Page 37 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

The bomb squad gives the all clear at noon, and I’m in my office by twelve-thirty, running on fury and caffeine.

Duncan strides in moments after me.

“What did you find out?”

He slides a folder across my desk, but I don’t open it.

“We traced the number to a burner phone bought at the Quik Mart on Highway 75 outside of Hollow Lake, two weeks ago. They paid cash.”

I sigh. “Time of purchase? Do they have a security camera?”

“They have cameras on site, but they aren’t functional. Only for show. The clerk doesn’t remember much. Two punks, dressed in black, ball caps low on their heads. She didn’t pay attention. They scared her, and she only wanted them to leave.”

“Great. Anything else?”

“Not at this time.”

That’s not acceptable. “They destroyed Miss Ferrell’s art gallery and roughed her up. I want them hung for that, Duncan.” I control the quiet rage. I want to pay them back for what they did to Jemma and there won’t be anything left for the police to lock up when I’m done.

“Yes, sir. Is that all?”

“I’m not going to tell her this is connected to me. Not until I have to. I’ve contacted the Hollow Lake PD and they’re going to do the best they can without scaring her.”

That one cop, I don’t remember his name, he’ll do more than keep an eye on her. I saw the way he kept touching her while they spoke in the back of the ambulance. He wants her, and I have to be thankful for it. For now.

Duncan nods. “I’ll check in when I know more.”

I’d been prepared to bargain with Jemma all night if that’s what it took to convince her to give me a little time, a little space, until the sale of the 1100 block blows over.

She was so sure I didn’t want her, and when that asshole threatened to do more than destroy her gallery, I had to leave.

I couldn’t risk them hurting her, or worse, because she’s associated with me.

I fed right into what she expected, but I had no choice. Not if I want to keep her safe.

The way she let me make love to her last night, without protection.

Christ, how could she not know I love her?

She couldn’t feel it in my touch? The way I had to run my hands over every inch of her skin all at once, my cock buried so deep inside her I couldn’t claim another millimeter, but it wasn’t enough.

I told her I love her, but she didn’t believe me.

I believed her, when she said it to me.

The words sit heavy in my heart. I can’t do anything with them.

That night, functioning on no sleep, I drive out to Jemma’s.

I shouldn’t be behind the wheel when I’m so tired, but I want to see her.

I need to see that she’s okay. I drive the town car Duncan uses to pick me up for work, hoping no one will suspect I’d drive myself anywhere with what’s going on in the city.

It’s not smart, but I’ll risk it. Police officers are constantly parked in front of Milano Management and Development keeping protesters from damaging the building.

Wilkins has been scarce since his press conference, putting out his own fires.

Pitts was smart to get out of town, whether because of me or fear of retaliation.

No one is happy about the sale.

Jemma included.

Billionaire Bastard. That was the headline the paper ran with after the news of the sale broke. Is that what she thinks of me?

I park down the road from her gallery, the car’s wheels in the grass.

It’s dark, and from the outside it looks like nothing happened.

On the drive out, I called the gallery’s landline, and in the voicemail greeting, Jemma’s softly explained the vandalism and promised the gallery would be open tomorrow.

She worked hard if she can reopen in the morning.

I hope she had help. I don’t like the thought of her doing anything alone.

I lean against a tree in her front yard, and through the large picture window in her living room, I watch her move back and forth by the kitchen stove’s light.

She’s wearing a nightgown, and the hem drifts around the middle of her thighs.

Her shoulders slump, giving off the impression she’s sad and tired.

Maybe she can’t sleep. If I went inside and held her, could she fall asleep then?

I’ve never felt this way about a woman, and I don’t know why Jemma’s so special. The quiet way about her, maybe, or the pleasure she finds in small things. She wouldn’t care about a diamond ring, but she’d treasure a quiet evening at home with me.

Home.

That’s a concept I haven’t thought of in a while. The penthouse where I grew up wasn’t home. Maybe it was to Leo, but I’ve never felt welcome there. The penthouse I purchased when I moved out on my own never felt like home. It was a place to stay, a place to sleep, when I wasn’t working.

I haven’t spent enough time at Jemma’s cottage for it to feel like it’s home. The closest to home I’ve ever gotten was when she told me she’d never leave me.

She was right, too. I was the one who left.

When she disappears from my sight for the last time, presumably going to bed, I trudge toward the road.

“Put your hands where I can see them.”

I pause and do what he says, raising my hands and showing him my empty palms. A man wearing jeans and a t-shirt steps out of the gallery’s shadows, his hand resting on his weapon.

“What’s your name and what are you doing out here?”

It’s the cop who spoke with Jemma while the medic bandaged her hands, though tonight it looks like he’s off duty.

I can’t be angry he’s checking on her. It’s what I wanted when I called the HLPD.

It should be a relief they’re doing what they said they would, and this guy’s doing it on his own time, but his possessive air grates on my nerves. He doesn’t belong here. I do.

“Dominic Milano. I was making sure Jemma’s okay.”

“She’s fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve driven by here tonight.”

“I’m grateful.”

“I’m not doing it for you, Mr. Milano.” He steps closer, pretending to be nonchalant, but his muscles are tense and anger radiates off him.

Not much, just enough to let me know he doesn’t like me here.

“Jemma’s never been a target. Her gallery, and when it belonged to her grandmother, has never been hit like it was last night and that’s your fault.

You start hanging around and look what happens. You’re lucky she wasn’t hurt.”

“I am.”

“Don’t come out here again. There’s nothing for you here. Keep your filthy business in the city and we’ll all be a lot happier.”

I have to swallow down a lot of pride to say, “Thank you for keeping her safe.”

“I don’t need your thanks for doing my job. Get out of here or I’ll cite you for trespassing. I know that’s small potatoes compared to what you’ve got going on, but I’d feel damned good about it.”

He stares me down, and having nothing else to offer besides guilt and apologies, I walk to my car. His gaze doesn’t waver as I climb in and start the engine. When he knows I’m going to leave without causing trouble, he heads toward Jemma’s cottage.

Will she let him in? Will she let him take her to bed?

Slowly, I drive off the narrow shoulder and into the empty road. In the dark, I can’t see his figure in her yard. I don’t stop to search, and I keep going, rock crunching under my tires.

I drive into the city, my window open, the cool evening air keeping me awake.

I’ll never see Jemma again. Not as a friend, or a lover, or a wife.

I smile a little at that. She’d proposed and hadn’t even realized it.

The violence won’t end, or if it fades for a few months, it will start again once the eviction notices are issued.

Then again when we raze the building. Then again when construction on the new building starts.

The protests won’t stop until the luxury high-rise is completed.

When they finally realize there’s nothing more they can do.

By then Jemma will have moved on, maybe with her cop, and she won’t remember my name.

It shouldn’t matter. I can have any woman in the city I want.

It shouldn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does, with my whole heart, it does.

The highway is empty this time of night, and near the tree that took Leo’s life, I slow to a stop. I won’t be driving out here again, and I want to stay for a moment and pay my last respects to a brother I barely knew.

The skid marks are fading but are still visible on the road, and maybe they will be for a long time. How did Leo feel, slamming on the brakes, his car out of control? What were his last thoughts before everything went dark? The deer? Jemma? Our mother?

I get out, the evening air cool, but damp. A storm is coming.

The tree Leo crashed into is strong and still stands straight and tall, but his bumper damaged its trunk. I kneel on the grass and rub my hand along the chinks in the bark.

He drove out several times a week. To paint, to spend time with a woman who would understand that deep, sensitive, melancholy side of him.

I can’t picture him holding a paintbrush in his hand or standing in front of an easel, yet he did, and took pride in his work, selling his paintings and sharing his talent. He never told me he painted, likely never told our mother, either, keeping that side of himself tucked away.

Leo and Jemma were a perfect match, but he didn’t sleep with her, didn’t ask her to be his wife. Jemma herself has no answers, only grateful for the time and the gift of friendship he gave her.

From what I could tell, he was an extraordinary artist, much like Jemma.

He could have had it all, yet he didn’t take it.

I’m angry Leo wanted me to be different.

How easy it would have been for him to assume I could change when he already had everything I wanted, never having to do anything to earn it.

Our mother’s love, a woman like Jemma who didn’t care about the fortune behind his name.

How easy it was for him to think so little of me when all I’ve done is work to try to fill in the hole left from what I’ve had to go without.

My cheeks are wet and I blame the mist in the air.

Using the tree’s trunk for support, I heave to my feet and dust the dirt and grass off my pants.

Leo’s dead and I’ll never have to put up with his judgment again.

After Jemma sends them to me, I’ll give my mother Leo’s paintings and tell her goodbye. There’s no sense in begging for love that is never going to come. I’ve hoped for thirty-nine years that one day she would love me and I need to finally accept the fact she never will.

Jemma is out of my life. I have more in common with a whore standing on a corner in Oakdale Square than I do with the small-town artist who feeds French fries to crows.

The only things I can count on are work and the conditions of my father’s love and approval. Rather than disappointing me, those constants should anchor me. I know what to expect and how to succeed.

I drive into the city and sleep in my penthouse. There will be no more using Leo’s apartment as a hideaway. I’ll enter Milano Management and Development through the front doors. No one can hurt me.

No one can hurt a man who doesn’t have a heart and soul. That’s what everyone thinks I am.

So that’s what I’ll be.