Page 29 of Devil's Azalea

His chair squeaks as he gets up to follow—curious as always. I take off my jacket, sink into my seat, and bring out my laptop. Once it boots, I slot in the flash drive and wait as dozens of files gradually populate the screen.

All video files.

I play the first one: it’s a recording from a dash cam video. Just random footage of a car driving through Manhattan. The second video mimics the first, as do the third and fourth.

I frown.Did Emilia just copy a bunch of useless videos onto her flash?

Then I click on the fifth video.

It starts very much the same: just a car weaving through traffic, nothing eye-catching. But then it stops in front of the building hosting tonight’s event, right behind a black Lincoln.

A pretty woman emerges from the Lincoln, dressed in a see-through blouse that leaves nothing to the imagination, a skirtthat barely covers her crotch, and ridiculously high heels that make her legs look miles long.

Movement flickers at the camera’s edge before another figure enters the frame, apparently exiting the car with the dash cam. Jason Moore. The footage comes from his car.That moron recorded himself.

“Dumbass,” Enzo mutters as we watch the councilor pull the woman into a full-bodied hug, then kiss her like no one’s watching. “In broad daylight? Where any reporter with a pulse could snap a photo?”

So, he’s having an affair. Hardly shocking.

But I want more than scandal. I want leverage. Something I can hold him by the balls with and squeeze until he squeals.

Now armed with the knowledge that these are Jason’s dash cam recordings, I watch the route the car takes through the city with a more critical eye, analyzing his daily navigation.

A few more videos show him meeting with his mistress and taking her to a remote house where they disappear for several hours at a time—twice even overnight.

“Mrs. Moore would find this fascinating,” Enzo says.

“And what makes you think she doesn’t already know? Tina Moore is not the sentimental type. I doubt she’ll give a damn who her husband is screwing, as long as he stays in power and keeps funding her lifestyle.”

No, if I want to leverage these videos, it’s best to use them with Jason directly. Such footage becoming public will significantly harm his goals of running for the senator’s office in the next election cycle. The American public can forgive many sins, but hypocrisy from a family values candidate isn’t one of them.

There are still dozens of recordings on the drive, most of them just more of the same routine, and just as I’m about to give up on finding anything more concrete, another video catches my attention.

From the first frame, I know this one is different. The driverveers off his normal routes, going through back roads and rundown neighborhoods. The footage drags on for several long minutes, but I stay glued to my laptop.

Then—finally—my patience pays off. Jason’s car slows to a stop behind an expensive Rolls Royce, the kind of luxury vehicle that sticks out in this area like a diamond in a coal mine. As he walks towards it, I immediately notice the shift in his posture—his shoulders are hunched, submissive. A far cry from his usual cocky swagger.

Seconds later, a man steps out of the Roll’s passenger side.

Adrian De Luca. Nico Marino’s enforcer.

“Holy shit. He’s been in cahoots with the Marinos?” Enzo asks in disbelief.

I don’t respond. I just keep watching.

Adrian opens the back door, and Jason slips inside. He's in there for about four minutes, and when he comes back out, he’s holding a dark leather briefcase. That in itself isn’t a crime at all—could be campaign documents or other mundane paperwork—but then the universe delivers a gift wrapped in perfect timing. The fucker clips his foot on a chunk of rock he managed to avoid earlier but somehow misses now, clearly distracted by whatever just transpired, and stumbles to the floor with an almost comical lack of grace.

The briefcase slips from his hand and crashes onto the pavement, hitting the corner of a nearby curb. The latch pops open, and the contents spill out.

Wads of hundred-dollar bills.

My lips curl up. “Perfect.”

On screen, Jason gets up, his mouth moving rapidly, no doubt swearing up a storm while scrambling to gather his cash. I pause the video right there: briefcase open, money everywhere, Jason’s face clear as day.

Nowthat’sleverage.

There are still plenty of videos left, and I intend to combthrough every single one. But this clip—combined with his cheating scandal and the audio I recorded tonight while locked in the closet with Emilia—is more than enough to bury Jason Moore for good.