Page 12 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

There is no other option.

“Brief me on this project,” I tell the foreman first. “On all our construction projects.”

He’s got a strong-chinned, no-bullshit face that looks tailor-made for his job. He blinks at me like I just spoke Korean.

“I know most of it already.” I give an impatient wave. “Still, let’s hear it in your own words.”

Normally, I wouldn’t bother. But after last night, all wispy ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs’ and wonderings, I want to hear something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand, crush in my fist, admire from all sides, as I say to myself:This. I did this.

Before solving the problem itself, of course.

“Ah yeah, so this apartment complex is just one of many. It’s a twenty-four-floor luxury apartment building with an open-air pool planned for the top floor. As for our projects on a grand scale”—the foreman smirks—“yeah, we have a hand in just about every construction venture in the metro area.”

And there it is. I like hearing it like that. Not just a few projects, not even a lot.Every construction venturein the whole metropolis.

That’s what I like to hear. Not higher-than-expected performance, not even merely beating out the competition—nothing less than total domination.

“And this project,” I continue, “what is holding it up?”

As far as I know, the logistical details should be all in order. Nothing separates this project from the countless others we’ve financed and brought to a successful conclusion: the same immigration deals to smuggle in cheap workers, the same import and export deals in certain not-entirely-legal markets for below-market-price materials.

“Some city politics bullshit—something about permits.” The foreman is scowling, shaking his head as we start walking again. “Every day, we get a new letter in the mail bitching about how we don’t have the right ones. Even though the ones we’ve got are the same as every other apartment complex in the city. Still, after your man told us you gave the go-ahead, we continued construction and …”

He trails off as we come to a stop.

He’s seeing what I’m seeing. Seven different construction workers, sitting on their asses, smoking and chewing on saltines. Onmyfucking time.

“What the hell?” the foreman yells at them.

The one closest to us gestures with his cracker to the left. “Ask them.”

One look, and I understand.

“Walsh,” Ludmil mutters like a curse word.

He gets it, too.

The two men in the suits, with the big hand gestures and the firm frowns who are currently arguing with our red-faced project manager, have been bought and paid for by the city of Toronto. Or, more specifically, by Mr. Richard Walsh, foremost city council member and corrupt fuck. The kind so corrupt that he doesn’t even think he is.

“He’s at it again,” the foreman confirms, not moving.

By now, everyone knows what Walsh’s favorite hobby is, when not rerouting charity funds to bankroll his latest yacht and feeding his enemies to crocodiles: trying to royally fuck me over.

Not that he’s managed to do it. Not yet.

Still, delays cost time and time costs money. And I’m tired of Walsh pissing away my hard-earned cash.

Like an angry wasp, he always comes back for more. He’s not going anywhere either—even if I did manage to get a good hitman past his mansion security that rivals Guantanamo Bay. The Skull Kings Motorcycle Club would just find another piece of shit politician to eat their cash and shoot off legalese and lawyers like they’re firecrackers on fucking New Year’s.

I stride up to the small group, nod to my project manager. I smile at the suits in turn. “Gentlemen. Thank you for coming. You can go now.”

“What?” They’re still smiling too. Don’t understand yet.

“You’re done here.”

“No.” One grabs a sheet of paper out of his suit jacket pocket and waves it high, raising his voice for good show. “We have a right to be here. Your permits are out of order.”

“We’re shutting this place down,” the other confirms.

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