Page 34 of Loss and Damages
I can still feel her snuggled against my chest, her quiet breathing filling the limo. How easy it would have been to pretend we were a couple on our way home from attending an event.
I’ve never let myself believe a woman could love me. I’ve had proposals of undying love, women begging me to father their children. Women who vowed to treasure me no matter what. They didn’t know me. How could I trust any woman’s claim of unconditional love when my own mother couldn’t?
There are security cameras attached to the front of the building, and the monitor on my desk plays footage of the picketers outside. Someone had noticed the car stop at the curb and me entering the building. I should have used the back entrance, but I was thinking about Jemma and I’d forgotten the stir my presence at the fundraiser would create.
I suppose it is ironic, if I’m given to acknowledging that kind of thing, but charity work and my business deals have always been separate in my mind, and the fucking truth is, I never considered what it would look like. My main goal had been introducing Jemma to my mother, not thinking about the families I’ll be evicting from the rent-controlled 1100 block. I’ve already assured Wilkins they’ll have other places to go. Short of not pursuing the sale, there’s nothing more I can do about it, nothing more Iwantto do about it.
News crews join the picketers, their vans parked illegally on the street, interviewing people to include in their human interest segments. Perhaps it’s time I finally have my say. Give Wilkins another nudge. I can’t do this without him, and his hesitancy is getting old.
In the elevator, I pull my hair away from my face, fasten it at the nape of my neck, and push a pair of mirrored sunglasses onto my face. The doors glide open and I exit into the lobby.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Milano?” a security guard asks, patting his belt, his fingers brushing a nightstick and taser. The security company I employ to protect our building does not arm their guards, and I always considered it a good thing. I have many sins on my hands, but death is not one of them.
“It will be fine.”
The man shoots me a dubious look, rubs his forehead, and adjusts his cap. “You’re the boss.”
He and another guard accompany me out the front door and they shield me from the screaming picketers who want to pummel me with questions and fists alike.
I stand on the top step and look over the protesters, their signs bobbing in the air. Anger and hate hang over them, fury and desperation. There’s nothing they can do that will stop me, and they know it.
Traffic slows as drivers gawk at what’s happening.
Pedestrians on the other side of the street pause to watch.
The reporters gesture their cameramen in my direction and a Latina reporter, her lips painted a bright red, her black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, bravely raises her voice above the rest. “Mr. Milano! Can you tell us when the sale of the 1100 block will go through?”
The crowd falls silent but for one snarky comment: “Hopefully, never!”
When the cheering quiets, I answer her question. “We’re still in the midst of negotiations, but we should come to an agreement by the end of the month.”
“Mr. Milano!” yells another. “What do you expect those families to do once evicted?”
“I will work closely with the tenants to ensure they have other options available.” It’s not a lie, but those options may not be to their liking. That’s not going to be my problem.
“Dominic! Over here! You attended the Haven & Hope Project fundraiser last night. How do you feel supporting a cause like that while wanting to purchase and demolish the city’s last remaining rent-controlled buildings?”
“One doesn’t have anything to do with the other.”
The picketers start to hiss at me, but the reporters quiet them down quickly. I don’t often give my time, and the media wants every second they can get.
“Mr. Milano! A leak at the SCPD suggests your brother’s car crash may not have been an accident. Do you have an opinion?”
My mouth dries and I search the sea of bodies for the reporter who asked the question, but I wouldn’t appear in control if I demanded he tell me where he heard that rumor or how he thinks he knows more than I do about my brother’s death. “It was an accident. The investigation indicates he swerved to possibly avoid hitting a deer. It would be like mybrother to think his Aston Martin was worth less than a doe’s life.”
“Dominic, another question if you don’t mind. The woman who attended the fundraiser with you last night. Who is she? Are you in a serious relationship? What does she think of your plans to purchase the 1100 block?”
Jemma slams into my mind, her scent invades my nose, and I’m immediately brought back to last night, barely twelve hours ago in the limo, her head resting against my chest, my arm wrapped tightly around her. My tongue turns to cement and it’s difficult to answer the question.
“She was a friend of Leo’s, and we attended the benefit to honor him as the homeless situation in the city was a cause close to his heart. I have nothing—”
“Watch out!”
Shots fire, blasts that punch through the air in our direction.
Pain as intense as the gunshots cracking from the street sears through my left arm, but I don’t have time to process the fact that I’ve just been shot. The security guard who questioned my judgment yanks me down onto the step, and disoriented, I fall on my side and land hard on my elbow.
A bullet hits the concrete not five feet away from me, chips flying in every direction.
