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“He’s an important ally to the Colombo Family,” she says offhandedly, as if explaining why she chose red wine over white. “It’s not worth a hand of poker to put that friendship in danger, not while our leadership is—well. In question.”
I’m about to respond when a commotion erupts nearby. Larry Caruso’s face is flushed with anger as he faces off against Vince Sabatelli. “You think you can just waltz up and take over?” Larrysnarls. “You ain’t got what it takes, Vince. You’re all talk and no action.”
Vince’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Watch your mouth, old man. Times have changed, and antiques like you ain’t worth so much these days.”
“At least I hold with tradition. You want to recruit a bunch of?—”
Before I can stop her, Brie is there already, inserting herself between the two men with a bright smile.
“Gentlemen,” she says, her voice carrying just the right mix of authority and charm. “I’m sure you’ll agree this isn’t the place for a squabble. Why don’t we kiss and make up, and then get back to the fun?”
The effect is immediate. Both men back down, muttering apologies and shooting each other dark looks. But the fire’s out, at least for now.
And Brie Colombo has shown again that she’s a force to be reckoned with.
“Don’t forget,” mutters a voice in my ear.
“I won’t,” I snap back, and move away from the Consortium messenger.
I’ve been summoned by Eva Novak tomorrow morning to report on what I’ve learned about Brie and the Colombos so far. And I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less.
As we make our way to the elevator later that night, Brie leans in close. “So now you see the kind of problems Frank is dealing with.”
I snort. “He doesn’t seem to be dealing with them—he’s leaving it up to you. Sabatelli’s a sleaze, and Caruso doesn’t think before he acts.”
“It’s more than that,” she sighs, giving me a side-eye. “Well,” she goes on, “I guess maybe it’s common knowledge, so it doesn’t matter if Eva Novak finds out. But before he was killed, Terry was looking to make some changes to the Family. Recruit from, uh,outside, if you get what I mean.”
“Non-Italians,” I say. “It was in the dossier the Consortium gave out,” I add, to make her feel better about me knowing.
Brie gives a grim smile of acknowledgment. “The Family hasn’t had any new blood for a while. Terry wanted to promote some of the associates we already have to full membership. Good and loyal men, but not necessarily of Italian blood. It wasn’t a popular initiative in some circles.”
“I bet Caruso threw a tantrum,” I say with a grin.
“He sure did. Vince Sabatelli seemed to like the idea, though. So you see, there’s a little more at stake here with the new Don. The Family could change forever—or die out, depending on which of them gets the job.”
We reach the private elevator, only to find an “Out of Order” sign plastered across its gleaming doors. Brie ignores it, stabbing with frustration at the button.
“Guess it’s the stairs, princess,” I tell her.
“Not in these shoes,” she snorts. But just then, the next elevator along dings open. A waiter stands inside, a covered tray balanced on one hand.
“Going up, ma’am?” he asks Brie with a polite smile.
Brie steps forward, swiping her keycard automatically to allow access to her specially designated floor, and alarm bells start ringing in my head. Something’s off.
The waiter presses the Close Doors button, and I only just manage to slide in, staring at him.
“I’ll be glad to get to bed tonight,” Brie is saying as the doors slide shut. “It’s been a long?—”
That’s when it happens. Time slows to a crawl for me as the waiter drops his tray, the cloche clattering to the floor. In its place in his hand is a wicked-looking knife, aimed straight at Brie’s heart.
I thrust the heel of my hand out hard, catching the would-be assassin in the chest. He stumbles back but recovers quickly, slashing the knife through the air where Brie’s throat was a second ago—but I’ve already shoved her behind me into the corner of the elevator.
The assassin lunges forward again, and I barely manage to deflect the knife with my left forearm. I drive my right fist into his solar plexus, feeling the whoosh of air as it leaves his lungs, and then I twist as the blade whistles past my ear.
I use the movement to my advantage, grabbing his wrist as I duck and slamming it against the wall. The knife clatters to the floor. I bring my knee up, hard and fast, and he doubles overwith a grunt of pain. My fist connects with his face, once, twice, three times—and he’s out cold.
The elevator doors slide open with a cheerful ding that seems absurdly out of place. Frank Caruso is standing there, and he pulls his gun as fast as his eyes widen. I shout for Frank to hold, but it’s too late.
