and forth, accessing the bits of information he needs. When he does, he explodes upward and runs to the door, furiously dialing on his phone at the same time. He throws open the door and crashes into someone.
“Poppy,” he says, “What the f...I was just having a drink with Sterling.” He leans and kisses her on the cheek.
She doesn’t move. Adair is right behind her, looking furious. Neither smile. In fact, Poppy’s cheeks are flushed so red they’re almost purple. Cyrus can only watch in horror as she reaches her hand to her ear and pulls out a wireless earpiece.
“P-p-p-poppy,” he splutters, backing away from her with his palms held up and out, like he needs them ready to deflect the blows that are coming.
Adair meets my eyes, and the momentary sweetness of victory sours. I knew it would be short-lived. Adair never wanted to break her best friend’s heart, but Poppy deserves to know. I grew up watching a toxic relationship. I saw this for what it was, and she doesn’t deserve that. The only way to be sure he couldn’t twist things around and keep her in his pocket was for her to hear it from his own mouth. No matter how much it hurts. She’ll probably hate me for it—hell, I hate me for it—but she’s never liked me much anyway.
“You unbelievable wanker.” Poppy starts hitting, first with her open hand, just slapping Cyrus over and over again as he sinks to his knees and covers his face with his arm. Eventually she closes her fist, and then she starts swinging from the hip. I think I can hear one of the bones in her hand break, which is what happens when you punch a human skull, but she doesn’t stop. “I can’t believe I wasted all of this on your tiny dick. Seriously, you know you’re practically dickless, right? Oh, and you’re wrong, by the way. About my family’s net worth. It’s quadrupled. We’re looking to invest. Maybe I’ll buy some fucking hotels!”
Cyrus spins away from her, and, brushing Adair aside, strides toward the elevator, pretending not to hear her as she continues to scream.
When he reaches it, the doors slide open to reveal Jack and Luca wearing smug grins.
“Hey, it’s dickless,” Jack says.
“I’ve heard that about him,” chimes in Luca, pushing a stunned Cyrus out of his path.
Cyrus darts into the elevator, tapping the button for the ground floor like it will somehow make the doors close faster. When we lose sight of him at last, he’s raking his hand through his hair, queuing up to yell into his phone. But it’s not like he’s going to find someone who can help. There’s no way to buy himself out of this mess.
Luca and Jack argue as they walk down the hallway, debating Luca’s improvisations. But I’m hardly paying attention. Poppy’s anger is draining into sadness. Adair grabs her and holds her tightly.
I hesitate, wondering if I should apologize. Adair shoots me a warning look that tells me now’s not the time.
“We should leave,” Adair murmurs, wrapping an arm around Poppy’s shoulder.
“Find somewhere private.”
“I can't go back to our place,” Poppy sobs.
“Go back to mine,” I tell Adair. “I have some unfinished business, still.”
It’s time to settle this once and for all.
21
Sterling
The Cafe de Flore is a lot like its namesake in Paris. Located at the corner of a bustling intersection, the main attraction is a 50-foot swath of sidewalk cafe seating. The people watching is excellent, and the espresso goes great with a newspaper or book. The blue-collar French fare is serviceable.
That’s what the reviews on my phone said, anyway.
I’m attracted to this location for an entirely different set of reasons. Whenever I’m hoping to avoid being murdered by a business partner, like the Semsynovey Bratva, I know meeting in a very public place might not guarantee I’ll live, but it sure does make killing me inconvenient. I also need a place that’s guaranteed to be busy enough to prevent surveillance. Nikolai knows the FBI is watching me. He’ll appreciate the location. But the Cafe de Flore’s real clincher is the hospital around the corner. I learned the hard way that when someone might consider killing you, it’s best to have medical care accounted for in advance.
Our meeting is set for 7 o’clock, and it’s almost time.
The Bratva is—first, last, and always—a business. And Russian business etiquette frowns on being late to meetings, especially ones with foreigners. Part of the reason I was so unsettled