“Busy as a bee,” he chuckles. “The campaign is taking off like wildfire. We’re getting a huge response from the public.”

I glance over my shoulder at the expansive office space that Luke has moved his campaign into. On the other side of the glass wall of his office, dozens and dozens of workers sprint in every direction, yelling on the phone and waving reams of paper in the air, each of them bearing Luke’s smiling face on a background of red, white, and blue.

“I see that,” I remark. “Busy. Exciting. Expensive, too, I bet.”

He doesn’t miss my implication. His smile falters, but he manages to keep it in place, albeit with some difficulty. He’s really gonna have to work on that if he hopes to hold office in this state.

“I have several major donors,” he says. “Once people heard my message, it was tough to ignore.”

I eye the crystal tumbler of gin and Luke immediately starts squirming in his seat. That’s the giveaway. Poor bastard went right for it the moment I entered, like he wanted to incriminate himself before I had to do it for him.

“Interesting that you would have so many devoted supporters in such early days. In fact, it seems almost as though the support came before you even started the campaign.”

He’s starting to sweat a little. He tugs at his collar like it’s itching him. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, Kolya.”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on his desk. “Forgive me; I’m clearly being too subtle. So let me speak plainly. You sold your soul to the devil, and you’re too stupid to see what a huge fucking mistake that was.”

His eyes bulge in their sockets. It’s funny how little it takes to rattle an arrogant man. Poke at their castle of cards and it all comes crumbling down in an instant.

He looks frantically around the room as though he’s suddenly afraid something’s going to jump out at him. “I-I… don’t know what you m-mean…”

“Lying will take some practice for you, it seems.”

He tugs at his collar again. His hand trembles. “Kolya, you’re going to marry my daughter. It’s important that we get along.”

I shrug. “I happen to disagree. I don’t give two shits about getting along with you. But I do want to make sure you get along with your daughter.”

That takes him by surprise. “E-excuse me?”

“June cares about you and Bridget. She’ll never admit it, but she craves your approval. So from now on, you’re going to be a decent fucking father to her.”

He narrows his eyes, clearly under the impression that he can win a pissing contest with me. That’s the funny thing about money: it goes to your head. It makes you believe you’re invincible.

“Or what?”

“Or the cops will get an anonymous tip and more evidence than they could possibly ignore.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Evidence that the money you’ve used to fund your campaign came from sex rings made up of trafficked women, many of whom are underage.”