Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,98
like hell.
On the outside, Leonardo Thatchwood is a quintessential “rags to riches” story, New York-style: A boy grows up poor, vows never to go hungry again, and slowly buys up small properties—eventually becoming one of the leading real estate tycoons in the city.
At least, that’s how his story is usually printed in the papers, and that’s the shortened summary that appears in all of the party’s “Thank you for Coming” pamphlets tonight.
Underneath that glittering story is the gritty truth, though. The parts of the story he doesn’t want anyone to read.
He didn’t earn any of his wealth; he stole it. A natural-born scammer, he started multiple companies under different names that promised elderly people life insurance. (When they died, he cashed out their savings and never shared a dime of the money with their families) He opened Pay Day loan pop up shops, and charged ridiculous interest. And when those things weren’t enough, he just stole money outright, once going so far as to date a bank teller and robbing her drawer.
He’s always been willing to ruin anything—or anyone, that’s dared to get in his way.
A modern-day Jay Gatsby, he’s lied his way to the top for the first ten years of his career—making investors think he was wealthier than he really was.
He has a long list of secretaries whom he’s fucked and abandoned, paying for their silence with his newfound wealth and moving on to the next, without a care in the world. He told my mother that he’d changed, that he wanted her and only her, but he never did.
And he’s gotten worse.
Ten of the women at this party tonight have graced his bed in the past week, and he’s made it more than clear that he can’t be seen with them in public. That he’ll never be able to offer anything more than sex and the occasional Chanel bag.
Why my aunt would ever waste her time sleeping with him, whenever he’s not with his other mistresses (or why she ever betrayed my mother), is anyone’s guess, but I do finally know why he wanted to have me murdered.
The research doesn’t lie…
The band onstage strikes their final note, and they announce that they’ll be taking a short break. My dad’s campaign manager steps behind the podium and introduces himself, then he smiles and begins giving a long list of adjectives to describe my father. None of which actually fit.
Honorable, inspiring, self-made…
Minutes later, my father takes the stage in a black bespoke suit, and the room erupts into an applause so deafening that it drowns out the clattering in the kitchen. Behind him, a massive screen comes to life. It shows bright and tear-jerking images of him being a ‘good person’, images of him smiling and being the perfect candidate.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiles and looks around the room. “Thank you all so much.”
He holds up a hand to calm the clapping, and they settle into their chairs.
“I want to thank you all for your incredible support of my campaign,” he says. “As you know, I almost dropped out due to—” He pauses, choking up and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away a fake tear. “Due to the loss of my beloved daughter, Meredith, but your unwavering support kept me going.”
Stepping out of the kitchen, I move behind a waiter’s tray and take several deep breaths as he continues speaking.
“Meredith would’ve been so happy if she were here tonight.” He smiles and looks up to the ceiling, earning a soft round of applause. “This one is for you, Mer. I hope you’re up there watching me, and I hope you’re proud of your old man. I love you.”
A much louder applause fills the room, and he clears his throat. “For the people of New York, I promise that you won’t regret electing me to this position, and I want you to know that this is only the beginning…”
Keeping my head down, I double-check to make sure that my ear-pods are working, and I wait for him to finish his short, self-serving speech. (The word “I” is in it three hundred times)
It’s time to take him down.
Right after the crowd gives him an undeserved ovation that lasts far too long, he steps down and begins taking pictures with his donors.
Pulling out my phone, I call the number that leads to Michael’s newest burner phone.
“Yes, Meredith?” he asks.
“Tell Trevor to play the tape now.”
“Done. See you soon.” He ends the call, and my heart races against my chest.