City of Endless Night

29

When Alves-Vettoretto entered her boss’s eyrie on the top floor of the DigiFlood tower, Anton Ozmian was sitting behind his desk, typing furiously at a laptop computer. He glanced up without stopping, eyed her through his steel-rimmed glasses, and nodded almost imperceptibly. She took a seat in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs and settled in to wait. The typing went on — sometimes fast, sometimes slow — for another five minutes. Then Ozmian pushed the laptop away, put his elbows on the black granite, and stared at his aide-de-camp.

“The SecureSQL takeover?” Alves-Vettoretto asked.

Ozmian nodded, massaging the graying hair at his temples. “Just had to make sure the poison pill was in place.”

She nodded. Ozmian enjoyed hostile takeovers almost as much as he enjoyed firing his own employees.

Now Ozmian came out from behind the desk and took a seat in one of the other chrome-and-leather chairs. His tall, thin frame seemed strung tight as a bowstring, and she could guess why.

Ozmian gestured at a tabloid that sat on the table between them: a copy of the Christmas edition of the Post. “I assume you saw this,” he said.

“I did.”

The entrepreneur picked it up, face contorting into a grimace as if he were handling dogshit, and turned to page three. “‘Grace Ozmian,’” he quoted, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “‘Twenty-three-year-old party girl with no greater aspiration in life than to spend Daddy’s cash, indulge in illegal drug use, and lead a parasitic lifestyle when she’s not in court getting slapped on the wrist for the hit-and-run killing of an eight-year-old boy while driving drunk.’” With a sudden violent gesture, he tore the tabloid in two, then into four, and then threw it dismissively on the floor. “That Harriman just won’t let it rest. I gave him a chance to shut up and move on. But the shit-eating bastard keeps rubbing my face in it, tarnishing my daughter’s good name. Well, his chance has come and gone.”

“Very good.”

“You know what I’m saying, right? The time has come to swat him — swat him flat as a mosquito. I want this to be the last filth the scumbag will ever write about my daughter.”

“Understood.”

Ozmian eyed his deputy. “Do you? I’m not just talking about putting a scare into him. I want him neutralized.”

“I will make sure of that.”

A twitch of the lips that might have been a smile passed quickly across Ozmian’s narrow face. “I presume that, since we last talked about this issue, you’ve been considering an appropriate response.”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“I have something rather exquisite. Not only will it accomplish the desired task, but it will do so with an irony I think you’ll appreciate.”

“I knew I could count on you, Isabel. Tell me about it.”

Alves-Vettoretto began to explain, Ozmian leaned back in his chair, listening to her cool, precise voice lay out the most delicious plan. As she continued, the smile returned to his face; only this time it was genuine, and it lingered for a long time.