The smile on Nadezhda's face was a clear signal of trouble brewing. She knew exactly who he was — Igor Karkaroff, decades younger or not, was unmistakeable. And Nadya had no interest in treating him like anyone other than the chauvinist that he was.
"If you don't like it, you can leave," she added, setting the bottle and a coconut half-shell in front of him. "Better yet, take it with you. It's on the house."