Page 93 of Loss and Damages
I’m doing it because I don’t want St. Charlotte’s streets paved in gold. I don’t want the hungry to go unfed. I don’t want children to feel unloved because their parents are stressed out about money or where they’ll live when I raze those properties.I lived without love all my life, and the fact that I could have anything I ever wanted never made up for it.
“That’s all fine and good, but what’s in it for you?”
“Besides a mayor who will finally be keeping his campaign promises?” I might have had a change of heart, but I’ll always be a shrewd businessman underneath.
He has the grace to turn red, the back of his neck heating all the way up to his bald head. He clears his throat. “Besides that.”
“Nothing. I’m doing it for nothing.”
Wilkins frowns. “What happened to you?”
I stand and run my fingers through my hair. “I lost my brother. I threw away the relationship we could have had while he was alive. I fell in love, but she doesn’t like the person I am. She tried to explain I couldn’t change for her, I had to change for me. That might sound stupid or trite, but I let my parents turn me into someone I’m not, and she’ll show me who I’m meant to be.”
It sounds like a load of bullshit, but Wilkins sighs. “We lose sight of that sometimes. Not just you, but everyone. The need for power. You think I wanted to be St. Charlotte’s mayor to help people? Fuck, no. I wanted to sit behind this desk. I wanted a pretty little intern to suck me off the second I snapped my fingers. Shit, I wanted the governor’s number on speed dial, and when I called, he would pick up the fucking phone. St. Charlotte is a beautiful city and I let her down. I let her people down. I’m not any better than you are, Milano.”
His transparency surprises me. I’d expected censure, not agreement, and I sure as hell can’t judge. I’ve never ordered an intern to suck me off, but I’ve shoved my dick where it doesn’t belong more times than I should have. Another lesson my dear old dad taught me. Take what you want and to hell with the rest. I deserved the best while other people paid for it.
Huffing a laugh, I hold out my hand. “Then let’s pick her up and dust her off.”
“You know, Milano, that sounds good. But nothing comes free. Again, I ask, what’s in it for you?”
While I stare at his hand clasped in mine, I try to formulate into words the feelings swamping me. Jemma’s blue eyes filled with tears as I hold her hands, bandages covering her cuts. Pitts’s pale face when I threatened his family. Even William Kidder’s tormented sobs as he admitted to harassing my brother off the road, all because he was afraid of what his parents would do once they were evicted.
I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I don’t know if I can atone for my sins.
“What’s in it for me? All I want is to find a little peace.”
Wilkins calls a reporter that has treated him reasonably well in the press. I suspect she’s treated him reasonably well in bed, too, but that’s neither here nor there, as the saying goes. He gives her an exclusive interview letting her know what’s in store for St. Charlotte. I needed to reveal my plans sooner rather than later—I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. Now that William Kidder and Matthew Young are in custody, that might not have happened, but so many people are scared and worried about their homes, I wouldn’t doubt if someone else picked up where they left off.
She has just enough time to run back to her cubicle and type it up before the paper goes to bed. The photographer she brought with her takes a picture of us in Wilkins’s office, shaking hands over the deal.
Wilkins and I won’t trust each other overnight. We’ve both done things that have turned us into despicable human beings, but in my mind, my money has always excused me. I’ve always felt above him, but that’s going to have to change. Even with my billions, I’m no better than anyone else.
He asks me to go out and celebrate, but I decline. “I need to do some damage control.”
“Good luck,” he says, and his handlers hustle him through the rain into a waiting car at the sidewalk. He’ll find other ways to celebrate, that may or may not include his wife. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My own love life is in shambles, and I’m not one to preach.
My father’s office is as empty as the sidewalk outside our building, the storm forcing away the protesters. The executive floor is quiet, and restless, I wander the hallways. I don’t belong here anymore. My office feels foreign, uncomfortable. I haven’t chased a woman around this desk, but I’ve let my father influence me and tell me to do things I didn’t want to do. I can’t blame him for everything. I could have stood up to him a long time ago, but the craving for his approval was stronger than any druggie’s desperation for his next hit and the obsessive need for his love and acceptance was dangerous and deadly.
Had that shooter’s aim been true, I wouldn’t be standing here.
I drift down the hallway to Leo’s office, but it was never his. He never claimed it because he didn’t want it. The room is spotless, the cleaning crew dusting the desk’s surface and the bookshelves every evening. The computer sits unused, the monitor black. Just for the hell of it, I turn it on and boot it up. Now that he’s gone, I’ll have IT disable the authorizations. Leo never used it, but he was given all the permissions on the off chance he ever wanted to work on a project.
The MMD welcome screen greets me, the cursor blinking in the password field. Thrumming my fingers on the outdated blotter, I search my brain for what my brother could have used. I try our mother’s name, but that isn’t successful. I type in our mother’s full name and an exclamation point, but that doesn’t yield results. I try his birthdate, mine, though I would have had a heart attack if that had worked. Jemma’s name, but surprisingly, that doesn’t let me in.
I may not be able to rifle through his computer after all.
As a last resort, I try Password_1234!, the generic password that would have been assigned to his computer, and scoff as the screen fades to Leo’s desktop. His email icon indicates he has over five thousand unread messages. I open his inbox.
The most recent is a newsletter Jemma sent out about her gallery. I click on it, and it’s June’s monthly wrap-up. She explains the death of a beloved artist (she holds true to Leo’s secret, never revealing his name), and that she can no longer sell his work. She welcomes a new artist and writes a little about her. She also lets her subscribers know about the break-in, how almost everything in the gallery was destroyed but that it hadn’t stopped her from reopening as quickly as possible. At the end, she showcases several pieces of her own work that are for sale.
I close out of the message and scan the contents of Leo’s inbox. There’s a newsletter for every month since he met her last year, most unopened, of course. He’d know firsthand news about her gallery. I’m curious why he gave her his business email instead of his personal one, but maybe he hadn’t known her well enough to trust her yet. Jemma could have been anyone out to exploit him, but I doubt he needed long to realize she was the real thing. I knew it when I saw her at Leo’s wake, and I hadn’t even spoken to her.
There’s nothing more to see, though I’m not sure what I was looking for, and I move the cursor to close out of the emailapp when the (1) next to Drafts catches my eye. My curiosity is piqued, and I click on the saved draft.
The email opens, and the beginning starts,
Mick—
