When Carlo and Peter had first seen the property, the whole third floor had been offered as one space. It was more than they needed or could afford, and they’d worked out a build-to-suit deal to take half instead. Their landlord had divided the space with drywall.
The vandals had come through the drywall, which had handily circumvented Carlo and Peter’s alarm system. And then they’d had a field day.
Standing in the midst of the rubble, Peter at his side, trying to listen to the cop’s instructions about what they’d probably need to make an insurance claim, Carlo thought the place was a near total loss. It looked like a rave had happened. Or a riot. By exceedingly angry Huns. From wall art to furniture, from Peter’s Red Sox bobblehead collection to their electronics, everything was destroyed. There was piss and shit on the walls and floor. Spray paint over the windows.
Worst of all, Carlo’s most recent drafts had been shredded. Into confetti.
Though he moved to digital design about halfway through his process, he could not find inspiration using a program. He had to start the old-fashioned way, with paper, pencil, compass, triangle, T-square. He needed to feel his designs with his hands. To see them with his fingers as much as his eyes.
The work he’d moved to digital was archived in the Cloud, so none of that was lost, but all the work in the inspiration stage—his favorite part—was in a pile at his feet. Unsalvageable. Weeks of work, just gone. Afraid to look, knowing what he’d find, he stepped around a corner and leaned into the modeling room. Yep. The foamcore model he’d just finished for a job they were set to present the final plan on next week was nothing more than apocalyptic rubble now.
He dropped to a squat, his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry man, so sorry.” Peter squeezed his shoulder.
Peter was an architect, too, but his strength was not in design itself. He’d never have made a career on his own, and his career at Supratecture, the large firm they’d both been working for, had been on life support. What Peter was expert at was seeing into the gaps. Though he couldn’t visualize a really original building on his own, he could look at someone else’s design and see a potential weakness—or an opportunity for something even better. And he was personable and extroverted. He enjoyed the parties and the lunches and all the things Carlo hated. He was a great wingman, in life and in business. Carlo was the talent; Peter was the emcee. They both knew it, and they were both comfortable in their roles. Being the business head of their little enterprise had taken a lot of pressure from Peter—and from Carlo. In their partnership, each played to his strengths.
Carlo stood and went to the crushed model. “I’m going to have to rebuild this. Like yesterday.” He’d have to cut his week in the Cove short. And give up sleep.
“I’ll get an extension on the presentation. They’re not going to can us so fast this late in the game, and this”—he swept his arm around the room—“is the best excuse I can think of for needing more time. I’ll get you a week, at least.” A dry laugh rasped from his throat. “We’re going to need to get serious about that 3D printer fund.”
Trying to regroup, get his thoughts in order and figure out what to do next, Carlo sighed. “Okay. I’m gonna pick up some supplies and head to the loft. I can work out of my office at home for now. I’ll ask one of my brothers to drive Trey back in.” Fuck. He had no way of getting hold of Sabina to let her know he wouldn’t be around if and when she sought him out again. The thought of not seeing her for God knew how long hurt almost as much as the thought that they might have just lost their business. Fuck. He hoped the Uncles were moving quickly.
~oOo~
About an hour later, he came off the elevator at his loft, his arms laden with supplies to rebuild the model. He set everything down and slid his key into the deadbolt lock, but was surprised when turning it did not move the bolt. He turned it in the locking direction instead, and felt the bolt engage. It had been unlocked. He turned it back and tried the knob. It turned freely.
Had it not been for the current state of the office, he would have thought little of this development. He would have assumed that Natalie was there. But his nerves were on edge. Stepping back, still really more curious than alarmed, he looked closely at the door. It showed no signs of force. It was simply closed and unlocked. Maybe Natalie was here? But, thinking more about it, why would she be? She had the week off. She knew they were out of town. There was nothing for her to do here.