Page 9 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

Something’s been bothering me since I spoke to Jemma in her little gallery. Like fuck if I knew what that something was until the next morning when I get up to work out before going to the office.

It was something she said when I asked if she was pregnant.

Leo didn’t want to start a new family before he fixed the one he had.

I didn’t catch it then, too dumbfounded to be talking with my dead brother’s girlfriend for much of anything to penetrate through my hangover fog, but she planted that seed and I can’t get it out of my head.

Is it my fault Leo didn’t marry, didn’t start a family? He’s younger than me, yes, but most men his age have married, if not started having children. I always thought he was single because he was too busy fucking around, but maybe that’s not the case.

Had I been paying attention, I could have asked her what she meant by that, what Leo had meant by that, but the story she told me crowded my brain and I’d soaked it up like a dried-out sponge thrust into a sink full of water.

Jemma spent the kind of time with him I never did—that our childhoods hadn’t allowed.

Leo and I didn’t have hobbies, didn’t play T-ball or peewee hockey.

We didn’t do art projects or attend music camp.

Dad started priming us to take over Milano Management and Development from the second he knew we were boys.

Had we been girls, we would have been our mother’s problem.

I haven’t seen her since the funeral.

Protesters outside our building exacerbate my bad mood but I fight through them, grounding out a “No comment” to the reporters lingering on the sidewalk hoping to film a bit of action.

I would have accused them of wanting to boost their station’s ratings, but the sale of the 1100 block has turned into more than just a human interest story.

I don’t care. The sale isn’t illegal, and I’m not technically doing anything wrong.

I may be accused of not having ethics, a moral compass, compassion for the underdog, but when has that ever stopped me from doing business? Never. And it’s not going to start now.

The mayor hasn’t contacted me, and I order my PA to get him on the phone. I don’t care if she’s on hold all day. Pitts is avoiding me too, no doubt looking for cues from Wilkins. I barely last the morning without losing my temper, swatting Jemma’s face out of my mind like an annoying bug.

The pull to drive out to Hollow Lake is strong, but I keep it at bay. There’s no reason to drive out there and talk to her. They weren’t married, she’s not pregnant, and Leo’s death severed any ties she had to my family.

She’s a nobody artist living in the sticks and she’s of no use to me.

To go through with my threat I made to the mayor, I use the afternoon to scout property on the other side of the river from the 1100 block.

The wind blows the stink of the dirty water through the air, but the sun warms my face and as long as they don’t shit on me, I don’t mind watching the seagulls fly around looking for bits and pieces to fill their bellies.

The buildings need repair, a nursing home that has seen better days, and if I recall, featured in the news for abusing their clientele.

A waste of space, really, when I could build chic restaurants and boutiques and turn the riverfront into upscale property.

I’m not sure why we haven’t already, except this side of the river is on the wrong side of the tracks and to entice anyone to spend time here, I’d need to clean up more than just the riverfront.

A restaurant would have no patrons if there was a chance of getting mugged while they waited for the valet to bring their cars around from the parking lot.

I stare beyond the nursing home to a dilapidated residential neighborhood that desperately needs attention.

St. Charlotte claims its impoverished neighborhoods, just like any other city in the United States.

Mayor Wilkins’s campaign platform had promised economic growth, more jobs, and a plan to pretty up the poorer sections of the city. Promises he has not kept.

At least I can say my projects will create jobs.

We’ve always paid fairly, well above minimum wage, and offer a benefits package any employer would be proud of.

It’s not that we do that out of the kindness of our hearts.

You get what you pay for, and we expect to hire the best because the companies we own are the best.

I may need to schedule an interview with the paper, or a popular online e-zine, and remind people of that little fact before the judgmental press gets too carried away and there’s no controlling it.

And they call me a bloodsucker.

I sit on a rickety bench that’s going to snag my suit and watch a barge float along the murky water. What does Jemma think of what she’s heard in the news? What did Leo tell her about the family business?

It doesn’t matter. Leo’s disapproval didn’t mean that much to me, not enough to stop doing what I’m doing in a pathetic attempt to earn Dad’s approval.

I while away the afternoon, walking up and down the cracked sidewalk, finding a meagre amount of enjoyment free of the confines of my office.

I could do a lot with this side of the river, and on my phone, I email my PA and ask her to find out who owns what, put it in a report, and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning.

A ferry could be available to people who want to go across and sample the stores, boutiques, cafés, and restaurants.

The river between the properties wouldn’t be a barrier except for the two or three months in the wintertime when no one would venture into the sub-zero temperatures.

It would be a multimillion-dollar project, but as I told Mayor Wilkins, he needs to look beyond the 1100 block and what we could do for St. Charlotte as a whole.

Shortsighted. That’s what they are. Wilkins and Pitts both.

Can’t see the forest because they’re too busy looking at one tree.

Duncan is waiting patiently, leaning against the car smoking, his legs crossed at the ankles staring into the distance, and I tell him I want to go to my parents’ penthouse. Dad will still be at work, but my mother will be there.

We’re ahead of rush hour traffic, and in less than half an hour he parks in front of the building.

He pops the trunk and retrieves the box Jemma packed the tea set in, and a faint hint of honey and vanilla wafting from the cardboard catches my nose.

I’m transported to her shop, standing near her as she bubble-wrapped each piece.

“The rest of the night is yours.” Holding the box, I step toward the building. “I’ll find my own way home.”

He nods and doesn’t say a word, not tempting fate I’ll change my mind, but I’ll spend the night at Leo’s again and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I liked the peace and quiet the anonymity afforded me, and I don’t want to lose it because I can’t lower myself to hail a cab.

The doorman tips his hat and opens the sparkling glass door. “Mr. Milano.”

I nod in return and walk through the gleaming lobby. This building is exactly what I want to build on the 1100 block. Luxury all the way. No expense spared.

Not a single thing that can’t be bought.

Except happiness.

As Raphael Milano’s wife, my mother is the richest woman in the United States, but she’s lying alone in her dark bedroom, crying, because her son is gone and there’s no amount of money on this earth that can bring him back.

“Nonna,” I greet my grandmother, setting the box on the kitchen table. Half my mother’s family is in our kitchen, and the scent of garlic and cheese turns my stomach. There’s always enough food to feed an army, it doesn’t matter if no one feels like eating it. “How’s Mama?”

“You go see for yourself, Dom,” she says, kissing both my cheeks.

I have to lean down to give her access to my face.

..she’d slap the hell out of me if I didn’t.

She loves me and has tried to supply what my parents don’t give me.

Nonna knows how my mother and father treat me, and she looks the other way in the name of family while trying to do right by me.

“I will.”

“What’s this?”

“I bought Mama a gift from...” If I say Jemma was Leo’s girlfriend, Nonna is going to want to meet her. Jemma would be less than pleased, I suspect, to meet a family Leo kept from her out of shame and a need to distance himself. “...a gallery outside the city,” I finish.

Nonna eyes me like a starving hawk scoping out a mouse. Nothing escapes her attention. Nothing.

I was disappointed when Jemma said she wasn’t pregnant. Disappointed there wasn’t a piece of Leo still left on this earth, but now with the way Nonna ’s watching me, I’m glad. Jemma would have been a prisoner of the Milano family.

A prison made out of love, but a prison nonetheless.

She nods once, sharply, but she’s not going to let this go. I don’t visit little art galleries in the middle of nowhere and I don’t buy anything in them. If I let her stuff me before I leave, maybe she’ll forget. I’ll hide the box. Out of sight, hopefully, is out of mind.

Upstairs, the bedroom is pitch black and my eyes need a moment to adjust and find the lump that is my mother lying in bed. “Mama,” I say, pushing the door open wider and letting in the hallway light.

The lump quivers at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t turn to me.

My mother, she wasn’t actively cruel, not like some mothers who prefer one child over the other.

She was indifferent, acting as if I didn’t exist, and as the years went on and her eyes looked through me, I convinced myself it was a kindness.

The only kindness my mother could spare me.