Page 92 of Loss and Damages
I’d been chasing love from the wrong person.
Had I cared what Leo thought, had I run the company with him rather than doing my father’s dirty work, we could have changed the world, Leo and I, and turned St. Charlotte into a city where everyone can afford to live, where a good quality of life doesn’t only belong to the rich.
My mother saw this, too. Maybe her simple life with Antonio will be exactly what she said it would be.
Leo died because of me.
How will I tell Jemma?
She won’t love me anymore when she finds out.
Duncan picks me up, and I check my phone on the drive to the office. Wilkins has tried several times to get in touch. Because of the explosion and Detective Solomon’s call, I forgot about the meeting we were supposed to have.
“Drive me to City Hall instead,” I tell Duncan.
I connect to Wilkins’s private number. “I’m sorry,” I tell the mayor for the first time in my life. Leaving Jemma out of it, I continue, “The cops picked up a couple of kids running away from the explosion this afternoon. I was just at the police department, listening to the detective question one of them, and I found out some things about Leo’s death. I’m on the way to your office right now.”
A Milano never admits when he’s wrong, and I can hear the stunned silence my apology has elicited.
“I’ll be waiting,” he says and disconnects the call.
We never meet in his office, choosing more private spots to conduct business. Not everything I do, nor the mayor, for that matter, is on the right side of legality and speaking without flies on the wall is preferable, but today it doesn’t matter. Nothing I say will need to be kept secret, nothing I say will upset or anger anyone.
Duncan navigates the city streets and the clouds burst open, rain pelting the car and reducing visibility to almost nothing.He double parks in front of City Hall and I’m so lost in grief and guilt he has to prod me to acknowledge we reached our destination.
He climbs out gripping a large black umbrella and walks me from the car to City Hall’s lobby. Past five, there are just a few people scurrying here and there finishing up last minute assignments before going home.
I enter Wilkins’s office, and he stands behind his desk, tense and wary. He and I haven’t spoken since the news broke I’m purchasing the homeless shelter. I didn’t discuss it with him and didn’t have plans to. I needed him to support the 1100 block’s sale to convince Pitts to sign, but in the end, I took care of that myself too, in a way I am thoroughly ashamed to admit. I thought my life would be easier having the mayor’s approval, but life will never be easy when you’re doing the wrong thing.
Jemma was trying to help me understand that.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Wilkins demands, slapping at today’s paper laying on his desk. “And the vehicle explosion outside your building? Milano, you’re playing with fire, but instead of getting singed, you’re going to burn to death.”
I rub my forehead, a pounding ache inside my skull, and wish I was at Jemma’s cottage, making love to her while the rain beats down on the roof. There’s no place else I want to be, and the want threatens to suffocate me. “Can I have a drink?” I choke, and Wilkins’s eyes widen.
He’s never known me to be vulnerable, weak, but missing Jemma doesn’t make me weak. Missing my brother doesn’t make me weak.
It makes me human, a state my father would never tolerate.
Wilkins’s office is wood and red leather, and I hate it. I always think of a bordello—and I don’t doubt Mayor Wilkins has had his fair share of fun at his desk—but today I’m thankful forthe bar in the corner and the scotch he pours into a lowball that has the City Hall building etched into the glass.
I down the alcohol and it burns a soothing trail to my stomach. Wilkins pours me another and I gratefully sip. Exhausted, I sink into a visitor’s chair in front of his desk. “The punks who set my SUV on fire admitted to killing Leo.”
Wilkins sits and folds his hands on top of the newspaper. It’s a power play, a small one, putting his desk between us, but I let it go. I’m not playing games today. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. They thought I was behind the wheel.”
He nods. “I see.”
“I’m not buying the homeless shelter to tear it down.”
For the next hour I outline my plans: the church and relocating the pastor’s congregation, the shelter and the updates it needs, the halfway houses and all the renovations they require to make them more habitable. “I’m not tearing down the 1100 block. I’ll refurbish those buildings, too. Pitts never did anything for his tenants, and the apartments are in need of repair.” Or so says William Kidder, but I doubt he was lying.
“And Oakdale Square?” Wilkins asks.
“I’m still tearing down some of the...substandard...businesses. The Scarlet Wing, for example. If you want to clean up a neighborhood, bad businesses have to be replaced with good. As for the trailer park, I’ll replace the homes at no cost to the tenants and they can keep them. I don’t need the rent.” As I speak, dollar signs fly by my face, but I don’t care about any of it. Jemma will be pleased, happy, but I’m not doing it for her.
I’m not doing it for my brother.
