“Make me.” I cross my arms. “No, seriously. Make me. Because so far, all you’ve done is shove me around and beat up a guy half your size. You haven’t actually done the one thing you were sent here to do, which means either you can’t or you won’t, and either way, that makes you a pretty lousy soldier, doesn’t it?”
He shoves the table. It lurches toward me, hitting my hip, and I grab the edge to stop it.
“You don’t know a single f*****g thing about me,” he snarls.
“Au contraire, I think I know plenty. I know you answer to someone. I know that someone is connected to the Lazarevs. I know that a body came through the Queens Medical Examiners’ morgue that’s raising some really nasty red flags re: all things Lazarev. And I know that right now, right this second, you’re sitting in my kitchen l
