“Then get out of the way,” I tell the doctor.
“Boss …” Kostya moves closer and puts his arm across my chest as if that’ll hold me back. “We don’t know who this thing’s from.”
“Well, it isn’t Kuznetsov. We know that.”
“Could be from Katerina.” Ilya crosses his arm, probably ready to throw himself on either me or the briefcase in case of explosion.
But he’s wrong about Katerina. “She went back to Russia to be with her mother.” I nod to the brown leather case. “Besides, if it was from her it would be pink with a three-inch Dolce & Gabbana logo.” This certainly isn’t her style.
“Could be the Italians.” Kostya considers the briefcase from one angle then another by tilting his head but makes no move closer.
“They’re too busy fighting within what’s left of their ranks for control since Tott
