“Of course it f*****g matters, you i***t!” Zoya slaps down the needle and jabs a finger in my face. “You come here—bleeding, shaking, smelling of her perfume—and pretend it doesn’t matter? You think you are so tough, Aleksandr Ozerov. But I held you when you were this big.” Her hands span a loaf of bread’s length. “When Yakov…”
“… would put cigarettes out on your arm for crying. I cleaned this wound, too, don’t forget.” Her finger jabs the scar across my throat. “I—”
The bottle shatters when I hurl it against the steel walk-in. Vodka dribbles down dented steel. “I said don’t.”
Zoya couldn’t be less intimidated. “Ach, well, I’ve never been a good listener.”
“Being there for parts of it doesn’t make you an expert on what I’ve survived. You know nothing.” I jump up and advance on her. Th
