Once she’s gone, the anger that has been bubbling just beneath the surface since back in Chicago erupts with a vengeance. I whirl around and throw one savage elbow into the handrail of the plane stairs. It bends with a metallic shriek beneath the blow.
“Suka!” I roar in Russian.
Behind me, Ilyasov lets out a long, low whistle. “That was brutal. Heart-wrenching, truly.”
“No, I mean it. I’m sorry. But I’m sure she’ll come around.”
He shrugs. “No, but you’re upset, and I want to help.”
I let out a bitter, humorless chuckle. “Since when?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re here in the city because I told you where Giorgio is and because I flew you here on a jet on my own dime. Don’t come at me like—”
“You’re right. You’ve helped a lot.”
I hate saying those words. My life is starting to
