The private jet moved steadily in the air, but inside the cabin, the air was sharp and almost choking.
Rissa's head hung down against the leather seat, her hair plastered damp against her temples. Blood stained her sleeve, but they weren't hers, but it still clung like a warning. Her breath came fast, shallow, as if the taste of failure had lodged in her throat.
For the first time in years, she had almost lost.
Her hand reached for the glass cup in front of her and slammed it hard against the cabin wall. It shattered, the shards scattering across the carpet. One of her men flinched but didn’t move.
“She was right there.” Rissa’s voice was hoarse, dripping of venom. “I was this close to getting all that are mine.”
Her fist slammed into the armrest, the sharp edge cutting her knuckles.
