“Well, you see, the environmental review process is quite complex, and?—”
“I don’t care about the environmental review.” I lean forward. “I care about why you think you can extort me. Why you think you can demand more money every time we meet. What makes you so confident?”
His smile falters. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Two weeks ago, you said the permits would be approved with a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to your reelection campaign. Last week, you raised it to seventy-five thousand. Today, your assistant said one hundred thousand. So I’ll ask again—what makes you so confident?”
He shifts in his seat. “The market rate for these kinds of permits has increased. It’s not personal, Mr. Volkov. It’s just business.”
“Is it?” I pick up the folder on the table. “Because I have records of permits you approved last month for the Rossi family. Same size property, same environmental concerns. They paid twenty-five thousand.”
His face pales. “I don’t know where you got that information, but?—”
“I also have records of a meeting you had two weeks ago. Dinner at Carmine’s with a man named Dmitri Kozlov. You picked up the check.”
The color drains completely from his face now. “That was a coincidence. Just an old friend?—”
“Dmitri Kozlov is not your friend. He’s the brother of a man I killed five years ago. A man who tried to kill my son.” I stand and walk around the table slowly. “So when you sit in my hotel and demand more money for permits, while having secret dinners with my enemies, it makes me wonder what you’re really doing.”
“I swear, I didn’t know?—”
“You said something interesting to your assistant yesterday. You said, ‘Volkov won’t have the upper hand much longer.’ What did you mean by that?”
He’s sweating now. “It was just talk. Didn’t mean anything.”
“Councilman Torres.” I stop behind his chair. “I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the truth. What did Dmitri Kozlov say to you at that dinner?”
“Nothing. We talked about sports, city politics?—”
I pick up the pen from the conference table. It’s identical to the one I broke earlier. Heavy, expensive. Gold-plated.
“Let me be clear about something,” I say quietly. “I don’t make threats. I make promises. And I promise you that if you don’t tell me what Kozlov said, your wife will be a widow by morning. Yourchildren will be fatherless. And your mistress in Summerlin will have to find a new source of income.”
The pen breaks in my hand. Not a crack this time. A full snap, pieces scattering across the table. Ink bleeds across the polished wood. Again.
Torres stares at the broken pen, then at my hand, then at my face.
“He asked about your routines,” he whispers. “Your wife’s routines. When she goes out, where she shops, what routes she takes.”
“And you told him.”
“He said it was for business. That he was trying to set up a meeting with you, wanted to know the best time to approach?—”
“You told him where my wife goes. When she’s vulnerable.”
“I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know he meant any harm.”
I walk back around the table and sit down. Place both hands flat on the surface, ink still staining my palm.
“The permits will be approved by Monday. Original price of twenty-five thousand. If they’re not, I’ll make sure the information about your mistress and the campaign funds you’ve been embezzling reaches the right people. Do we understand each other?”
He nods frantically. “Yes. Yes, Monday. Twenty-five thousand. It’s done.”
“And if Dmitri Kozlov contacts you again, you tell him nothing. Better yet, you don’t take his calls at all.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Get out.”
