Page 3 of A Life Chosen

“Ah, give us a fucking smoke, will you?” Russo said, motioning to the nurse to take away his empty cup.

Mathias pulled out his pack and handed the boss a cigarette. He leaned forward to light it for him. Russo exhaled with the pleasure of a dying man discovering water in the desert.

“Who listens to doctors anyway,” he muttered between puffs.

Mathias took a sip of his coffee, which had already cooled, and placed the cup back on the table. A thin trail of smoke curled above Russo’s head as he watched him steadily.

“You’re a good soldier, Mathias. A bit too smart for this business, but you make up for it in loyalty. I didn’t have much to do with your father, but I heard he was a pretty solid bookie. Retired now?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How is he? Missing the action?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mathias said. From the little he knew of his father, a life lacking in action was the kind he enjoyed.

Russo finished his cigarette, and Mathias passed him the ashtray. The older man’s hand shook as he crushed the smoking butt. He signaled to the nurse, and she appeared at his side and helped the boss slowly rise from his chair. With that, the meeting was over. Mathias stood, and the two once again clasped hands.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I may call on you,” Russo said.

“I’ll be ready.”

The boss gave Mathias a knowing smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Then he allowed the nurse to lead him out of the salon. Mathias waited until he was gone before returning to the entrance with Stefano. He retrieved his jacket and wasshrugging it on when the front door opened and the boss’s son stepped into the foyer.

Piero Russo was a good ten years older than Mathias, somewhere in his midforties at least, yet carried himself like a plucky twenty-year-old. The dye in his graying hair gave it an unnatural black sheen but did little to detract from the deep lines that crisscrossed his face, which was pulled into a permanent sneer.

“Look who it is,” Piero said with a chuckle, clasping Mathias’s hand and slapping him on the back. “Come to pay your respects?”

“When I can,” Mathias replied. He’d hoped to avoid Piero during his visit, yet here he was, cornered in the lion’s den.

“Patrihas been under the weather lately, but he’s a bull, I’m telling you. He’ll be back up and running in no time,” Piero said.

“He seemed well.”

“Of course,” Piero said, pulling off his coat and handing it to Stefano. “You talk some business?”

“Tony’s requested help with the department.”

“Boss has taken quite an interest in you.”

His tone was easy, but Mathias saw the hard glint in his eye. Piero liked to think himself a master of subterfuge, but his true intent was glaring. He did not like Mathias. The fact that his father had summoned him only served to remind Piero of his success.

“So it seems.” Mathias pulled open the door, the rush of fresh air a welcome relief. Russo’s praise was more of a half-truth—Mathias’s loyalty only stretched so far. “Good to see you, Piero,” he said, not waiting for a reply as he closed the door behind him.

He made his way down the steps, attempting to curb his irritation. Officially, Piero had been given authority over the group’s betting syndicate, but the man was a gambler and a notorious pussy hound. He frittered away division profit and poked his nose into Narcotics, trying to get a cut for himself behind the scenes. The only reason the syndicate continued to function was due to the efforts of division head Domenico Lombardi. And everyone turned a blind eye to Piero’s activities because he was Giorgio Russo’s son. Mathias did not doubt that Piero thought himself worthy of succession and would claim it as his birthright. He could not think of a worse leader with whom to entrust the future of the family.

Mathias looked up to see Rayan standing by the car, watching him approach. Even here, outside the boss’s own home, Rayan waited as though expecting to be called on at any moment. The man’s appearance had a fluidity that defiedclassification—ochre-flecked eyes the color of coffee, honeyed skin that lightened over the long winter months, hair an inky black. The ambiguity of his features allowed him to slip between identifying groups. The Algerians might claim him, as could the Cubans. To the family, he was simply an other, lumped in with all non-Italians and considered equally inferior.

Russo talked about talent surpassing lineage. Mathias had learned this lesson himself. Rayan, anestraneo, with his background muddied beyond recognition, had proven more competent than any soldier he’d worked with.

Chapter Two

Not yet sixty, Mathias’s mother, dressed in her finest on a weekday morning, peered out the window in the kitchen. She lived on the top floor of an extravagantly decorated triplex in the Plateau and had been there since before he was born.

“I was thinking of updating the balcony furniture,” she announced.

Mathias placed the brown paper bag of deli meats and cheeses down on the dining table, already planning his exit. “Were you expecting me to care?” he asked evenly.

His mother straightened up and gave him a dirty look as she turned away from the window. “Your French has gotten terrible. Too much of that Quebecois filth and far too much English.” Marguerite sighed. “And to think of all the money we spent sending you to the best schools.”

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