The absence of his touch is cold. I watch him walk away, blending seamlessly into the crowd of sharks. He moves with a predatory grace, cutting through the social circles like a knife.
I turn west.
The crowd parts for me. I don't have to ask. They see me coming and they move. I walk past the bar, past the waiters with trays of champagne. I find the door marked STAFF ONLY.
I slip through.
The service hallway is quiet. It smells of bleach and food prep. I walk to the end and push through the glass doors to the terrace.
It’s empty. Stone balustrade overlooking the courtyard. Cold night air. Shadows.
I position myself in the corner, hidden by a large potted plant.
I wait.
Five minutes. Eight.
I hear the door handle turn.
Hargrove steps out. He is moving fast, patting his pockets, looking over his shoulder. His face is pale. He pulls a phone from his jacket—a sleek, black smartphone.
Alessandro got to him.
"Councilman," I say.
He jumps. He spins around, nearly dropping the phone.
"Mr. Kavanagh. I—this is a private?—"
"You're sweating, Daniel."
He touches his forehead. It’s slick.
"My husband tells me you have some interesting accounting practices," I say, stepping out of the shadows. "Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Russian money."
Hargrove’s eyes dart to the door. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Citizens for Civic Progress," I say. "Two million dollars. From Volkov."
He blanches. "That’s... that’s speculation."
"It’s documentation," I correct. I take a step closer. I let him see the size of me. I let him see the scar on my hand. "We have the logs, Daniel. We have the dates. The amounts. We know who signs the checks."
"What do you want?" His voice is a whisper.
"I want a name. I want to know who your handler is."
"I can't. They'll kill me."
"They might," I say. "But I'm here right now."
He trembles. The phone in his hand shakes.
I move closer. I need that phone.
"Give me the phone, Daniel."
"No. It’s my insurance."
