“Because he thinks of you as harmless because of your disability?” Jon fills in.
He’s known me so long, he’s seen the worst of it, so he gets a pass on pointing out the obvious. Sometimes I love Jon’s utter lack of tact, sometimes I hate it. This is one of the times when it’s both.
I turn my head and feel my neck pop, releasing a bit of the pressure. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
“Then he doesn’t know you at all,” he says firmly. “You’re a badass, Lincoln. He should be sweating bullets around you.”
I force a smile. “True. And I’d rather it stayed that way.” I notice that Jon sweats even more than I do, and given his outfit, it doesn’t surprise me. “Why the hell are you dressed like that on a day like this?”
Jon grins mischievously, mopping more perspiration from his eyes and flicking it aside. “You’ll see.”
I keep climbing, trying not to admit to myself that even if I had known about Dante being here, I’d probably still have come with Jon. Ever since meeting Chloe yesterday, I’ve desperately needed to have something to take my mind off her.
It’s strange, because I’m not used to thinking of a woman – any woman – so much after spending so little time with her. And even though Chloe yanks my chain in every way, it’s not her looks that keep dragging my thoughts back to her repeatedly. I struggle in a deep breath and not because of exhaustion. Something about the way the woman wiggles into my mind and body makes the wispy hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Because it’s something else entirely. A kinship. A tenuous thread of similarity and connection that strings us both together as powerfully as a steel cord.
Even before the operations and treatments allowed me to be more functional and autonomous, no one ever stood up to me the way she did. My family’s riches and prestige in the Vegas community have always guaranteed immediate respect, even fawning from strangers. It used to make me feel even more embarrassed and self-conscious about my disability.
I wanted them to treat me the way they would any normal adult, even if that meant being indifferent about my condition. Instead, they’d generally talk to me as though I belonged with Nixon’s kids instead of his brothers. It was even worse when I’d overhear them making fun of my cerebral palsy when they felt they were safely out of earshot.
Just like the bullying I endured throughout my years of private school.
Then later, when I was healed for the most part, they stopped treating me like a child…but they’d still act like mindless sycophants when they were introduced to me, and it still made me feel like they weren’t really seeing me or reacting to me as a person. All they saw was the Caldwell name and the doors it could open for them if they kissed my ass enough, the weak link in the Caldwell chain.
Not Chloe Sanderson. She might not have known much about my family or our history, but she still knew enough about my overall wealth and reputation going in to treat me like I’m a big deal. I expected her to be cowed by my temper when I reacted to the house staging, to drop to her knees and immediately start apologizing and doing whatever it took to make me happy. Instead, she squared her shoulders and proceeded to rip me a new one.
Lesson learned.
It felt like a welcome slap in the face, waking me from my complacency. I liked it. Loved it, really. And I wouldn’t mind a second helping.
And if she hadn’t staged the home the way she did – and submitted the pictures without telling me – we might still be waiting to hear from Bravo about the show.
When I’d told her she was competent, she probably thought I was damning her with faint praise, but I honestly wasn’t. Competent entails one of the highest compliments I can give, because competence is as rare as a 1795 Flowing Hair Dollar. No one ever seems to live up to their reputations anymore. No one ever seems to be accountable or trustworthy or reliable. I’ve gotten used to being disappointed by most people I meet and the work they present because it reflects the bare minimum. Just once, I want to see someone give their all.
Maybe I just did.
So, is that why I keep thinking about her? Respect?
No.
I’d like to think so, but no.
Because the woman’s eyes entice me the most. Not in some silly romantic way, and not even the fire that raged in them when her anger arced through the air in the form of a prosthetic missile, as dangerous as a rogue grenade. Not to my body, but to my heart.
The way she looked at me when I told her I have cerebral palsy.
I don’t end up telling that to many people when I meet them since, after all, I’ve been lucky enough to receive the kind of treatment that makes the palsy all but invisible. What good reason exists for virtual strangers to know how I started or what I’ve become through grit and determination?
In those rare instances when I have told people, all of them – even friends – have looked at me with pity in their eyes. They don’t mean to use the emotion as a silent weapon, and most of them probably can’t even help it…but it’s still there, impossible for me to ignore. It colors every interaction I have with them afterward. The pity in their eyes fades, but the memory of it lingers forever, painting my disability black with the brush of worthiness.
But there was no pity in Chloe’s eyes when she found out. I can’t help but wonder what those eyes would look like under the force of her pleasure. Her passion.
Because she’s lived with a handicap her entire life too, and she’s probably been forced to endure that same look of pity in the eyes of everyone she’s introduced to. She might be the first person I’ve ever met who genuinely comprehends what it’s like to be me, and even though the entirety of our interaction took less than an hour – and most of it was acrimonious – just knowing she’s out there like a twin flame makes me feel less alone than I can ever remember feeling before.
Part of me worries that it will affect our working relationship since it represents such an unfamiliar dynamic for me. I don’t want it to throw me off my game, not when there’s so much at stake in terms of getting on the Bravo show.
As I wrestle with these thoughts, Jon comes to a sudden stop just ahead of me, at the top of the hill. He gazes down the other side, obviously impressed. “Wow.”
I struggle to catch up with him and follow his eyes down to the massive tract of impeccably-landscaped lots, marked off with the borders of at least twenty planned homes. There’s a lovely view of the distant mountain ranges, and a refreshing breeze blows down across the valley. At least two hundred people gather at the center of it all, where an opulent model home stands with a thick yellow ribbon strung across the doorway.
“This is damned impressive,” I say with a low whistle. “But how could even Dante afford all of this land, not to mention what it would take to build on it? Come to think of it, where the hell did he even find this tract? It’s not in any real estate listing I’ve seen, and I’ve seen them all.”
“Yeah, it’s something, all right.” The tone of Jon’s voice tells me he doesn’t actually understand the importance of my questions. He’s never had a firm grasp of my work, and to be fair, I’ve never really demanded that of him. It’s probably better for our interactions that he’s not familiar with my industry. Other brokers are always available to talk shop.
But this is a big deal, and it’s got me completely puzzled.
I don’t study Dante’s business habits too closely, leaving that to Nixon and Reagan. But I still have some idea of his overall monetary worth…or at least, I thought I did. He’s got billions, sure, but it seems like it would take a huge chunk of liquid cash to pull a development like this off, and he’s too meticulous a businessman to potentially drive himself to the poorhouse by risking it all on a single project. His love for the Mona Lisa knows no bounds. Why he would want to bypass casino ownership for real estate development boggles my mind. He’s been quiet in recent years, but that only makes him more dangerous.
Does he have more money and resources than I realized? And if so, does
that mean he presents an even bigger danger to Nixon and the rest of my brothers? Because that would be terrible, and the kind of thing I’d want to warn them about as soon as possible. I trail after Jon and file it away to call Nix later with the strange news.
The land itself provides an even bigger mystery. New tracts of acreage don’t just spring up from nowhere, like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Even if they’re artificially manufactured on previously-inhospitable terrains, that’s the kind of information that would circulate in the real estate profession. There are bids, and permits, and months or years of landscaping, and press releases for every step of the process.
How could any of this be possible?
I huff out a confused breath, promising myself to do my research later. Jon ambles ever downward, halfway down the other side of the hill, and it will take me twice as much time to walk more carefully down after him.
By the time we’ve reached the bottom, the news cameras click, flash, and hum around Dante as he takes his position in front of the model home. He holds an absurdly large pair of scissors, and I briefly wonder where people like him get those for occasions like this. Are they specially made? Do they come from some novelty store online? I’ve attended a lot of openings, but I’ve never had to cut a ribbon myself.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to begin by thanking all of you for attending this special event,” Dante begins.
Just looking at him makes me want to throw up. From his greying temples to his tall, fit, elegant body clothed in his expensive trademark Italian wool suit, speaking with his vague, lilting accent, addressing the press like he’s some chairman of the board – when he’s nothing but a mafia kingpin and a venomous snake making his living by ruining the lives of innocent people.
How many times has he tried to crush my family? How many times has Nixon had to reach in and slap his hand away before our world came crashing down around us? I’ve never felt so much loathing, contempt, and disgust for another human being in my life.
“Ugh, I hoped we’d have more time to set up, but I guess we’ve just got to go for it,” Jon murmurs to me.
My eyes narrow as I stare at Jon’s prospective target with disdain. “What are you talking about?”
Jon hands me his camera, activating the multi-shutter option. “I’m going to go in behind him. When the right moment comes, you hit the button and get the picture. And make sure you can see me clearly in it, or this whole thing’s a big waste of time.”
My mouth falls open. “Wait, what? You want me to take the picture? That’s a bad idea, Jon.”
Jon looks at me like I’ve just asked about the price of tea in China. “Uh, yeah? Of course, you’re the one taking the picture. It’s not like I can take it myself!”
I glance around the strange faces, hoping I don’t see anyone I know. Which will be near to impossible at a real estate event. Getting drawn into Jon’s games could ruin my carefully wrought reputation. “But this place is full of people taking pictures.”
He nods impatiently. “And they’ll get a shot of it too, and that’s awesome, but I need one I can fully own and control, so I can post it on the site and claim credit for it. Trust me, I’ve tried getting one from reporters after the fact, and it’s a huge hassle. You’ve got to get them to release the rights, and that means dollars.”
I grab Jon by the shoulders, shaking him. “Jon, I know this stupid website is important to you…but think. This man is a crime boss. He’s probably surrounded by his own security people…and when I say security detail, I mean goons who live on a hair trigger. Do you really think sneaking up behind him is a good idea?”
Jon smiles. “Maybe not, but look on the bright side, Linc. If they shoot me while I’m trying to do this, I’ll be a legend on photobombardiers.com.” He wriggles out of my grasp and starts off toward Dante. “I’ll win for sure.”
My feet itch to stomp into the dirt like a wailing toddler. “Wait! What do you mean, ‘when the right moment comes?’ How the hell am I supposed to know that?”
“You’ll know,” Jon calls back over his shoulder before disappearing.
Dammit. I’m not fond of demeaning myself with this petty bullshit.
Annoyance stabs me in the gut again. Jon can be kind of a silly bastard, but I certainly don’t want to see him get ventilated by bullets at a public gathering. Also, my perspective looked different when I thought this was just going to be his prank – the fact that he just now forcibly involved me is insufferable, especially after I explicitly told him that I wanted to stay off Dante’s radar.
But on the other hand…baiting the man usually gets him to expose part or all of his hand.
Isn’t there some small part of me that wants to help Jon embarrass this rotten criminal, after everything he’s done over the years? I mean, it’s just a harmless photograph. It’s not like I’m trying to whack him, or even negatively affect his opulent gated community. And he’s always ignored me before, so why would he suddenly feel like I’m worthy of his attention just because I helped someone take a funny photo with him?
Plus, I don’t have a lot of actual friends, and if I hang Jon out to dry on this, he might never forgive me. I inhale a fortifying breath and prepare to harness my inner Ansel Adams.
“…and so, I am overjoyed by your show of support,” Dante drones on, “and I’m delighted by this chance to serve this city I love by providing luxurious homes to the elite who deserve them. We’ve barely broken ground, and we’ve already managed to pre-sell over half of the houses that will be constructed in this development!”
There’s scattered applause, and as Dante raises the giant scissors, I see Jon materialize behind him. I aim the camera, hoping whatever Jon has planned, he’ll do it soon. A few of the well-dressed men standing around Dante already eye Jon suspiciously, their hands drifting toward their jackets where shoulder holsters are probably concealed.
Come on, you insane idiot, I scream silently. Do it and let’s get this over with before something horrible happens.
“I’ve chosen to name this beautiful, peaceful place after my great-grandfather,” Dante says, and I wish he’d stab himself with his gigantic pair of fake, dull scissors, “who was one of the first members of my family to come to this country of wealth and opportunity. Without his efforts…his sacrifices…none of the success I now enjoy would have been possible. I only wish that he were still alive so that he could see this place and spend his final years as a resident. And it is with this in mind that I proudly present Fiorello Estates!”
With that, Dante snips the ribbon – just as, behind him, Jon throws off his trench coat, revealing his gangster inspired version of Al Capone, a loud pin-striped suit with wide lapels. He holds up a hilariously-large cigar, flashing me a big grin.
I’m so shocked, it takes me a few seconds to remember my part. I hit the button on the camera, snapping the photo just as the audience erupts into laughter.
Then I join them, unable to control myself.
Dante turns and sees Jon, his face contorting into a humiliated grimace. “What the hell is this?” he thunders. “I dedicate this ceremony to my deceased great-grandfather, and you come here, and you spit on it? Minghia! Who the fuck are you supposed to be, anyway?”
Dante’s people seize Jon and start to drag him away. At this point, I’m not worried about his safety anymore. Now that there’s no risk of Jon being accidentally shot in the heat of the moment, he’ll be fine. There are too many witnesses for Dante to do anything except throw him out on his pinstriped ass – and I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done that to Jon, especially with his new hobby.
“Photobombardiers.com!” Jon shrieks maniacally as he’s led away. “Check it out and rate my pics. I am the greatest photo-bomber alive. No one can defeat John Doe! Do you hear that, JSI, you worthless second-rater? I am invincible!”
Dante looks confused. “Photo…what? Bomb? Did someone take a picture of this fiasco?”
Then his eyes focus on me and
widen to the size of dinner plates. His anger loops toward me like a lasso of rage, hogtying me where I stand. As he works his jaw, his teeth gnash so hard it looks like he might break them. He stalks toward me, seeming insane, out of control, and for a brief moment, I don’t care how many cameras and witnesses are around…I’m worried he might murder me right here out of sheer rage.
His long finger points in my direction. Part of me wants to cower. But that’s the old me. The new me stands tall and proud in the face of whatever river of hatred flows. “You! I know you! Another fucking Caldwell, right? You’re the gimp, is that it? The retard, the cripple? That’s you?”
I try to remain impassive, but inwardly, these words still make me flinch, even after a lifetime of hearing them.
“I’m Lincoln Caldwell, yes.” The words clip out in the evenest tone I can muster.
Dante pitches forward until our noses are inches apart. I can see the bloodshot edges of his bulging eyes and feel the flecks of his spittle against my cheeks. His breath smells like garlic and Sambuca.
“What the hell are you even doing here, whelp? You menifrighasta piece of garbage? What business is this of yours? I was done, you understand? I was done with all of you fucking Caldwells, I was done forever! Your brothers slap me, threaten me, spit in my face over and over, and I told them I’d get them back for it…and I could have, and it would have been my right. But no! I declared a cease-fire, and I swallowed my pride, and I decided, ‘Dante, life is too short for these vendettas. Don’t be a stubborn man, a crazy man. Just leave it alone and move on!’”
He jabs a finger in my chest with a savage intent I don’t acknowledge.
“But you won’t let me move on, will you?” he rants on, his face tomato red. “You won’t let me run my businesses in peace, you won’t let me honor my great-grandfather. You just keep coming and coming, and you won’t stop until I do something to make you stop. Well, guess what? Now you can go back to your mezzo finocchio brothers and tell them you got your wish, because I will do whatever it takes, spend whatever it takes, to bury each and every one of you motherfuckers in the goddamn desert! I swear it right here as I stand! The truce ends today.”
On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7) Page 5
