Millions in Dirty Money

Fiorello definitely wasn't going to sleep tonight. Through his connections with Wilkie, he'd managed to bring in agents from the IRS, and using his own influence, he also recruited beat cops who patrolled the streets. Everything was ready—only the final strike remained.

Just as he expected, the Commissioner of the NYPD was spending the night at his mistress's house. Cheating on your spouse wasn't a crime—it was more a moral issue. In fact, in France, not having a mistress was almost seen as a social failure, especially among the elite.

It was even rumored that many artists—painters, novelists—during their early, unknown years, relied on wealthy women to support them. Some even claimed that certain early revolutionaries funded their causes by cozying up to rich widows or heiresses, wooing them for money.

Well, rumors are rumors...

While the NYPD Commissioner was happily asleep with his mistress in his arms, completely unaware, IRS agents had already surrounded the luxurious villa. After silently taking down a lookout left outside, the IRS's tactical team moved in for the takedown.

The combat strength of the U.S. Internal Revenue Service's special agents should never be underestimated. Often called the third largest armed group in America after the Army and the National Guard, they had almost everything the military had. You could probably send them to overthrow a small country and they'd succeed.

It wasn't just their top-tier weapons and organization—these agents were highly trained from years of chasing down tax evaders. Their team coordination often surpassed that of the National Guard, which didn't conduct operations as regularly. Using such a near-military-level force to arrest someone? Failure was not an option.

And most importantly—was there anyone better at raiding a house than IRS agents?

These folks lived for asset seizures. No matter how cleverly you tried to hide dirty money, they'd seen it all. There was no need for Fiorello to even direct the raid himself—the agents could turn a mansion inside out without missing a dime.

All they needed was to uncover enough undeclared cash to indicate income far beyond the Commissioner's reported salary—and then everything else would fall into place. Fiorello didn't even need to destroy the man. One charge of "unexplained wealth" was enough to bring him down.

And given the widespread tradition of plea bargaining in the U.S., if this Commissioner was willing to flip—to spill secrets about his fellow Tammany Hall Democrats—he could probably walk free, keep some of his ill-gotten gains, or even flee to Cuba.

Fiorello didn't want to kill the man—he just wanted to be mayor.

At 3:00 AM, when sleep is at its deepest, the IRS special agents rammed open the villa's front door and burst in. The Commissioner and his mistress were immediately detained. The team then launched a systematic, well-organized, and rapid search of the entire house.

The Commissioner, freshly awakened, was still dazed. He had no idea what was going on. To make things worse, he'd just had a wild night, gone for two rounds, and barely slept three hours. He was naked, confused, and fumbling around.

It didn't take long for the agents to find a large cash cabinet filled with U.S. dollars—by rough count, at least $400,000 to $500,000. The agents were ecstatic. With federal income tax rates in the double digits, local property taxes adding more, and fines being twice the amount of unpaid taxes, all of this cash could be seized.

Totally worth the raid!

Only after the dirty money was confirmed did Fiorello step into view. With the cash found and the suspect in custody, he could now easily press charges for unexplained sources of major assets.

When their eyes met, the Commissioner finally realized what was happening—he'd been set up. Regaining some composure, he left his mistress and calmly dressed. Then he walked up to Fiorello and said, "Fiorello, my brother—we've worked together before. Why go this far?"

He tried to cut a deal right then and there. "Take the money we found and split it among the boys as Christmas bonuses. On top of that, I'll have my mistress pay $200,000 in back taxes under her name. Everyone wins—let's all have a good holiday."

But Fiorello wasn't after the money. That wasn't his goal at all.

He maintained a stern, businesslike expression and said nothing. Then he ordered his men to escort the Commissioner to the DA's office "for a coffee chat," and told the others to keep searching.

Soon, they found a massive vault in the basement. Fiorello was still wondering how they were going to haul it back to the office when a senior IRS agent walked in. With a small case of tools and a respectful hush falling over the room, the agent approached the vault. In just two minutes, he cracked all three locks.

That's the IRS for you—if it involves money, there's nothing they can't do.

Inside the vault? Roughly $2 million in cash, plus heaps of gold coins and jewelry. Easily enough to put the Commissioner away for thirty years.

Meanwhile, Neal had gotten up from an uneasy sleep and started cooking his porridge. The milk lady brought up the milk and newspaper for him—she did it every morning, especially since Neal tipped her an extra fifty cents a month.

The headline leapt out at him:

"Prosecutor Fiorello Strikes Against Corruption—Millions in Dirty Money Seized"

The front page photo showed Fiorello and a group of IRS agents standing behind a table piled with cash.

"Haha!" Neal chuckled. Fiorello had finally made his move. And from the look of it—catching the Commissioner red-handed—this was going to be an airtight case.

Now it was up to the Democratic city government and Tammany Hall. Would they push back? Retaliate against Fiorello? If so, the fight would escalate.

But if they chose to cut their losses and enter a plea deal, isolating the scandal to just this one man, then things would become a lot easier.

Neal knew he had to keep a close eye on developments. Wilkie should keep encouraging the IRS to press on—chase down every crooked Tammany official and throw them all in jail. The IRS would get tax revenue and fines; Wilkie's team would get a shot at taking over New York City.

Lost in thought, Neal didn't realize his porridge had been sitting too long and was starting to burn. He rushed to turn off the heat, then shook his head.

There really were men in the world who couldn't even cook a simple pot of porridge.