Page 71 of A Life Chosen

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Piero sneered.

Mathias noticed the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the dark circles beneath his eyes. So they’d spooked him. He’d been holed up here, hiding like a rat.

“Why’s that? I’ve done far worse in my time.” Mathias’s expression hardened. “And I’d say you’ve given me plenty of reason.”

Piero shook his head, the smirk wavering. His eyes darted from the gun to Mathias to the doorway as if hoping someone would save him—perhaps the man growing cold in the hallway. “I know how much you admired my father. You wouldn’t kill the boss’s son.”

Mathias snorted, his mouth curling. “Giorgio Russo is dead. I don’t owe him a goddamn thing.”

He’d thought about this moment for the better part of a year, imagining how he would exact his revenge for all those months of humiliation. But now that Mathias was here, he felt nothing. Too much had been taken for him to get even. He needed for all of this to be over.

He racked the slide on his gun with a click. Before him, Piero recoiled, paling. “You would side with fucking Truman and Belkov over one of your own?” The man’s voice rose in disbelief.

“Have you forgotten, Piero?” Mathias’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not one of you.” How bitter that had once tasted. “And this fantasy of the family resembling your idyllic Italian village?” He yanked the front of Piero’s shirt, forcing his gaze to meethis own. “Take a good look at my face,” Mathias said in a low voice. “Because one day, this bastard’s going to be leading it.”

He felt cold metal beneath his finger and saw Piero’s eyes widen in terror.

“How’s that for legacy?” Mathias pulled the trigger before the man could respond.

Piero toppled backward and came to rest on the ground as blood snaked out from behind his shattered skull, pooling on the scuffed hardwood. Mathias spat on the floor by his feet.

“That was for Tony,” he growled, barely able to get the words out, he was so overcome with anger. “You entitled fuck.”

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

“Mr. Nadeau has not been taking his pain medication,” Dr. Martin said at the beginning of his weekly checkup call.

Mathias stood in the bedroom of his apartment, staring out the window at the city below, a rare moment of respite amid the frenzied activity of the past fortnight. He came back to shower, eat, and fit in a couple hours of sleep before he was needed again for meetings with family elite—endless fires to put out. He’d made efforts to keep his distance from Rayan, with the doctor’s calls the only update on his condition. Not for the first time since Rayan’s injury, Mathias noted how difficult a patient he was.

“I noticed the bottle was full on my last visit.”

Mathias clicked his tongue in agitation. “What is he supposed to be taking?”

“Two tablets of Percocet twice a day.”

He looked down at the cars streaming along René-Lévesque. They slowed, the crowd of pedestrians surging onto the road—young women, men in suits, mothers pushing babies. Small, insignificant, completely out of touch.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said finally.

Later that day, he found himself with an elusive free afternoon. Jacques was starting to sag on his feet, so Mathias had dismissed him early. He remembered that not everyone functioned well in chaos. That ability seemed unique to him.

He drove to Rayan’s apartment, a route familiar enough that he could do it in his sleep. Once Rayan had been able to stand on his own, he’d insisted on recovering at home. Mathias had seen him only once since then, in part due to affairs that needed tending but mostly because he found it difficult to witness Rayan’s silent suffering. A wall had gone up, their old fluidity gone. From the doctor’s briefings, Mathias knew that his recovery was gradual. Rayan received daily visits from a nurse for physical therapy and weekly visits from Martin to check his progress.

Mathias parked his car around the back of the building and let himself into the lobby. He rode the elevator to Rayan’s floor, not bothering to knock as he turned the silver key in the lock. The place was quiet, the blinds still drawn. He walked into the living room, which was sparse but for a couch and coffee table. At the bedroom, he pushed open the door to reveal Rayan lying on his side on top of the bed, his back to him. Mathias stood, fingers resting on the handle. Then he swung it closed and retreated into the kitchen.

It didn’t him take long to find the neglected bottle of Percocet, filled almost to the brim. He shook his head in frustration. The man was so stubborn.

Mathias twisted it open and knocked two pale-yellow pills from the bottle into the lid. After depositing them on the counter, he grabbed a knife, positioned the flat side above the pills, and slammed down on it with the heel of his hand, crushing them into dust. He reached into the cabinet above his head and pulled down a glass then filled it at the sink and scraped the powdered pills into the water, where they dissolved clear.

“What are you doing here?” Rayan stood in the entrance to the hallway, his right arm wrapped tightly in a sling against his chest, preventing any movement from his shoulder to his wrist. A shirt hung from his shoulders, the empty sleeves trailing at his sides.

Mathias pushed the glass of water across the counter in Rayan’s direction, pocketing the bottle of pills. “Figured I’d see how you were holding up. You’re standing.”

Rayan stepped forward gingerly, disguising the discomfort the movement seemed to trigger. “What a fucking accomplishment,” he muttered.

The injury had been hard on him, bringing out another side than his usual stoic agreeability. He’d become curt, thorny, and uninterested in the veneer of compliance.

---