Delusion in Death (In Death 35)

She would level New York if need be to secure the release of her grandson, of her family. Of Menzini’s legacy.

She had enough to make more, and only required a quiet place to do so.

She’d have to change her face, of course. But that was easily done, and wouldn’t be the first time.

Once Lewis was free, she’d decide how to proceed. There were still people she could count on, threats she could make, havoc to be wreaked.

But payback first.

She considered waiting until Weaver went to the restroom. Idiot females such as she always went to the restroom to check their lip dye, their hair. Perhaps she’d just slit her throat. She could imagine it, all but feel the warm gush of blood on her hands.

It had been a very long time since she’d felt that warm flow of blood on her hands.

But that wasn’t the way, however satisfying. She wanted Weaver to kill and be killed, to scream out her fear, her rage. To die Menzini’s way.

But she had to know. She had to die knowing why and who. Yes, Lewis was owed that.

She uncrossed her legs, set down her glass. Elegant and predatory, she wound through the restaurant to Weaver’s table, once again slipping a hand in her purse.

As she slid into the booth beside Weaver, she jabbed the point of the knife lightly against Weaver’s side.

“I have a knife against this woman’s guts,” she said conversationally to Marty. “If you try anything, I’ll carve those guts out before anyone can stop me. You’re to smile, both of you. Smile at me, at each other.”

“What do you want?” Weaver tried to edge away, froze when the knife increased pressure.

“I want both of you to put your hands on the table. When the waiter comes by, you’re to ask for another glass for your old friend. Your good friend Gina. And smile.”

“Why are you doing this. Do you want money?” Marty demanded.

“People like you, people with petty powers always think of money. Your money means nothing and will mean less when the Red Horse rides again.”

“I don’t understand.” On the table Weaver’s hands trembled. She fought a bitter battle to steady them.

“I’m Lewis’s grandmother. I

’ll gut you like a fish,” she murmured at Weaver’s instinctive gasp. “And cut off your balls,” she warned Marty. “I’m very good with a knife, and very fast. Now smile. You’re so happy to have run into an old friend.”

Weaver called on every ounce of control, forced her lips to curve as the waiter stopped at the table.

“Tony, would you get us another glass? My friend’s going to join us.”

“Of course. Right away.”

“Good girl. I do feel like we’re old friends. Lewis told me so much about you. How you’ve slept your way to power, and held him back at every turn. And this restaurant, your favorite. It made it easy to find you.”

“You called, said you were my assistant.”

“Lewis wouldn’t sleep with you, so you’ve done everything possible to sabotage his career, to hold him back. So typical. So female.”

Under the table, Weaver pressed her foot to Marty’s. “He frightened me—all that intelligence, his ideas, so innovative. You must be so proud of him.”

“Do you think you can play me, bitch?” She turned off the ferocity, turned on charm as the waiter brought her glass. “Oh, thank you! This is just the most delightful chance, running into you tonight.” She beamed at the waiter as he poured wine into her glass. “We must have a toast.”

“Gina.” Marty spoke quietly. “Nancy was only following orders and directives. She had no choice. I’m the chief executive officer of Stevenson and Reede. If you need to blame someone, it should be me.”

“Marty—”

“Isn’t that sweet—and revolting. He’s trying to play the hero. Have a drink. Both of you. We’re just three friends sharing a bottle of wine.” She picked up her own, sipped. “Salute.”