The media began to titter. And it wasn’t just the reporters. Homeless people and service providers had been gathering as the media conference continued.

“You know it’s not that simple.” The mayor tried again. “Insurance companies see risk everywhere, whether it’s big or not. They’d impose steep insurance costs on shelters and clinics because they have big payouts to consider.”

“Oh really?” Felicity rocked back on her heels. “Last year the average insurance payout in New York on pet injuries was”—she glanced at the figures she’d cued up on her phone—“$55,801. And they paid out on just 893 insurance claims for dog injuries, both big and minor. Extrapolating that to our eight hundred street dogs, we’re talking fewer than one case a year that would result in an insurance payout.”

The mayor’s mouth fell open. Cameras started snapping wildly.

“And by the way,” Felicity continued, “the legislation already exists saying homeless shelters can insist pet owners keep their animals in appropriately sized crates at night. Crates are provided for free by several charities here today, including Living Ruff New York. So what exposure is the city really facing here?”

“And what if it’s not just dogs?” Mayor Browning blustered. “What if they want to bring their…pet weasel, or tarantula, or monkey?”

“Then the shelter would quite rightly turn them away because all three are illegal as pets in New York. Anything else?” She gave him a withering look.

Satisfyingly, the vein in his neck started to pop. “You do realize that not every homeless shelter or treatment clinic is run by the city. Private companies and charities wouldn’t be happy at having to pay extra in insurance and facilities to cater to filthy, flea-ridden street animals.”

A murmur of anger went through the crowd. Mayor Browning had obviously forgotten who his audience was.

“Yes, private companies such as Brightheart Services will have to make a few modifications. Remind me,” Felicity said. “Doesn’t Brightheart Services provide ten percent of the four hundred fifty shelters in New York? Are you worried that your sister, the director, will be unhappy about that?”

Mayor Browning’s face turned white. “What are you implying? You’re suggesting I won’t allow homeless people to keep pets because it will affect the bottom line of my sister’s company?”

“What an excellent question,” Felicity mocked faintly. “Is that what’s happening here? You’ll veto these bills for family profit?”

“I never said I’d veto!” he roared.

“Oh, my mistake. So you’re saying on the record that you definitely won’t veto?” Felicity asked sweetly.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” The mayor’s face darkened. “I’m not in the business of taking suggestions on how to run my city from any random lawyer who passes by. You might be some liberal homeless person’s advocate, but I deal with real business and real laws, which you clearly know nothing about!” He gave her a triumphant sneer.

“So do I. I’m the deputy chief operating officer of Bartell Corporation. Perhaps you’ve heard of my global media company?”

He paled. “Oh… I—”

“So I have only one question, Mayor.” She glanced at the media pack, which had closed in, tense with excitement. “Will you do right by homeless people who, like anyone else, don’t want to lose their beloved pets just to get shelter or overcome addiction? Or do you plan to veto this law?”

The silence dragged out.

The mayor’s eyes darted around the crowd.

“Don’t veto!” shouted a masculine voice in the audience. “Let us keep our pets!”

“We love our animals!” shouted another. A feminine voice this time.

The crowd began to roar their support.

The mayor finally sagged, cleared his throat, and lifted his hands to quiet them. “I will back this legislation.” Then his expression softened to a charming smile for the cameras. “I would love to find a way to help pets stay with their homeless owners when they’re looking for addiction treatment and accommodation. Assuming it is legally workable, of course.”

“Oh, it is,” Felicity said firmly. “I’ve had the numbers checked by a team of experts. So thanks to your announcement, I’m sure you’ll find the legislation on your desk very soon.”

The crowd applauded and cheered. Several people whistled.

The mayor stalked off stage, a sour expression on his face, and media instantly swarmed Felicity.

“How do you spell your name?”

“Why are you involved?”

“How long have you been an advocate for the homeless?”

“Is this your personal view, Ms. Simmons, or a Bartell Corp position?” Felicity turned at that and recognized the questioner: the man wrote for one of Elena’s shoutier populist tabloids. If he thought this issue had Elena’s interest, he’d turn it into a dogged campaign. Elena never interfered with the political or policy direction of any of her papers, but more than a few toadies, like this reporter, tried to curry favor in the hopes it might earn them her attention. It never did, but they persisted anyway. That could be useful.

“While I’m making an investigation of my own into the homeless now,” Felicity began, “I can say Elena Bartell is firmly in the camp that people and their pets belong together.” She prayed Elena wouldn’t be too annoyed about that. It was an entirely benign comment, surely.

The man met her eye and gave a slight nod. Yes, the mayor’s feet would be held to the fire until the legislation was brought in.

Good.

She answered the rest of the questions, and an amused reporter commented: “Not sure if you’re aware, Ms. Simmons, but we were going live for a short piece on the mayor’s campaign just as you asked your questions. Everyone saw him pledge to pass the legislation. Can’t wriggle out of it now.”

“How convenient,” Felicity said.

“That whole thing was hilarious. I thought he was about to burst something.”

“Well, as long as the plight of the homeless potentially losing their pets is amusing…” she couldn’t resist saying.

“I didn’t say that,” he sputtered.

“Didn’t you?” Felicity asked innocently. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have actual business to attend to. Business that doesn’t involve mocking the less fortunate.”

He shot her a disgruntled look and headed back to his cameraman.

Felicity smiled at his retreating back, enjoying it all far too much. She didn’t particularly care for reporters, even if they were Bartell Corp’s bread-and-butter. They could be just as smug as politicians and lawyers. Never hurt to point out when they were being assholes.

Oh, how she loved this. Winning. Crushing inferior rivals with clever words and exacting facts. She just wished Elena could have seen her. Or wait— No. She’d just invoked Elena’s name in a way that would induce a reporter to write a favorable story. Probably better if her boss didn’t see that.

“Well, that was certainly impressive. And entertaining for you as well, so don’t bother denying it.”

Felicity turned to find an immaculate slim older woman with fine-boned porcelain features eying her. Recognition hit. This was Harvey Clifford’s wife, the philanthropist who’d created the Living Ruff foundation two decades ago.

Her ethereal face gave an impression of someone in her early fifties, but that was more likely a testament to the expensive beauty treatments and other interventions favored by women of her wealth and status. She wore a long emerald peacoat, wool black pants, and stylish leather boots.

So Felicity wasn’t the only one wearing fourteen-hundred-dollar coats.

“Rosalind Stone,” the woman supplied. “Walk with me, please.” Rosalind turned on her heel and strode away, clearly used to being obeyed.

Felicity, well attuned to working for a woman exactly like this, couldn’t help but admire the absolute confidence, and did as ordered.

“So,” Rosalind said, when they were far enough away from the media throngs and milling crowds, “you’re the Bartell Corp executive my husband’s showing my charity to this week. Felicity Simmons?”