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His car was waiting out front per his request, and he hurried around to the driver’s side and slid into the soft leather seat. He tossed his briefcase next to him and started the car, then pulled out into traffic. Less than an hour later, he was pulling up to a brick building, intentionally unmarked to avoid the angry boyfriends and husbands — they were always boyfriends and husbands — who might show up demanding to see the women and children who had fled their abuse.
Damian’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought about it, and he forced himself to relax, to think about the people the foundation helped through contributions that paid the mortgage on the building, supplied food, promoted mentorships and job opportunities.
It was important work, and he’d been surprised by how gratified he felt by it. He was still a majority shareholder in the financial side of the business, but its connection to his father made it a hard pass in terms of his involvement. Vincent Cavallo had been a financial genius whose net worth was over a billion dollars by the time he was forty. He’d been on magazine covers, had been touted as an American success story.
It was all a lie.
Damian had been behind the curtain of the theater that was his father’s persona. Had seen the storm of his temper sweep through the big house outside the city, had been victim to it until his mother stepped in to protect him.
Or more accurately, until she stepped in to take the beatings for him.
Damian still hated himself for cowering in his bedroom, listening to the crash of furniture and glass, the sound of his mother whimpering. For years his bedtime ritual had been to promise revenge on his father when he grew big enough.
To step into the room and save his mother.
But his father had died when Damian was just ten years old, still years shy of the height and strength that would have enabled him to make good on his promise. It was a hard pill to swallow, but he and his mother had lived peacefully after that, finally able to speak and move and act without reprisal. The Cavallo Foundation had been her passion, and she’d spent hours poring over charitable organizations that needed money, carefully choosing those that spoke to her, asking Damian his thoughts as he’d grown older.
It had been a balm to their wounds, doing something good with all the money their father earned from behind his mask, and Damian had happily taken over the task after her death.
He grabbed his briefcase and locked the car, then headed up the concrete steps of the brick building. He pressed the buzzer and announced himself, and a moment later a beep sounded from inside the door to indicate it was unlocked.
The lobby was empty except for a boy. He was small and thin, half his body hidden by the door frame to one of the common rooms. He stared at Damian with big brown eyes from a face with the soft cheeks of a toddler.
“Hello,” Damian said softly.
The boy darted up the stairs, leaving Damian alone in the foyer.
He wasn’t surprised. Most of the guests at the Franklin Street shelter were longtime victims of abuse. It was impossible not to see the ghosts in their eyes, and Damian always left hoping his weren’t as visible.
“Mr. Cavallo!” A small woman headed toward him. “I thought that was your car,” she said with a slight Jamaican accent.
“I hope it’s alright that I stopped by.”
He didn’t know why he’d come. He never knew why he came. It wasn’t about the money. He knew it was well spent. It had something to do with his strange affinity for the people here, people with whom he had more in common than anyone in the wealthy Tribeca neighborhoods where he lived and worked.
“Of course it’s all right,” she said. He tried not to cringe as she embraced him. Physical contact wasn’t his thing. “You are always welcome.”
“It looked like you’re having some trouble this month,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed. “We had a plumbing problem on the third floor. Leaked all the way through the ceilings down to the basement level.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve already transferred some money to the shelter’s account. I added a little extra too. It should be more than enough to cover the additional expense.”
She hugged him again. “You’re too good to us, Mr. Cavallo.”
He tried not to show his embarrassment. “It’s my pleasure. Is there anything else I can do?”
“You do plenty,” she said. “We always have more guests than we have room for, but we make it work. We’re a family, and families don’t mind living in tight quarters.”
They spent another fifteen minutes discussing additional improvements that would soon be needed on the old building plus a possible mentorship program with an up-and-coming tech company. Then Damian was submitting to a third hug and stepping back onto the street. He shut the door behind him and started down the stairs, his steps slowing as he spotted a wiry man pacing nearby, muttering to himself.
“Can I help you?” Damian asked.
The man looked up, his eyes wild. “Is she in there?” he demanded. “I know she’s in there. You can’t do this. It’s not right. She’s my wife!”
Damian’s hands worked into fists at his side. “You’re going to want to move along now.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” the man said, narrowing his eyes. “You have no right.”
