Page 70 of A Life Chosen

Bloody and bruised, Paterlini stared at him through the slits of his swollen eyes. From where his wrists were shackled, his hands appeared, each missing a finger, the stumps sloppily cauterized to make sure he didn’t bleed out. Letting him die would be far too compassionate. Mathias did not envy the man. Junior’s bullet through the head seemed charitable compared to what awaited his father.

Beside Paterlini sat a black toolbox, open to display an array of instruments, several of them bearing the marks of recent use. Belkov had left itout so the man could see what was to come and sit with the knowledge that the task wasn’t yet complete. But still, Paterlini stared at Mathias, summoning as much composure as a man dangling at the precipice could muster. The old bastard was tenacious—Mathias would give him that—enough of his life spent with the family to know how to keep his shit together. After all, nothing was more pathetic than a blubbering mess.

Mathias crouched before him, taking another pull from his waning cigarette.

“You’d get that Slavic fuck to do your dirty work?” Paterlini spat, words slurring between cracked teeth. “You’re more pathetic than I thought.”

“But you knew that already,” Mathias said, exhaling a plume of smoke into his face. “Half-breed son of a whore sullying the family name. Isn’t that why you sent your boy to whack me? Not too quick, that one. I would know. Saw his brains myself.”

Paterlini shrank.

“And I’ll do you one better—it wasn’t me who pulled the trigger,” he continued. “That honor goes to theestraneowith more talent in his little finger than your soninherited from a long line of inbred Italians. A line that ends here, with you.”

Watching Paterlini’s eyes widen in horror, Mathias flicked his cigarette at the man’s feet and stood. He walked out of the shed into a shower of rain, the clouds opening up above a city roiling with death.

“He’s all yours, Belkov,” Mathias said as he strode past the Russian to his car. “Clean up when you’re done.”

Jacques drove toward the address in Hochelega, where Truman and a handful of his men would meet them. Mathias pulled out his phone as they sped through the city. He listened to the click as Giovanni picked up.

“We’ve tracked him down,” Mathias said.

“Good,” the boss replied.

“When we get there…?” Mathias stared straight ahead as his second turned onto Rue de Rouen. He thought of Rayan limp in his arms, Tony face down on the concrete.

“Scalp him.” The old man hung up.

They parked a street over from the safe house and walked through the narrow alleyway that connected the triplex to the neighboring road. Mathias kept a lookout for scouts, despite the fact that Piero’s army of loyal supporters had dwindled over the past few days. The few remaining were willing to keep him safe.

As he and Jacques neared the basement entrance to the apartment, Truman appeared across the street, shielded by a bus shelter, eyes on them. The Reapers would stay outside and cover the perimeter in case Piero ran. Mathias knew enough about the man to consider that a serious possibility.

“We break off, go room by room,” Mathias instructed his second. “If you find him, hold him until I get there.”

Jacques nodded, his hand slipping beneath his jacket. He gave Mathias cover as he pulled out his gun. They would have to move fast. He raised it and shot the lock on the door. His second threw himself forward, slamming his shoulder against the panel and sending the door flying open.

Mathias followed Jacques inside. The place was eerily quiet. The hallway split off in two directions with the stairs to the second level set in between. He heard the thud of footsteps approaching from the right, and Jacques surged ahead. Over his second’s shoulder, Mathias saw the blur of a face he didn’t recognize—thick jaw, beady eyes. The man lifted his weapon, but Jacques fired first, throwing him back against the wall, where he slid to the floor.

His second crouched to retrieve the fallen gun, and Mathias stepped over the soldier’s body, continuing along the hall to where it opened into a darkened foyer. He felt the rush of a bullet whizz past his head to embed itself in the plaster behind him.Fuck.

Mathias ducked behind a large wooden cabinet by the foyer entrance. He was sorely off his game, the events of the last several days corroding his instincts. Jacques retreated, doubling back down the hallway to emerge on the other side of the stairs. Mathias could just make out the open door of what looked like a study. That was where the shot had come from.

“No surprise the old fucker sent you.” Piero’s voice cut through the silence of the empty apartment. “That hack, Bianchi, has been waiting years for my father to die. And now the vultures descend.”

Mathias shifted, attempting to get a better view of the room. Another shot sounded, shattering the cabinet door. Glass tinkled around his feet. He watched Jacques—gun in hand—stalk along the wall opposite him, making his way slowly toward the room where Piero was camped out.

“Caught up with our good friend Paterlini,” Mathias said, goading the man to keep him talking as his second inched closer. “You’re lucky it’s me and not Belkov who found you first.”

Silence from Piero.

Jacques had reached the doorframe and gave a nod in his direction, readying himself to enter. Mathias nodded back.

His second flew into the room, and the sound of a struggle erupted, then a single shot. Mathias sprinted to the study and found Jacques wrestling Piero to the ground, the man’s gun falling from his grip. Mathias kicked it out of reach, raised his own weapon, and smashed it into the side of Piero’s head. He dropped to the floor with a thump, blood streaming from his temple.

“Get him up,” Mathias ordered.

Jacques pulled Piero to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. The man spat at him, and Mathias raised his gun again and cracked it against his cheek. Piero grunted, panting, glaring at him as the blood trickled from his nose, ready to tear him to pieces with his teeth.

“How does it feel?” Mathias asked, pressing the barrel hard against Piero’s forehead, recalling the paralyzing fear that had gripped him as Junior stared him down.

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