Page 224 of Damaged Mogul

“Supporting anything black-related is big on social media, so it makes us look good. Whatever makes us look good, makes us more money. More money, more power. Power is everything.”

My eyebrows hit my forehead. “Why not support a cause your dad believes in?”

“My dad believes in money. Native Americans, whites, blacks, Eskimos, Australian Aboriginals, indigenous people from the Amazon rainforest, purple people with yellow hair.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter as long as that means less money going into Uncle Sam’s pockets,” Giuseppe who would rather be called John says.

Alrighty then.

Gage comes to mind.

The way he helped that transition house was so selfless.

I’m sure he got a whopping tax adduction, but that wasn’t his motivation. His donation had significance. He wanted to do his mom proud.

“That’s why Dad is a hundred percent behind Chandler as the next mayor of New York City,” Giuseppe says. “It’s a great tax deduction that will help get the right man for the job in office.”

I didn’t expect this to be a working lunch.

Not that I had much of an appetite, but the little I had, disappears.

“This conversation is way above Lily’s pay grade,” mypuppet master says. “She doesn’t even need to work for a living, which is why she’s a half hour late.”

How condescending.

It’s one thing for him to put me down, but another to do it in front of a stranger.

My retort dies on my lips when there’s a knock at the door.

A waiter appears, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a silver bucket in the other.

“Mr. Edgington you’re in luck,” the waiter says, “I snatched the last bottle of chilled Krug Grande Cuvee Brut.”

He claps. “Excellent! This celebration calls for the best champagne.”

What are we celebrating?

My father checks his seventy-five-thousand-dollar Audemar Piguet watch before returning his attention to the waiter. “Give me twenty minutes or so before opening it. Please set it on the table.”

“I can come back,” the waiter says. “It’s best if this particular champagne is served cold.”

“If it isn’t too much to ask,” my father says.

The waiter smiles. “Not for one of our best customers.”

“Thank you.” My father swings his attention to the other man in the room. “Giuseppe, do you mind stepping out so I can talk to Lily? Go have a drink at the bar. I’ll get the maître d’ to summon you when we’re ready.”

“No problem, Fisher.” Giuseppe-slash-John reaches out and touches my arm.

I flinch at the contact.

Who the hell told him he could touch me?

“I’ll catch you later.” He winks and flashes me a seductive smile.

I hesitate. “Sure.”

Giuseppe-slash-John follows after the waiter, waving at me from over his shoulder.

What the hell?