Page 31 of A Life Chosen

Rayan had never taken a liking to the various highs and lows his friends on the street peddled. He’d dabbled once or twice but found it frightening not to recognize himself under their influence, afraid he would reveal the self hidden under layers of camouflage. He knew Tahir took the drugs to escape, but for Rayan,everything came back in high definition, as if they amplified his darkest thoughts, pulling them out from within his tightly controlled grasp.

Rayan approached the man slowly, his unassuming appearance allowing him easy passage to the flames. Once he was close enough, Evan slapped him lightly on the shoulder, bloodshot gaze unfocused, slipping from Rayan’s face to his shoulder and settling on a point somewhere behind him. He fought hard to remember how he would have acted back here.

“I’ve been around,” Rayan said with a guarded smile, unsure what to say but knowing anything was better than admitting that he was working for the family.

Evan nodded, his head bouncing up and down on his emaciated body, like a puppet. “Right, right. I’m sorry about your brother, man. That was bleak.”

Rayan felt the muscles in his face twitch as he tried to maintain the smile. How tightly he and Tahir had been tied. How closely they’d relied on each other for survival. “Yeah.”

There was nothing else to say. He felt an overwhelming urge to get out of there, away from the familiarity of the surroundings and the feelings they evoked. Rayan had wanted to purge himself of these memories, not run headlong back into them. He fingered the bills in his pocket, pulled them out, and pressed them into Evan’s hand.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, not waiting for Evan’s reply before retreating into the night, retracing his steps to the road.

By the time he’d rounded the corner to Bellechasse, Rayan knew he was being followed. Two men in black jackets. He continued walking, eyes catching on a half-empty beer bottle perched atop an overflowing trash can. He picked it up as he passed and tipped it upside down, letting the remaining liquid trickle onto the pavement, cursing himself for leaving his gun at the apartment. He never carried it when he wasn’t working, always handling it with a level of discomfort. A necessary evil.

Rayan slowed his breathing, hollowing out. He needed his wits for what would come next. The men were Piero’s goons, no doubt, perhaps sent by Silvano Paterlini himself, here to exact revenge. Mathias was convinced the boss’s son would be too spooked to make a move, but Rayan’s experience with Junior had proven just how brazen their kind could be.

He led the men through a series of narrow streets before concealing himself in a doorway alcove. As they passed, Rayan emerged silently from behind, raised the bottle, and smashed it into the side of the taller man’s head.

“Ty che, blyad?” the man howled, blood streaming from his temple.

Russians?Rayan moved past him, slamming a fist into his partner’s face as the man pulled a gun from his jacket. He threw an arm around the man’s shoulders, pressing the broken bottle to his throat as he extracted the gun from his grip.

Rayan stepped back, flicking off the safety and leveling the barrel at his pursuers. “Who are you with?”

The man he’d relieved of his weapon held a hand to his neck, breathing hard. “Tell your boss Belkov wants to see him.”

“He can tell him himself.”

The man shook his head, scowling. “Better if they’re not seen talking.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” the man with the bleeding head snarled, launching a hock of spit at his feet.

Rayan said nothing, looking from one to the other, trying to determine if they were to be trusted. Then he inclined his head in the direction they’d come. “Go on.”

The two Russians hesitated.

“Go,” he repeated, louder this time.

Slowly, the men turned and walked back down the street, muttering angrily. Rayan waited a moment before pocketing the gun and taking off in the opposite direction. He wound his way through back streets and alleyways before he was certain he’d lost them.

“Ran into the Russians,” Rayan said into the phone once he’d returned to his apartment. He placed the Bratva man’s gun down on the kitchen counter.

“Define ‘ran into,’” Mathias said on the other end of the line.

Rayan glanced at the door to check the dead bolt once again. “I was followed.”

Mathias was silent for a moment. “Nothing you couldn’t handle?”

Rayan leaned against the sink, wondering if this was his capo’s way of asking if he was all right. “You could say that.”

“What did they want?” Mathias asked.

“Belkov wants to talk.”

“Does he?”

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