Corrupted Queen - Nicole Fox Page 0,11
newspaper headlines.
BILLIONAIRE BUSINESSMAN ANNOUNCES SLASH TO FUNDING FOR VULNERABLE GROUPS WHILE STANDING TALL IN ITALIAN LEATHER OXFORDS.
FROM PHILANTHROPIST TO PENNY-PINCHER: HEARTLESS BILLIONAIRE MAKES EXCUSES.
I finish my speech, hands gripping the podium so tightly that the wood bites into the meat of my palms. That was the easy part. Now come the questions.
Carmen comes back on stage, announcing that we will now take questions from the press. Hands shoot up all over the room and I grit my teeth. My smile is a distant memory, the façade of the accessible CEO sliding from my face inch by inch.
“Andy Holden,” Carmen says, picking out her favorite reporter first. I’m sure she is hoping for him to take it easy on me, but from the cat-like turn of his lips, I doubt very much that will be the case.
Andy rises to his feet. “Mr. Belluci, you only began this program a couple of years ago. Are you cutting funding because it did not achieve the desired results?”
I lean closer to the microphone. “I outlined the company’s reasoning for the move prior to the question period. Please refer to your notes.”
“Your reasoning was watery,” he presses. “You have a duty to be honest with the public and the people who you are disenfranchising.”
My hackles rise and I glare down at the bald, chubby man. I know that I have visibly dispensed of the CEO mask in favor of the mafia boss beneath because Andy’s expression shifts, and something like fear creeps into his beady eyes.
“I am keenly aware of the responsibilities I shoulder and to whom I am accountable, and I do not need reminding,” I say in a low tone.
The crowd ripples with whispers and some of the hands drop while others become more insistent.
Carmen quickly takes the microphone. “I think what Mr. Belluci meant to say was that there were a number of factors involved in making this difficult decision and he is not able to expand on any one cause.” She points to another reporter. “Yes, the lady in the green.”
“Donna Fitzgerald, the Evening Reporter,” the woman says in a husky tone, rising to her feet. “Mr. Belluci, perhaps this news has not penetrated your palace walls yet, but there is a growing purple heroin crisis in the city. By closing the doors of your institutions, you will be sending hundreds of vulnerable people back into the arms of an addiction that has become even more dangerous than when they left.”
“That was not a question,” I say in a low voice.
Donna’s lips purse tartly. “How do you feel about that?”
“My feelings do not factor into it,” I reply sharply.
The next reporter, a young beanpole with thick black glasses, does not wait for Carmen to call on him. He shoots to his feet. “Mr. Belluci, did you know that each rehabilitation center you fund keeps about fifty addicts off the streets?”
The other reporters, not wanting to be left behind, start to erupt from their seats and toss their questions toward the stage. The conference descends into chaos.
“Are you planning to reopen the centers?”
“Mr. Belluci, will you be cutting your salary in line with your funding cuts?”
“How do you sleep at night?”
Soon I cannot pick out any one person from the cacophony. With every beat, my heart no longer dispenses blood into my veins, instead pumping out searing liquid rage. I am angry at their blatant lack of disrespect, angrier still that I’m standing here in the first place.
It is time these reporters found their place.
“Enough!” I roar. “The decision has been made, and I will not take further questions from this assembly of leeches. Everyone sit down.”
The reporters sit like trained dogs. Silence sweeps through the room, save for a couple of clicking camera shutters. My gaze shifts through the crowd, noting genuine fear on some of the faces. There is a short-lived flicker of satisfaction in my chest, and then I realize I have truly fucked up.
The public has seen me like this only once before—at the opening of a school where I lost my temper during a similarly frustrating encounter with the press. That time, only one camera witnessed my transformation into mafia boss. Today, there are dozens.
Carmen leaps up to the microphone. “I will be available to take further questions, but unfortunately, Mr. Belluci has other demands on his time.”
She shoots me a withering look and I glower back. One of the reasons Carmen is so good at her job is because of her fearlessness, but even she wilts