Page 149 of Ricardo

I let out a breath.

“Eventually?” I ask. “A favor that cannot be paid back. Then he owns you.”

“Give me an example,” he says.

“You know about South Harbor Renewal? Calhoun was close to them before the scandal. Publicly, the story was misallocated funds and a dishonest contractor.” I look back at the list. “The truth is that public money moved through redevelopment nonprofits, advisory groups, land trusts, and contractor shells. Some of it vanished. Some of it became property. Some of it became leverage.”

Mario’s face gives me nothing.

“None of that touched him directly,” I continue. “It never does. Men like Calhoun make sure all the fingerprints belong to someone else.”

“And if I invite him?”

“You give him proximity.”

“That is vague.”

“No,” I say, and my voice becomes impatient. “Proximity is the product he sells.

“If Frank Calhoun walks into your gala, sits at your table, shakes your hand, and enough people see it, he can imply a relationship by Monday morning. By Wednesday, someone in city development hears Conti Enterprises is receptive to certain opportunities. By Friday, a contractor approaches your office with a proposal that looks legitimate from the front and rotten from the back.” I pause. “If you refuse, you make enemies. If you accept, Calhoun owns a piece of the road that led you there.”

Mario taps his fingers against the table.

“Who pushed his name?” he asks.

“That's the question, isn't it?”

“Could Owen have done this?”

I look into Mario's eyes and see the coldness in them. A chill moves through me.

I hope I'm never on the receiving end of that look.

“I don't think he understood what he was putting in front of you,” I say. “I don't think he knows the truth about Frank Calhoun or—”

I shut my mouth.

Or the Contis.

Mario’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t question me.

He's not stupid. He knows what I was going to say.

I clear my throat. “I can look into where Owen got the list, if you’d like.”

Mario watches me for a moment longer.

“That won't be necessary.”

I have a feeling, despite those words, that this is not the end of it. That Mario Conti has his own ways of finding out how Frank Calhoun got on that list.

Mario closes the folder in front of him.

“That will be all,” he says.

I nod and begin gathering my things. The binder is heavier than it was when I walked in, or maybe I am only more aware of what is inside it now.

I slide the marked guest list beneath my notes and tuck my pen into the spine.