36Italian SuitsConn O’Cuinn wasn’t used to traveling by commercial airline. Generally, he’d pay his way across borders or move incognito by vehicle or ship. If he had to fly, he’d use transport provided by sympathizers. This time he had no choice and apart from greasing the prearranged palms of a lot of security staff, which made him grumpy in itself, he’d had the same experience as every other passenger in coach—the same cramped seat, crying babies, and God-awful food.
By the time he landed on the tarmac in Turin, he’d flip-flopped his way between simmering anger to homicidal rage too many times to count. The flight attendant on the last leg had also refused him his fifth whiskey after he growled at her to “Hurry the feck up or leave the feckin’ bottle!” She chose to do neither.
The lac
