Page 7 of Loss and Damages

But that doesn’t mean I can’t drive out to Hollow Lake and offer my condolences without Father Dan breathing down our necks.

It would be interesting to hear how they met.

A small-town woman who owns an art gallery is far from the kind of woman my brother has favored in the past, but perhaps they met at a showing here in the city and he took a liking to her.

I can see why he would. She’s not...complicated.

Not high maintenance. I wonder what they talked about.

The price of apples at the farmer’s market?

I smirk. I doubt my brother spoke to her at all. He was too busy filling his hands with her glorious tits.

I could meet this Jemma Ferrell and say I’m sorry for her loss. I can’t be selfish. I’m not the only one missing Leo.

It wouldn’t hurt, either, to ask if she’s pregnant. I can throw some money at her to shut her up and it will be one less thing we have to worry about.

The gallery’s hours are listed inside the brochure, and it’s open from twelve to five on Sundays.

I could drive out now, handle it, and tomorrow morning move ahead with the 1100 block purchase.

I can check out the other side of the river like I threatened and leak it to the press ensuring Mayor Wilkins and Pitts hear about it.

If they think they can push me into a corner, they can think again.

The 1100 block will be a feather in my cap, and trust me, I will get my hands on it, but the road to success isn’t always a straight line and I’m willing to turn a few corners if it will get me what I want.

Sitting at Leo’s desk, I sip more coffee, Jemma Ferrell smiling up at me.

Thinking of Father Dan, I shoot off a small prayer to God asking for forgiveness and to keep my brother safe and do a quick and clumsy sign of the cross.

What would Leo think of me meeting Jemma?

He didn’t introduce me to her, didn’t mention her at all.

Kept her a secret, unless this woman was going to be his date at the benefit.

I bet all my money that if he were still alive, he’d never want me to meet her.

He was ashamed of his family and he’d want to keep her as far away from me and our father as he possibly could.

Don’t worry, little brother, I’m not going to hurt her. You loved her and that’s enough that I’ll see she has what she needs and nothing more.

I finish my coffee, wash my mug, and rinse out the carafe.

I didn’t intend to come back, but the quiet lets me think without interruption.

We own this building and nothing in Leo’s apartment will be disturbed if we don’t want it to be.

Mother won’t be in a hurry to clean out his things, and that may fall to me.

I can’t picture her being strong enough to attempt such a task.

Her favorite son, the boy she loved more than anything in the world, is gone.

Wearing one of Leo’s sweatshirts, I shove my feet into a pair of his shoes.

Not one piece of my suit is salvageable, and the thought of burning it grows stronger and stronger.

I don’t need a physical reminder of yesterday.

I’ll never forget it. If I’m going to spend time here away from the reporters and protesters who are trying, but not quite succeeding, to turn my life into a living hell, I’ll need to send for some clothes.

Of course, I could move into any property anywhere in St. Charlotte.

We own more than half the city, but given that Leo’s and my poor relationship is public knowledge, me using his apartment will be the last thought on anyone’s mind and it will be the perfect hideout.

In the underground parking garage, the space where Leo parked his Aston Martin is empty and I look away. The car was a total loss, and I’ll never be able to drive mine without thinking about him.

I choose a plain black SUV that has tinted windows.

Not as inconspicuous as I’d like, but Leo liked to collect cars and nothing he owned is low-key.

I should catch a cab, but there’s no way in hell I could stand on the sidewalk and hail a taxi without a dozen pairs of eyes on me wondering what the fuck Dominic Milano is doing riding public transportation, and in sweatpants, no less.

I don’t need long to drive across the city to my penthouse and change into one of the variations of the black suit I always wear, and in under an hour, I’m on the highway heading south toward Hollow Lake.

The day is beautiful, if I’ve ever allowed myself to notice such things. I’m not one for smelling the roses.

When I drive by the tree that took my brother’s life, I pretend I don’t see it, pretend I don’t notice the skid marks that haven’t faded from the road.

I drive the speed limit and keep an eye out for deer.

Hollow Lake, population 2,691, is a tiny town near a lake of the same name.

It’s pretty. One might even call it idyllic.

I plug the address of Miss Ferrell’s gallery into my phone and the flat voice directs me to a house near the lakeshore, boasting a large porch that has two rockers positioned off to the side inviting a guest to sit down and gaze across the water.

I stop on the narrow shoulder. It annoys me there isn’t a parking lot, but there’s no room, not unless she wants to pour concrete over a couple hundred feet of grass, flowers, and trees, and I’m guessing she doesn’t or she would have.

The porch stairs groan as I mount them, and I pause to study a display of painted china showcased in a large picture window.

I push into the store and a little bell jingles above my head.

The gallery’s empty, and I look around, undisturbed.

Elegant paintings hang on the walls, everything from small portraits to enormous landscapes, several tables feature more painted china and sculptures, and a glass display glinting in the sun showcases numerous pieces of jewelry.

There’s a scent of something in the air, honey, if I had to guess, and maybe a touch of vanilla. To my surprise, I like it, and I breathe in deeply.

The floor is made of hardwood, and the floorboards creak as I step around the large showing room.

A corner table is decorated with a tea set, and little purple flowers are painted on the delicate teacups.

I don’t know what kind of flowers they are, if they exist in real life or only in the mind of the artist, but the daintiness intrigues me and I pick up a cup and matching saucer.

There’s service for eight, plus a teapot, and cream and sugar cups that also match.

It’s lovely and may brighten my mother’s spirits.

It’s something Leo would have bought her as a gift, but I don’t want to purchase it for that reason.

Well, not only for that reason.

A small, discrete price tag is attached to one of the teacups. The artist is selling the set for three thousand dollars. I don’t find it an absurd amount. I would have paid five. The time alone invested in each of these pieces is worth that.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

Her voice does funny things to my cock. I know it’s Jemma Ferrell before I turn my gaze away from the teacup, and it only took those two seconds for the words to leave her mouth for me to fantasize about fucking her.

Her lips to my ear, begging for more as I’m buried so deeply inside her I can’t think about the next deal.

That would be quite an accomplishment.

Keeping my head in bed.

Slowly, I take her in, savoring her in person. Her photo didn’t do her justice. Staring at her across the room at Leo’s wake wasn’t enough.

She’s six feet away, seven, when she sees who’s in her gallery and steps backward. “Mr. Milano,” she croaks.

“Jemma Ferrell. How long were you fucking my brother?”

Her hand flies to her throat, but damn if a little smile doesn’t touch her lips before she extinguishes it.

“We didn’t have a relationship like that. Is that, I mean, is there something I can help you with? Are you here to buy something?”

“I’ll purchase the tea set in exchange for some information.”

She rubs her palms against the skirt of her white sundress. “I don’t know what I could tell you that would be worth that.”

“Just what I asked. How long were you fucking my brother? Was he paying you? Are you pregnant?”

Her mouth drops open and her gorgeous blue eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. You may think the tea set is worth it, but I certainly do not. Good day, Mr. Milano.”

Despite her shocked tone, she doesn’t leave. She’s rooted to the floor because she doesn’t want to leave me alone in her gallery. She’s trapped and I intend to use it.

“Will you at least tell me what he was doing here? Your gallery’s brochures were in his apartment. It’s how I found you.” I soften my voice. “Thank you for attending his wake. Leo would have appreciated it.”

She hesitates, then says, “Hefound my gallery online. He...was looking for a gift.”

“What did he buy? If you don’t mind me asking.” I’m still holding the teacup and saucer and I place them gently on the table.

“Nothing. He ended up leaving empty-handed.”

“Not so empty-handed if he started dating you,” I say, studying her face for some kind of reaction. She’s scared, I tend to have that effect on people, but she’s telling the truth. He didn’t purchase anything the day he sought out her gallery.

“We weren’t dating.”

Again, not a lie, but words sound like the truth if the person saying them believes them.

“But he spent time here. Investedsomething here, or you wouldn’t have attended his wake.”

Jemma inhales and slightly relaxes her stance.

“Leo liked to sit outside with me, I live behind the gallery, and drink wine and talk about art. He said he didn’t have anyone else to do that with.

I don’t know much about ‘real’ art. Picasso, Van Gogh, whoever,” she says, waving a hand, “the kind you can afford to collect, but I know several of the local artists and we spent some pleasant evenings chatting. It’s all he wanted, someone to talk to. ”

I can easily imagine my brother sitting outside, drinking cheap wine out of a plastic tumbler and discussing the local artists, feeling like a part of Hollow Lake’s little community.

Just as easily, I can picture Jemma talking to him as if he was a real person and not Leonardo Milano, billionaire playboy.

This was an innocent friendship then. Nothing that I should be concerned about.

I nod and gesture to the tea set. “You kept your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine. Who is the artist who painted this?”

She clears her throat and steps forward. “Oh, that’s me. Are you sure you want it?”

Jemma painted the tea set? I want it all the more. “Yes. You should have put a higher price on it.”

Picking up two of the teacups and their saucers, she says, “We don’t get many billionaires in this area buying painted china. I’d rather price low and sell than price too high and not. I’m thrilled every time I wrap up a piece for a customer.”

“You have a head for business.” At a counter full of bubble wrap, tape, and an old cash register, I watch her carefully protect each piece in what seems like miles of plastic.

“I have to, or I wouldn’t sell anything. My livelihood is this gallery, and some of the other artists depend on their sales to end the month in the black.” She packs the teapot last and carefully stores everything in a sturdy cardboard box. “That’s 3,225 dollars with tax, please.”

I slide my credit card out of my wallet, and instead of using the old register, she offers me a white credit card device that looks out of place among the china and paintings. I shove my card into the slot and scrawl my signature on the small screen using my fingertip.

“Would you like a receipt? This will print one if you want a paper copy, or you can have one emailed to you.”

I put my card back into my wallet. “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

She could do a lot of things for me, but I won’t bother this little bird. This gallery and her house were Leo’s sanctuary, and I have no use for such things. I have business to conduct and women to fuck who know the score.

Jemma’s marriage and babies, and a good ten years younger than me.

“You’re not pregnant?” I ask to be sure. “I have no interest in battling for custody, so you can be honest. I would just want to help you, that’s all.”

To my surprise, tears fill her eyes, but she forces a smile.

“I miss your brother, Mr. Milano. Leo was intelligent, funny, and kind. Last summer he blasted Fleetwood Mac and helped me paint the gallery. When we were done, we were sweaty and hot, and he attacked me with the hose I use to water my plants. As the sun went down, we drank wine and ate angel food cake and he thanked me for giving him the best day of his life.” She touches her lips as if remembering a sweet, poignant kiss.

“He spent a lot of time here. If you dig into his life before he passed away, you’ll find that out, and there’s no reason to hide it.

I’m not pregnant. He said he wanted to fix the family he had before starting another.

If there’s nothing else, please excuse me.

I dislike crying in front of my customers. ”

She does leave me then, the box sitting on the counter, and disappears around the corner where she came.

There’s something almost raw about her story, earthy, maybe.

I can imagine Leo standing on a ladder painting a side of the gallery in long, broad strokes, and spraying its little owner until she was sopping wet.

They’d had the conversation, the baby talk, and I picture her lying in bed, talking about children, only Leo isn’t next to her, I am.

I pick up the box and leave the store, the little bell signaling my departure.

There’s no reason to come back, and after I set the box in the back of my truck, I lean against the door.

The gallery’s charming, like Jemma, and my brother’s heart and soul will live on in those walls as well as in her memories.

I want to hate her for having more of him than I ever did, but I can’t.

I loved him, and he found something he needed here.

I drive away feeling as hollow as the lake’s name implies.

I’m empty because once again, Leo had it all.