He smil
es, languidly. “When I was a boy, I had a dream. It was a big dream, yes. But my mother always told me to dream big, despite our living situation. We grew up poor. Sometimes hungry. So forgive me for wanting more than a piece of bread. Forgive me for wanting a better life for myself.”
He makes a face, and I know those laxatives are messing with him. Dasha laughs a little, forcibly covering her mouth. I smirk too, but he keeps it together somehow.
People clap at his little better life moment, and he continues. “I taught myself the way of sales at a very young age. Most teenagers don’t have to think about their future until they’re much older. They sit at home, playing their PlayStation, and life is good. Well, my PlayStation was the corner I grew up on. I’m not proud of some of the things the people that surrounded me have done, but I am proud of the tenacity that the streets have taught me. I built my first hotel with the help of the Napolitano family. But unfortunately, my business partner passed away not too long ago. His beautiful daughter is here tonight. Give her a round of applause, everyone.”
He points and the room erupts with cheers and whistles.
I grab Dasha’s glass of champagne and hold it in the air, mouthing, “Thank you.”
I’ve had enough of this stupid “poor boy learns the ropes” speech. These people are eating it up and they need to know the truth. They need to know he’s ruthless, paranoid, and altogether incapable of running a business.
He will squander their money.
“Anyway, folks. It’s been great to meet with all of you. I wanted to show you something else before we take anymore donations. We have high hopes for this city. We want to transform it into something modern and different. It starts with one hotel, but with your help, we can expand on everything,” he says, turning to the sound booth. “Can you turn on the projections?”
With a click of a button, everything changes. Rocco pops his head out of the booth and looks right at me.
I check my phone.
“It’s about to be over. Get your popcorn out.”
“Look at this plan we have, everyone,” he says.
But on the projection screen isn’t a blueprint. Instead, it’s been replaced by an email from Byron, stating how all the donors are “morons” for donating to a hotel that will never see the light of day.
The reaction is startling, and everyone in the room immediately starts talking.
Outrage ensues, but Byron hasn’t caught on.“As you can see, this beautiful layout will transform the city of —”
A man stands, screaming, “Liar!”
Byron turns, finally noticing the image behind him. “Excuse me. What is this?” he yells, trying to save face. “What kind of a prank is this? Folks, we have someone trying to display false information.”
But the projection changes to his bank statements. Escort services on the company dime, pictures of him in the Bahamas with half-nude women, more emails. The screenshots just keep coming.
The crowd erupts in a fury.
Another donor throws his champagne toward the front of the stage.
“Settle down,” Byron mutters, unable to calm the crowd. “There’s an explanation for this. I promise you, folks. We’ll get to the bottom of this charade. Obviously, someone skilled has hacked into our accounts. They have tweaked our documents. We are a legitimate business.”
But nothing can work to calm the fire that’s currently being fanned. Rocco runs down the stairs. He eyes me and winks, then walks toward Byron.
Taking the microphone, he says, “This man has been lying to you for years. It’s time we demand justice. Refund their money or suffer the consequences.”
Byron begins to walk off the stage, wiping his forehead. His men guard him as the whole scene moves toward the doors.
Outside, he runs. A helicopter hovers above, and it’s clear that Byron is heading for it.
“We need to get him!” I yell, but it’s far too late. The crowd is too shocked by the news to react properly.
As Byron jumps into the helicopter, Rocco grabs his ankle.
But he doesn’t get the grip he needed.
The chopper disappears into the night.