Page 1 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

The sidewalk is packed with protesters as the car pulls up to the curb in front of Milano Management and Development.

I chuckle as the chants penetrate the town car.

“Don’t let them win! It’s a sin! Don’t let them win!

It’s a sin!” They tote signs, waving them high in the air, exclaiming the Milanos are monsters, poor people are people too, and #poorpeoplematter.

My driver meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sir?”

“It’s fine, Duncan.” I tilt my head toward the two burly bodyguards striding through the crowd. One opens the door for me, and I climb out, clutching my briefcase. The chanting’s louder without the barrier, and it turns into a full-on explosion when they see me exit the car.

“Asshole!” “Greedy son of a bitch!” “Motherfucker!”

I’ve heard it all before and the insults ping off me like arrows against a suit of body armor.

My security helps me fight through the crowd, but they can’t stop a thin, blonde woman from getting close enough to spit on me.

Wiping my cheek, I meet her tired blue eyes, frustration and stress digging lines into her skin.

I turn away.

“Dominic Milano! You’ll get what’s coming to you!

” a young man screams. He’s standing on the base of a bronze statue of my grandfather, Angelo Milano, founder of Milano Management and Development, philanthropist, and one of the most innovative minds to settle in Minnesota as an Italian immigrant a hundred years ago.

The crowd hears him over the roar and cheers in agreement.

My bodyguards hustle me into the building where I bypass the metal detectors.

One older gentleman wearing the regulation blue and black uniform, his gold nametag shining in the fluorescent lights, won’t meet my eyes.

I know what all the security guards think of me, but no one dares say it aloud.

I sign their fucking paychecks, and they know it too.

Employees who work in the building either greet me, smiling, because I’m making them rich, or they turn away because they don’t agree with my business philosophy.

The guards walk me through the busy lobby to the elevator bank and step back when I enter an empty lift to go up to the eightieth floor.

They’ll remain in the lobby until I need another escort to my car.

I deeply inhale and run my fingers through my hair, brushing the stray strands out of my eyes.

I’ve never let anyone get to me before, and I’m not going to start now.

The sale of St. Charlotte’s 1100 block near the St. Charlotte River will go through.

I won’t stop until it’s done. I want those buildings.

I want that land. I take whatever I want.

I always have, and I always will. A bunch of angry protesters aren’t going to stand in my way.

The ride to the executive floor allows me a moment to find my bearings and I skim through my day’s schedule.

Lunch with St. Charlotte’s mayor is the top priority.

He’s hesitant to endorse the sale and approve zoning.

His term is up next year and he’s reluctant to anger voters.

I’ll need to schmooze him more than I have others and help him understand it won’t matter if he doesn’t win another term, supporting me will be worth it in other ways.

He’d be a fool not to believe me, and a stupid fool at that, to think he can cross me and get away with it.

If he thinks he can go up against me, I’ll buy the block anyway, back his opponent, and ensure he never holds another political position again. It doesn’t matter to me.

The elevator doors open, and I meet the receptionist’s eyes through the bulletproof glass.

She buzzes me in. No one is allowed past the security doors without approval.

Five years ago we had an incident that resulted in the serious injury of one of our secretaries.

A disgruntled gentleman who had lost his company in an acquisitions deal decided to take his anger out on us and shot up our office.

Luckily, he chose to do so during the lunch hour on a Friday afternoon and no one but an administrative assistant who had eaten at her desk was in the office.

If he’d chosen a Monday morning at nine, the outcome would have been very different.

Nevertheless, it was a wake-up call that, indeed, the Milano family had reached a new level of dislike, to put it mildly.

We don’t often fuck up, but when we do, we learn from it and the incident has never been repeated.

The receptionist nods as I walk by, speaking into her headset and routing calls with quiet efficiency.

Her appreciative glance bounces off me. I’m well aware my looks garner attention, but only the bravest, or dumbest, women dare approach me.

I haven’t met a woman yet who was worthy of my time outside a bedroom.

My father taught me that’s all women are worth, and his relationship with my mother is no exception.

He’s standing in my office waiting for me, sipping a cup of coffee and looking out the window over the city and the St. Charlotte River that winds its way through the central part of Minnesota.

When I was a boy, I asked him why we didn’t move our offices to New York, or at the very least, Chicago or Los Angeles, and he told me in a controlled tone that has made grown men drop to their knees at his feet that St. Charlotte will always be home.

This city was where our ancestors settled when they immigrated from Italy and this is where we’ll stay. I never asked again.

I pour a cup of coffee from the service near my desk and regard him as he watches the sun sparkle on the river’s surface.

There’s something different about him today and that is never a good thing.

His temper, his drive, the absolute power that always radiates off him.

..there’s a chink in his demeanor and apprehension swirls around my gut.

Nothing, and I mean nothing , upsets my father.

Not a mistress threatening to go to the press, not his wife’s infidelities, not even losing a deal.

Mistresses can be silenced, he doesn’t love my mother, and revenge can always be had.

No, my father has never known disappointment, and his silence puts me on guard.

Something happened.

“When was the last time you heard from your brother?” he asks, not meeting my eyes.

I have to think. I haven’t spoken with Leo for a few days.

He doesn’t work for the family business, my father calling him a simpleton who can’t get the job done.

My brother isn’t stupid, he just doesn’t care.

No, I take that back. He cares a great deal, but about things that have nothing to do with property development.

His office sits empty, and his desk would be covered in dust if it wasn’t for the cleaning crew that comes in every evening.

“A couple of days ago. I asked him if he was going to the homeless benefit at the end of the month, and he mentioned bringing a date.”

The benefit is a half-assed attempt to appease some of the more vocal organizations who are opposed to the sale of the 1100 block.

We’re donating over a million dollars to the homeless and I plan to be there in all my hated glory.

Leo’s attendance will soften some of the animosity toward our family, and his date will mean more than mine.

I didn’t know he was seeing someone.

“Do you know where he was last night?”

“No. Why?” I don’t like the way unease prickles my skin or the way my rich roast coffee has turned to dirt on my tongue. “What’s happened?”

“Leo was involved in a single-car accident on Highway 75. He’s dead.”

Carefully, I set my coffee on my desk before I drop the mug and splatter the contents over my slacks and shoes.

A buzzing fills my ears, and it won’t stop.

Leo, my little brother. We haven’t been close, Leo and me.

I’m too much like our father for us to get along.

He never cared about the company, never cared about adding to the billions already padding our bank accounts.

Never cared about doing any kind of work in his office. I never understood him, but I love him.

Loved him.

“There has to be some kind of mistake.” My voice sounds hoarse.

My father, the great Raphael Milano, turns toward me, finally, his eyes dry, painfully stoic. “There’s no mistake. I went to the hospital this morning and identified his body. Your mother, she’s not doing well. She’s at the penthouse, sedated. He was her baby, and this won’t be easy on her.”

I ignore the jab. Cruelly, from the moment he was born, our mother favored Leo over me, and I never let it bother me. I take after my father’s side of the family. I’m proud of that and use it to my advantage. “What happened? You said a single-car accident.”

“He ran into a tree. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and went through the windshield. A commuter driving into the city from Hollow Lake called it in early this morning.”

I join my father at the window and look over the city of St. Charlotte. My nanny would bring me here during my father’s lunch hour and he’d pick me up, point, and say everything I could see was ours. We own half the city, and one day, after he passes on, it will belong to me. Me and Leo.

“Why was he on Highway 75?”

My father’s eyes harden. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been working on the purchase of the 1100 block.”

He nods, and for once in my life, he looks older than his years. His black eyes don’t hold the energy they once did, his greying hair is thinning, and the paunch from indulging in pasta, wine, cigars, and women is more pronounced. My mother isn’t the only one who’s suffering.

“When is the funeral?” The wake and funeral will be a long, drawn-out affair and will cause a media spectacle.

My father shakes his head. “They won’t release his body. A detective from the SCPD contacted me.”

“Why?”

“The insurance company is investigating. They want to confirm it was an...accident.”

He looks away and stares through the glass, squinting into the summer sun. He doesn’t want to say the word, and I don’t want to hear it. Leo’s been okay. I have to believe that. He was talking about inviting a date to the fundraising gala. He was seeing someone. That’s a good thing.

“Let it go and force them to release his body. We have a right to say goodbye. We don’t need the money.”

“We don’t, no, but I don’t want his reputation smeared by the press saying he was weak. If even a hint of this leaks, we’ll never be able to live it down.”

I don’t say anything. My brother’s death can be a liability or an advantage.

My father wants to turn it into an advantage, spin his death so our family appears softer, more approachable.

We’ve had issues in the past looking too cutthroat, but the purchase of the 1100 block isn’t going to help, even if PR can twist my brother’s death.

He slaps my back. “I’m going to check on your mother. She’s as sensitive as Leo is.” He clears his throat. “Was.”

Silently, he leaves my office, not looking back.

I sink into my chair and pick up my lukewarm coffee. My PA settles behind her desk, and I lower the shades, blocking her from view and giving me much-needed privacy.

My brother is dead. He’ll never come into the office to badger me about working too hard. We’ll never go out clubbing like we used to years ago, finessing our way into any skirt that would have us—and most would. I’ll never sit next to him at a family brunch ever again.

My baby brother.

The better one between us.

He inherited my mother’s soft.

I inherited my father’s hard.

I’m jagged glass and splinters of ice.

He was cotton candy and rays of sunshine.

I stare into space waiting for a phone call saying it was all a mistake.

The call never comes.