Page 18 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

No one has fallen asleep on me before. Not unless you count the old lady’s dog who lived on the fifth floor of our building while I was growing up.

I’d visit her constantly, never thinking I was bothering her, but she never said I was.

I’d sit in her living room and pet her Bichon Frise until she’d fall asleep in my lap.

It struck me then, I guess when I was about eleven, maybe twelve, that it requires an enormous amount of trust to fall asleep around someone, to offer yourself in your most vulnerable state.

Jemma sleeping against my chest stopped my heart cold.

She doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what I’m capable of.

..or what I’m not. As she slept so soundly even Duncan hitting a deep pothole didn’t wake her, I could have caressed her breast, skimmed my fingers up her thigh, maybe touched her.

I could have masturbated to the scent of her skin or began to sexually assault her and by the time she woke up it would have been too late to stop me.

Jemma trusted me not to hurt her and the sheer incredulousness of it brought tears to my eyes.

I didn’t wake her like I told her I would. Duncan parked in front of her gallery and I gently lifted her out of the car and carried her to her cottage. She snuggled into my chest, tipping her head as if asking me to kiss her. Which I did not.

She left her cottage door unlocked, and I didn’t need any amount of effort to hold her, turn the doorknob, and push the door open at the same time. She weighed almost nothing in my arms.

I laid her down on her bed, the comforter smoothed, the pillows plumped, and giving in, I dropped to my haunches and brushed a stray piece of hair away from her face.

I’d planned for some sort of goodbye. She’d followed through on her promise to attend the fundraiser and speak to my mother, and this was to be the end.

She’d been Leo’s friend, not mine, and she’d made her dislike of me obvious from the start.

“I wish we could have met under different circumstances,” I whispered, but that wouldn’t have made any difference.

There were no other circumstances where we could have been more.

Had I passed her on the sidewalk, she would have been nothing but a faceless body in the crowd.

I’ve lived to do one thing and one thing only: gain my father’s approval no matter the cost. With the purchase of the 1100 block, it’s finally within my reach.

She didn’t stir, and I pressed a kiss to her forehead. I lingered, hoping she’d rouse herself awake enough to say goodbye, or to ask me to stay like she always did Leo, but the pressure of my lips only made her inhale a jagged breath and she rolled onto her side.

Jemma trusted me to get her home safely, and I had.

I needed to go.

On the way into the city, I checked email and planned to lean on the mayor.

Our meeting on the bridge made front page news and it wouldn’t be long before he gave me his endorsement in the guise of city betterment.

There’s truth to that, as well, and once construction is underway, the censure the city’s residents will give him will fade.

He’ll have lost the next election in that time, but no one has ever been able to have their cake and eat it too.

Not even me.

I didn’t sleep well last night, and now I stand in my office and look with blurry eyes over the city that belongs to me.

No one is here. No one comes in on a Saturday but me as I have nothing else to do.

How does Jemma spend her Saturday mornings?

Sleeping in? Leisurely coffee and danish on her porch as the sun comes up?

Weekends are busy in retail. I bet she spends all her time at the gallery helping customers who vacation at their lake homes or drive out to Hollow Lake to escape the city’s heat.

What would she do if I drove out there and stopped by?

She wouldn’t be glad to see me.

Sitting at my desk, I rub my face. I miss Leo. He would have spent the weekend at her cottage and been welcome there.

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 I want to 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 my brother 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.

People scream, their cries full of agony and fear, and more gunshot blasts echo off the buildings surrounding us.

A horrible howling rises above the noise and someone yells, “Call an ambulance!”