Anthony French
"Boss," Marco's voice crackled through my phone speaker while I stood frozen in front of the illuminated mirror.
I didn't answer right away as I continued adjusting the heavy silver cufflink at my right wrist, the metal catching the sharp, cold light of the penthouse as I smoothed down the dark lapel of my tailored suit.
"We have a complication with the downtown high-rise zoning permits," Marco continued, his tone tight. "Councilman Brown is refusing to sign off unless we provide his campaign fund with an extra half-million under the table. He thinks our timeline is tight enough that we'll cave."
The sudden fury hit the back of my throat like a dose of acid, burning hot and instantaneous. I hate it when weak men start to mistake my business investments for an open invita
