"Tell me, Leo Wallace."

Frank leveled the accusation.

"What’s the difference between you and that bastard Carter Wright?!"

The words struck Leo’s heart like a sledgehammer.

A difference?

To an outsider, perhaps there really was no difference.

Both sold out the public interest. Both colluded with oligarchs. Both made dirty deals in back rooms.

Leo looked at Frank.

He saw anger, but more than that, he saw hurt.

This old man had seen him as a symbol of hope. Now, he felt betrayed.

Leo stood up straight.

He straightened the collar Frank had grabbed and wrinkled.

He didn’t shrink back, nor did he lower his head in shame.

He raised his head and looked Frank straight in the eye.

His gaze was cold and hard.

"The difference is this."

Leo began to speak.

"When Carter Wright sold the port, the money went into his own pocket, or it became a personal political donation from Morganfield."

"But when I sold the port, I got five hundred million US Dollars in bonds in return!"

Leo took a step forward, closing in on Frank.

"Frank! Wake up!"

Leo roared back.

"Do you think we’re playing some kind of game? Do you think bread will just fall from the sky if you shout a few righteous slogans?"

"Look at the city’s ledgers! Look at that empty treasury!"

"Without Morganfield’s endorsement, without that damned franchise right as a trade-off, the State Government would never have approved the five-hundred-million-US-Dollar bond issuance plan!"

"Without that five hundred million, what are we going to use to fix the roads?"

Leo jabbed a finger into Frank’s chest.

"Where’s the money for the second phase of the revitalization plan going to come from? The heating system at the Hill District school has been broken for ages. Winter is almost here. Do you want those kids to freeze to death in their classrooms?"

"And that worker training program you’re holding!"

"The dedicated training funds written in there! That’s a lifeline for the unemployed workers! Where is that money going to come from?"

"Are we supposed to count on handouts from Washington? Or hope that protesting in the streets will magically conjure up money?"

"This is the real world, Frank!"

"If you want to pull people out of this filthy mire, you have to be willing to stick your own hands in the muck!"

"Yes, I made a deal with the Demon."

Leo admitted it.

"Because the gates of heaven are locked! God doesn’t have time to deal with the poor people of Pittsburgh!"

"I have to borrow fire from hell just so our people can be a little warmer this winter!"

"That’s the difference!"

"Carter Wright did it for himself. I’m doing it for this city!"

Frank was stunned.

He stared at the young man before him.

Leo’s chest heaved, his eyes were bloodshot, and he radiated an almost crazed intensity.

Frank suddenly realized something.

The college student Leo, the one who helped them write flyers at the community center, the one with the gentle voice and clear eyes—he was dead.

He had died during that long campaign, died in that calculating Mayor’s Office.

Standing before him was a true Mayor.

A politician who would do whatever it took to achieve his goals, who would sacrifice his reputation, and even his conscience.

But that was exactly what they needed.

A good, kind man couldn’t save Pittsburgh.

Only a ruthless man like this, a madman daring enough to pull chestnuts from the fire, could carve a path out of this desperate stalemate.

The anger drained out of Frank like air from a punctured balloon.

His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to age ten years in an instant.

He slowly sat back down on the bench and buried his face in his hands.

The river wind blew past, stirring up the dust on the ground.

A long moment passed.

Frank’s muffled voice came from between his fingers.

"...So, this is the price, isn’t it?"

"Yes. This is the price."

Leo sat down as well, at the other end of the bench.

Neither of them looked at the other.

"There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world, Frank. If you want that five hundred million US Dollars, you have to give Morganfield what he wants."

"I’ll be the one to take the blame."

Leo stared at the river in the distance.

"You’re the Union leader. You need to maintain your integrity. You can’t be seen compromising with the capitalists."

"You can go back and tell the workers that the article is true."

"You can say that Leo Wallace is a bastard, that he betrayed us."

"If the workers want to curse me, you lead them. If they want to protest at the Mayor’s Office, you lead them there, too."

"But."

Leo turned his head to look at Frank’s profile.

"The money... I’ll make sure every cent of it gets distributed."

"The projects... I’ll make sure every single one gets built."

"As long as that five hundred million US Dollars comes through, as long as everyone has a job and food to eat."

"What does it matter if I’m cursed a few times?"

Frank lowered his hands.

He looked at Leo.

He saw the profound exhaustion deep in the young man’s eyes—the weariness of someone walking alone, shouldering a great secret and a heavy burden of guilt.

Frank suddenly felt a heavy weight in his chest.

He wanted to say something comforting, like, "You’re right," or, "I don’t blame you."

But he found he couldn’t get the words out.

Because the wound had already been inflicted.

That pure, idealistic trust was already shattered.

From now on, they would still be allies. They would still fight side-by-side.

But it would be based on calculated interests, on pragmatic considerations, no longer on the passionate impulse that had once fueled them.

Frank picked up the paper from the ground.

It was the article exposing Leo’s "crimes."

He slowly tore the paper in half.

Then he folded the pieces together and tore them again.

And again, until it was nothing but a handful of confetti.

He stood up, walked to the edge of the pier, and held his hand out over the river.

He opened his palm.

The white scraps of paper fluttered down, falling into the murky water, where they were instantly swallowed up and vanished.

"Get back to work, Mr. Mayor."

Frank said this with his back to Leo, his voice returning to its usual roughness, but it lacked some of its former warmth.

"I’ll tell the workers it’s a rumor."

"I’ll tell them it’s a lie made up by that son of a bitch Monroe to tear us down."

"I’ll make them shut up."

Frank paused.

He turned around and gave Leo one last look.

His expression was complicated.

There was admiration, sympathy, and also a thread of deep apprehension.

"But in this moment, Leo."

"Only in this moment."

"I think you’re truly a terrifying man."

With that, Frank pulled his collar tight, took long strides, and walked off into the cold wind.

His back was somewhat stooped, and he looked a little desolate.

Leo sat on the bench, watching Frank walk away.

He watched until the figure completely disappeared around the street corner.

He knew Frank would handle the Union for him, that he would suppress all the dissenting noise.

He also knew that while their trust still existed, that pure, seamless innocence between them had vanished forever into the murky river.

This was the price of growing up.

This was the price of power.

It strips away all your soft parts and turns you into a hard stone.

’Is it worth it?’ Leo asked himself.

’Look at this city, Leo,’ Roosevelt’s voice sounded in his mind.

’Look at those extinguished smokestacks, look at those dilapidated houses.’

’To make them light up again, to make them strong again.’

’Let alone the misunderstanding of a single friend.’

’Even if it means tearing out our own hearts and burning them, it’s worth it.’

Leo closed his eyes, feeling the sting of the cold wind on his cheeks.

A moment later, he opened his eyes.

The confusion in his gaze was gone.

He stood up and brushed the dust from his overcoat.

He turned and walked toward the black Lincoln sedan parked by the roadside.

There was a meeting waiting for him back at the Mayor’s Office about how to handle the administrative review.

He had to go to war.