From the moment the phrase "Russian collusion" first crossed a cable-news anchor's lips—at a time before Flynn, and Gates, and Sessions, and Manafort, when George Papadopoulos's guilty plea was but a twinkle in Robert Mueller's eye—Donald Trump began strenuously and repeatedly denying that he had business ventures, investments, or any other form of interest in the country that worked so hard to get him elected president. "I don't know Putin, have no deals in Russia," he crowed in February 2017, just a few weeks after taking the oath of office. "And the haters are going crazy."

On Thursday, Michael Cohen walked into a New York City courtroom and provided the strongest bit of evidence yet that this always-implausible assertion is, in fact, a demonstrable lie. In his surprise hearing, which came just months after he pleaded guilty to a different set of federal crimes in a separate investigation, Cohen copped to misleading Congress about his employer's efforts to build a Trump Tower in Moscow; although he had claimed that the deal was dead "before the Iowa caucus and months before the very first primary," minimizing the extent to which the campaign's relationship with Russia would draw scrutiny, negotiations continued through at least June 2016. Documents filed by the special counsel's office show that Cohen and others within Trump's orbit were making travel plans to Russia, and debating whether it would be best for Trump to go before or after the convention at which he became the Republican nominee for president.

In court, Cohen offered an explanation for his actions, which seems like it should be obvious, but is still jarring to hear admitted on the record after two years of angry and indignant denials: "I made these statements to be consistent with Individual-1’s political messaging," he said, "and to be loyal to Individual-1." In the filings, everyone except for Cohen is referred to using a pseudonym. But you do not have to be a mole on Mueller's team to guess who "Individual-1" is.

Donald Trump is still president, the special counsel's investigation carries on, and the sun will go down in Washington tonight as usual. But Michael Cohen's revelation still feels like a milestone of sorts, because this is where everyone knew the Russia probe, sooner or later, was going to lead: to the intersection of Donald Trump's bid for the presidency and his lifelong quest to enrich himself. For Russia, his interest in electoral politics—and his unexpected proficiency at it—was an unimaginable stroke of good luck: Suddenly, the doofy American hotel/Miss Universe guy puttering around Moscow also had the chance of becoming the leader of their most significant global rival! Taking any and all affirmative steps to keep him happy—or, say, to facilitate his candidacy by any means necessary—was the most lucrative investment of time, money, and energy that the country could make.

What reason would Donald Trump have had not to accept this assistance, in whatever form it eventually came? What evidence is there that he would have considered the importance of divorcing his financial interests from his political aspirations? These were business associates with whom he had spent years developing, at the very least, a mutually beneficial relationship; to him, "conspiring to win the presidency" was just another chapter, not all that different than "trying to break ground on a new Trump Tower," or "hosting Miss Universe in the capital of Russia."

Objectively speaking, this particular transaction could not be like the others, in that its result could have profound geopolitical consequences, allowing a hostile foreign power to hold sway over the president of the United States. But Donald Trump didn't care—or, more likely, the potential gravity of the situation never occurred to him. He had money to make, hotels to build, and an election to win along the way.