Page 48 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

I’m not going to try anymore.

Plenty of women want me just as I am. They don’t give a shit what I do with my business, they just want me to fuck them hard and spend money on them.

Love doesn’t have anything to do with it.

It turns people soft and weak, like my mother when she could have been happy spending my father’s money.

Leo’s apartment no longer gives me peace. It’s a reminder that I’m not my brother. What was he doing with Jemma? Why didn’t he want her for his own? I want to pull my hair out or slam my head against the wall. Punch something until my knuckles are bloody.

They were perfect for each other, yet Jemma says she loves me.

I don’t understand and I’m never going to be able to. I don’t know what she wants, and how can I give it to her if I don’t know?

My cell phone rings, and I grab it eagerly, thankful for the distraction. The number’s unfamiliar. “Milano.”

“This is Detective Solomon with the SCPD.”

“Do you have news on who set my truck on fire?”

“Yes. Two beat cops chased down a couple of punks running away from the scene. They reeked of gasoline and we found a jug tossed in a dumpster in an alley a few blocks away. We have them in custody, and we’re trying to pull prints off the jug.

We found a burner phone on one of them that matches the number that called in the fake bomb threat. ”

“Good. Are they the ones who broke into Miss Ferrell’s gallery in Hollow Lake?”

“Possibly, but we haven’t questioned them yet. They’re stewing in an interrogation room. We want a crack at them before they lawyer up and thought you’d want to be there.”

I keep my voice steady. “I would appreciate that.”

“We’re at the ninth precinct on—”

“I know where it is, thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I shouldn’t, but I waste a few moments washing my face and changing into a fresh suit.

It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet.

I don’t know where Jemma planned to go after she left here, but once I know the assholes who threatened her are off the streets, I’ll call back my men and she can live the rest of her life without me in it.

I’ll have Anderson tell her. I don’t have the heart to talk to her.

Duncan drives me to the precinct and drops me off in front of the building. There’s no parking on the street and I dismiss him. If I’m not safe in a police station, I deserve to be dead.

I check in at the desk, and a woman wearing a black skirt and white blouse places a call.

A few moments later, an officer gestures to me across the bullpen.

We weave around desks, cops doing paperwork or talking on cell phones while they scribble notes.

I get several looks, not all of them pleasant.

In all the hassle, I forgot no one knows about my plans for the homeless shelter or the 1100 block but me.

Without Jemma to appease, I can do what I want with the property, but the victory leaves me hollow. I’m not a liar. I’ll still do what she wants me to do.

And face my father’s scorn for it.

“Detective Solomon,” an older man says, sticking his hand out as I approach a narrow hallway behind an interrogation room.

I grasp it, more interested in putting these two scumbags behind bars than meeting the detective who’s doing it.

A large window gives me a view of the room, and a kid, well, mid-twenties if I had to guess, sits sullen, staring at the scarred table. “Where’s the other one? You said two?”

“He’s that way,” Solomon says, jutting his chin. “We split them up, see who rats out whom first. Situations like this, they always cave hoping for a deal. Let’s get this party started.”

I lean against the window as Solomon enters the interrogation room. A cop in uniform follows him inside and stands at attention in the corner. The punk briefly meets Solomon’s eyes before returning his glare to the tabletop.

“If you work with me, it’ll be better for you,” Solomon starts, adjusting in the cheap metal chair and flipping a file open. “What’s your name, for the record?”

“William Kidder, people call me Billy.” He smirks. “Billy the Kid, get it?”

Solomon scoffs. “How old are you, Billy?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“What’s your address, for the record?”

“1100 Jackson Boulevard, apartment 215.”

“Still live with your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a job?”

“Nope.”

I lose some of the answers, my mind still snagged on his address. He lives on the 1100 block.

“We found a burner phone on your friend, Matthew Young. That’s his name? It matches the number used to call in a bomb threat to Milano Management and Development. You do that? You got a vendetta against the Milanos?”

Sullenly, Billy shrugs.

Solomon turns a piece of paper over, but I don’t know if it’s for show or if he’s scanning the information printed there, looking for leads to ask other questions.

“What about Miss Jemma Ferrell’s gallery, out in Hollow Lake? She described a car that looks similar to one parked in the lot of your building. Plates don’t match the registration, but that’s not a surprise, is it? You two were out there?”

“We only wanted to scare her a little. So she’d tell Milano and he’d back off. Must not care about her that much,” he mutters.

I want to barge in there and show him exactly how much I care about her.

“Back off?” Solomon’s voice holds sincere confusion. “Back off what? You mean you were protesting the sale of your building.”

Billy snaps his head up. “Fuck, yeah, we were. Matt lives down the hall with his grandparents. They ain’t got nowhere to go after that bastard kicks them out.

Us, my parents barely make ends meet. My ma’s got a bad back and gets disability checks.

My pop does what he can, working odd jobs, but he’s got his face in a bottle most of the time.

We need that low rent. Pitts was a fucking asshole and never fixed anything, but living in a slum is better than nothing. ”

Solomon doesn’t point out what I’m thinking: his parents wouldn’t have such a difficult time paying their bills if their son found a job rather than terrorizing people and getting sent to jail for the effort. I do agree with one thing the kid said. Pitts is a fucking asshole.

“Walk me through what happened,” Solomon says, tipping his head toward the bullpen and to what I assume is the street outside.

He leans back in his chair and hikes an ankle up to his knee, casual, and starts tapping his pen on the table.

“How’d you get a bright idea like that? Pretty ballsy if you ask me. ”

I’m surprised he’s bothering to push the kid further. Any second now he’s going to realize he doesn’t have to talk and lawyer up.

“What are you talking about? We didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do anything? You stink like gasoline, so there’s no way in hell you can tell me the explosion wasn’t you.

Miss Ferrell’s gallery. The bomb threat.

What else? I assume there’s more? You weren’t the ones who shot at Mr. Milano, were you?

Got a gun we’d find if we searched your apartment?

” I can’t see Solomon’s face, but I can picture him lifting an eyebrow.

Narrowing his eyes, Billy says, “You don’t fucking know nothing.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Keep it to yourself, don’t say anything.

That’s your prerogative. But listen, you don’t think little Matty isn’t in the other room selling you down the river right now?

Work with me, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the DA’s office.

Get you a plea bargain. I’ll tell them you cooperated, yeah? ”

“He’d never do that. He’s not a rat.”

“We’re all rats when we’re hungry enough,” Solomon says, putting his foot on the floor and leaning forward in the chair like he’s about to stand up. “Let’s see how hungry Matty is, shall we? Maybe he wants a bigger dinner than you.”

Billy hesitates, trying to decide if he can trust his friend. I could tell him from experience not to trust anyone. I never did. Until I met Jemma. “Wait! I’ll talk, but I want that deal,” he says, and I scoff. Good boy.

“That’s what I thought. Spill it.”

“We were just chasing him a little, flicking our lights—”

I straighten. He’s not going to admit to shooting at me.

Solomon’s shoulders stiffen in surprise.

“—that asshole’s Aston Martin, that thing could put food on our table for years, pay our rent for fucking who knows how long.

We only wanted to scare him, you know? Entitled prick.

We barely touched his bumper, but he slammed on the brakes and skidded off the road.

His car bashed into a tree and like fuck we were gonna hang around. ”

I press my palms against the glass, my nose touching the cool surface, my heavy breath leaving a mist.

“Then what?” Solomon’s voice is low and I barely hear him through the speaker.

“Then nothing, man. We got the fuck out of there. Found some plates in the city junkyard just to be on the safe side. We didn’t fucking know it wasn’t Dominic Milano until later.” Tears shine in Billy’s eyes and his voice squeaks. “They have the same car.”

Solomon looks over his shoulder at me, turns back to Billy, and shakes his head. He gathers the papers and closes the file.

Billy rests his forehead on his hands, his body shaking, the table muffling his sobs. So tough until someone gets hurt, so tough until someone gets killed and they have to pay for what they’ve done.

Solomon opens the interrogation room’s door, and I hear Billy’s shouts in stereo—through the speakers and his voice carrying down the hall. “Matt was driving, man! Matt was driving.”

The detective meets me in the narrow hallway.

“We thought it was a deer,” I mumble, unable to tear my gaze away from the punk who killed my brother.

“Guilt ate at him, seems like,” Solomon says. “He wanted to confess. We’ll get the rest out of his buddy. There’s no doubt they shot at you and probably a few other things we may or may not find out. Regardless, they’ll go away for a long time.”