reputation remain unsullied. And they certainly had a reputation—even Mathias appeared tame in comparison.

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