"If you show weakness today, if you let him think you’re just a young bureaucrat who can be pushed around by a schedule, then every single one of your future budget proposals will be held up in this damn reception room. You’ll be stuck here until you’re just another one of the pictures on this wall."

"Because time is the one thing he’s not short on."

Roosevelt said consolingly, "Don’t take it personally, kid."

"This system was never designed for efficiency."

"It was designed to prevent tyranny."

Just then, the secretary finally looked up.

"Mr. Mayor, the Speaker is free now. You can go in."

Leo stood up, straightened his suit, and pushed open the heavy mahogany door.

The office was filled with the rich smell of tomato sauce and meatballs.

Thomas Moretti was sitting behind his desk, a huge Italian meatball sub in hand, eating with gusto.

He didn’t even stand up.

He just raised his eyelids to glance at Leo as he walked in, then pointed to the chair opposite him, red tomato sauce staining the corner of his mouth.

"Have a seat, Mr. Mayor."

Moretti said, his words muffled as he chewed his food.

"Sorry, my lunch break is the only time I have."

It was an extremely dismissive attitude, and also a meticulously calculated, veteran tactic.

He was sending Leo a clear message: everything about the mayor’s visit was less important than the sandwich in his hands.

Leo sat down, paying no mind to the other man’s attitude.

"Mr. Speaker, since time is short, I’ll get straight to the point."

Leo took the thick draft budget from his briefcase and placed it on the desk.

"Regarding the budget for ’Phase Two of the Pittsburgh Renaissance Plan’—the twenty-million-US-Dollar community service upgrade project—I hope the City Council can schedule it for review as soon as possible."

"This is urgent. If the heating system in the Hill District isn’t renovated, the elderly and the children there will freeze."

Moretti was still eating his sandwich. He didn’t even glance at the document.

"Twenty million US dollars?" Moretti picked up a napkin, wiped his mouth, and sneered. "I saw your campaign PowerPoint. It was very well done. Very Hollywood."

"Public daycare centers, senior cafeterias, and... what was it? That workers’ cooperative."

"It all sounds very touching."

Moretti put down his sandwich and leaned back, the chair letting out a CREAK.

His gaze changed in an instant.

The gluttonous old man vanished. Sitting there now was an old dragon, jealously guarding its hoard of gold, its eyes like fire.

"But, Mr. Mayor."

"This isn’t just a PowerPoint. This is money. This is the taxpayers’ hard-earned cash."

Leo wasn’t intimidated by his presence. He said directly, "Mr. Speaker, this isn’t my personal fantasy. This is the voice of the citizens."

"I won seventy-two percent of the vote in the election. That’s my mandate from the people. They elected me to get these things done."

"If you’ve seen the polling data, you’d know that over eighty percent of the citizens support this plan."

Hearing the words "polls" and "votes," Moretti let out a contemptuous snort.

"Don’t talk to me about seventy-two percent, kid."

Hearing the word "kid," Leo’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Moretti’s fingers tapped on the desktop.

"That’s campaign talk. That’s what you use to sweet-talk the masses on the streets."

"But now, we’re governing this city."

"You rile up those poor folks, telling them they’ll have new houses tomorrow and free meals the day after."

"That’s easy. Anyone can make promises."

"But what if the budget goes over? What if reckless spending causes the city’s bond rating to drop? What if there’s a recession next year and tax revenues fall? Who’s going to fill that hole?"

"You’ll just pack up and leave, or run for higher office."

"But me? I’ll still be here, facing the bills that can’t be paid."

Moretti leaned forward, his eyes locked on Leo.

"You’re a joyrider, Leo."

"All you care about is slamming the pedal to the metal, driving as fast as you can, listening to the wind rush past and the crowds cheering on the sidelines."

"But me? I’m the one who has to fix the car, fill it with gas, and make sure this old clunker doesn’t fall apart on the highway."

"You want me to sign off on this budget? You want me to fill up the tank of your out-of-control car?"

Moretti just extended a finger, pressed it on the cover, and gave it a gentle push.

The budget proposal, which Leo and Ethan had pulled several all-nighters to create, slid to the edge of the desk, teetering precariously.

"I can tell you unequivocally, Mr. Mayor. This document won’t get a single minute of discussion time in the Budget and Finance Committee. I will reject it outright."

Leo looked at Moretti’s finger.

"You haven’t even read what’s inside."

"I don’t need to," Moretti sneered. "I know what’s in it. Grand visions, radical reforms, and a deficit that would give the treasury officer a heart attack."

"There’s no way this will pass."

Moretti leaned back in his chair again, his face taking on the pragmatic expression unique to seasoned politicians.

"Listen, Leo. I’m not an unreasonable man. I know you’re new in office and you need a few accomplishments to show for it."

"You can go back and have that chief of staff of yours rewrite it."