Claire's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. "I don't care," she snarled. "I don't care if it's a trap. I don't care if I die. I just—" Her voice broke, the raw emotion in it cutting her off.
She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the gun she'd pulled from beneath her pillow. "I just need him to hurt the way I do right now."
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. Instead, I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I get it. I do. But you're not thinking straight. And if you go out there like this, you will die. And then what? Nickolai wins. Everyone wins except the people who deserve justice."
I didn't try to correct her about Nickolai. Not now. The truth—that the Italians had orchestrated the bombing, that Nickolai's men had tried to kill her just hours ago—would only complicate things.
