Prince of Blood and Steel

by Nazarea Andrews

  Rama shakes his head. “Can you blame me?” he demands fiercely, and all of them still—she knows, they all know, that this question is heavy, loaded, more than just what it would appear.

  Seth is tense at her side, painfully so. Seth inhales, prepares to say something, and she touches his arm, stalling him. “Yeah. I do. You knew, and you used me. You lied to me.”

  Rama’s gaze flicks meaningfully to her cousin. “And you didn’t do the same, mali?”

  Color floods her cheeks, and she hisses, “I gave you honesty. You fucked me as a replacement to my dead cousin!”

  “You came into my club for your family. You whored yourself for information, and you dare to look down on my girls?” he snapped back.

  “Enough,” Seth snarls, a flash of temper surfacing.

  Emma subsides instantly, leaning back and taking her champagne with trembling fingers. Rama reacts slower, anger still hot in his eyes—and challenge. A subtle reminder that Seth may have Emma’s loyalty, and the city, but Rama owes allegiance to no one. He says nothing, but slowly, grudgingly, the Thai relaxes. Seth’s eyes are hard, brooking no argument as he steers the conversation. “Profit aside, why should I risk everything I've built, indeed, risk my own life to court the new kid in town? You said before that Caleb had some plan that would integrate everything, but short of Caleb himself coming back to life to tell me what he had in mind, I see only stupid and pointless danger to my empire by including you in it. That is, unless you can convince me otherwise.”

  Seth watches Rama with an arched and expectant eyebrow, and Emma speaks, her voice like sleet, like rain on a fire. “The simple truth is you need us far more than we need you.”

  Rama’s gaze slides to her questioningly, and she smiles, chilly. “Your syndicate sent you here in hopes of expansion, but without an established ally in a city already claimed, you have nothing. Your time, their money, it is all for waste. And your best hope of alliance was buried with Caleb Morgan.”

  He flinches, a tiny movement, and silence descends. He uses the lull in the conversation to regroup his thoughts and contain his emotions. Seth is giving him a chance to make his case, to sing for his empire and act like a prince. He can't say for sure, but behind the steel in the Morgan's eyes, Rama believes he can see a longing for him to breathe life back into Caleb's dream. He sighs so softly it's barely audible.

  “Caleb envisioned a joint venture into a brothel ring for society's upper-crust, much like yourself—or him—that would utilize your family's real estate, Remi Oliver's bank, and my whores. Ever since he experienced some real . . . Thai hospitality in Bangkok's red light district, he had this grand idea of a total package experience here in the states. The operation would have all the flair of a five-star resort getaway and would provide rich playboys and politicians with their choice of girls—or boys if they were so inclined—drugs, booze, whatever they could possibly want, all in one request. That way, rather than compete or endanger your narcotics business, it would utilize and bolster it. We all know those rich motherfuckers love their drugs as much as they love their money.”

  He sees the lines along Seth's jaw tense at the jab at high society, and he sees Emma's eyebrows raise at his brazenness. Neither of them, however, speak to break the silence as Rama's words rattle among them.

  The band pauses in its music, and the barmaid wanders by before flitting away. Distantly, there is clatter of dishes and voices, laughter and life free of alliances and crime. Emma wonders—for a heartbeat—what life is like, that way.

  Then she remembers that Nicolette had it, and came back. There is no other way for them, and she knows it. It is yet another reason why she was drawn to Rama—like calling to like.

  Then, like punctuation, Rama says, “Your kings very much liked the idea.”

  “The kings wish to play secrets and games,” Seth murmurs, so softly his words are almost obliterated by the soulful moan of a saxophone. “They sacrificed family for their secrets, and what they like will soon mean very little.”

  Emma cannot bear to look at him, cannot take the grief in his eyes or the foreboding in his words. The slow realization that Caleb was not the traitor he had been branded is shattering Seth. Some days she wonders if he will survive—if the cousin she loves will be within the deadly man who has emerged.

  “Secrets can be played by so many sides,” Emma says softly, and Seth’s sharp eyes dart to hers. Emma glances at Rama, sees the apology, the sorrow, the desire in his gaze, and she holds it. Wonders at the shudder that racks his body—what does he see in her eyes?

  Seth speaks suddenly, and his voice is brisk. “A formal alliance is not something I can offer—or would, at this stage.” A smile curves his lips. “However, if we can begin quiet preparation and planning for this idea, it could be beneficial for both our Houses. Caleb believed fully in this, and I aim to honor it for him. It's the . . . least I can do. I have seen some of his projections, though I didn't know what they were at the time, and you're right. There is great profit in it, even with the high risk.” His gaze cuts to Emma. “ All of Caleb's assets are currently frozen and under my control. I need you to start working on a plan of how to move them around to make this work. No one else can know. Mikie cannot know.”

  Emma nods—moving assets is like breathing to her. Seth looks back to Rama. “I will need financial statements and a plan.”

  Rama blinks, stunned. Seth continues, “All of this must remain strictly confidential. If my other allies catch wind of something shady, they will not hesitate to act. So until I can figure out how to buffer them, this meeting and this plan do not exist. I'm sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Rama all but whispers. Somehow, in the time he knew Caleb, he never expected his little brother to ring so true with the qualities that had endeared the older to him. Though they seem so different outwardly, they really aren't that different at all. This, thinks Rama, is the product of quality upbringing, which he has found so lacking in the American populace. Though the Morgans seem so far above everything, so removed, they are the most real people he has met stateside. He remembers his manners, nearly chokes on his gratitude when he says, “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Emma barely blinks, and lifts her glass, a silent toast. Seth follows suit, and then Rama. If Emma feels anything at all, Rama will never know, for she has become so good at banishing her emotions, just like her cousins.

  Chapter 32

  Bamboo, New York City. July 18th.

  She sits in the backseat and assesses the line. Security has erected overhangs so the exotic and beautiful are carefully protected from the rain. A tiny sigh slips free as she sees the familiar bulk of his security personnel—it feels like only yesterday when they herded her through the crowds, escorting her to Rama.

  How would they react if she stepped out of her sleek black Bentley? Has he given orders against her presence? He knows she is here—he is nothing if not capable, and nothing happens in or around Bamboo that he does not know about.

  But she can’t go to him—Seth would be furious if he knew she’d come even this far.

  Seeing him had been harder than she’d thought—and unexpected. She still feels the echoes of that shock, the slight sting of betrayal that Seth had forced the meeting. She had seen the dark desire in his eyes, the anger in Seth’s, and had felt trapped.

  But she still had been drawn here, in the dark rain of her city.

  “Miss Emma?” Her driver’s voice is soft, prompting. She feels a small sense of satisfaction that he is indeed hers. He does not report back to her cousin or Nicolette. Somehow, she has a man loyal to no one but her.

  “Just a moment more,” she murmurs softly.

  Dom lapses into silence, and she bites back a sigh. A headache is working its way from her temples to her neck, and she considers the wisdom of using the small stash in her purse.

  Coke won’t help her now, will make her do something she’d likely regret—betraying Seth again will not be easily forgiven.

>   There is a tap on her window, and she jerks, reaching for her gun. A smile teases her lips as she sees him. Her blood heats, and she lifts her gun, holding it almost lazily. “Roll it down,” she says softly.

  He stands shadowed by the always present Kai, perfectly at ease in the rain and dark street. He is, she knows, at the heart, a prince of the city. Maybe foreign, but he will never be anything less than comfortable and at home in the streets.

  Kai shifts at the sight of her gun, but Rama crouches, a smile flashing in the darkness, the cherry from his cigarette lighting the space between them dimly.

  “I knew you’d come.”

  She flushes, looks away. “How do you know I’m not a trap?” she wonders, wishing he would show some kind of nerves. She thumbs the safety and is pleased that his eyes dart to it for a moment.

  “You are alone, mali. He would never send you without guards.” His accent thickens slightly, the only sign of his distress.

  “Why?” she whispers. “Why did you lie to me?”

  Something dark and painful fills his eyes for a brief second. “Would truth have changed anything?”

  “It would have changed everything,” she snaps, and her gun lowers. Kai relaxes as she does. Rama murmurs softly, and the bodyguard steps away, giving them the brief illusion of privacy. It’s not real, and she knows it. Her driver will never speak of this, but he will hear—and so will Kai. The knowledge sparks her anger higher. “He was my cousin!”

  An aggravated sigh brushes her arm, and she shivers. “I didn’t know. Not at first. And then, what? I should tell you I was with Caleb? I did not know where your loyalties lay, mali, other than you were loyal to your Seth. Is it so bad, that when I knew, I hid it? Is it worse than what you did?” His voice offers no censure, no challenge. It’s calm, and it infuriates her.

  In the darkness and rain, she cannot see his face, cannot see anything but his lips, lit by the cigarette, forming an argument for which she has no defense, even though she wants to fight.

  “Why change things, then? Because someone better dangled something you couldn’t resist?” she spits, but there is pain in her voice that she can’t hide.

  “Seth is too powerful to ignore,” he reminds her gently. She is grateful, suddenly, for the darkness that hides the goose bumps on her arms. She remembers—too well—what his voice sounded like, vibrating across her skin, gentle and warm as he moved inside her.

  Thunder rumbles around them, shaking her from her thoughts, and she suddenly realizes that he is being soaked. “Get in,” she says abruptly, without thinking. She can feel the surprise and unease rippling off her driver, the hesitation in Rama, but she insists—she pushes the door open, forcing him back. There is a soft, foreign curse, and then he spills in, liquid grace and icy rain and slate gray suit.

  She wonders, idly, how much the suit cost and if he cared that it was now ruined.

  They sit in silence as he smokes, the scent of smoke and ash clouding her thoughts, mixing with the rain and smell of oil-slicked streets. She has thought of this moment so often, accused him so many times.

  And yet staring at him, at the rain staining her seats as it rolls from him, she is speechless, the knowledge hitting her like it had that first time. Revulsion twists with fascination. If she asks about Caleb, will he know why? Will he wonder at the questions no cousin should want the answers to?

  Can she ask him and still face Seth in the morning?

  He is watching her, too watchful, patiently waiting, and she suddenly has nothing to ask. Nothing that she can ask without raising more questions than she wants. “Did you love him?” she asks abruptly.

  She can feel the surprise ripple through the car, feel the tension that fills him like a living thing. There is another curse, softer this time. She looks away, addresses her driver. “Go smoke.”

  His eyes are heavy on her as she waits for Dom to exit the car. She hits the locks and swings her gaze to him. The interior lights provide a dim view, but she can see what she expected—desire, caution, guilt.

  “Did you?” she asks, softly, challenging.

  He eyes her. In the weeks since he has last seen her, she has changed. There is a hardness he had not seen before in her—she has grown up, too quickly. What price, he wonders, did betraying Seth carry? What has he forced her to endure, to prove her loyalty? For a moment he is irrationally angry, furious with Seth. He hates him, for forcing Emma to grow up too quickly. And yet…

  She is every inch the Morgan daughter, feisty and hard and remote. Icy city royalty. She will do well, in the dangerous syndicate to which she was born. And her fear is falling away—it has to be, if she is here.

  “Yes,” he answers, holding her gaze in the darkness. “He was impossible not to love, mali.”

  She breathes a laugh, almost bitter. “I know.”

  “You love Seth,” he says, inhaling on the cigarette. He reaches forward, close to her, and rolls the window down enough to flick the butt into the darkness. He sees the shadows that are Kai and Dom, and is absurdly pleased she has begun finding those loyal to her.

  “Yes.” The word soft and simple.

  It hurts, somewhat, to hear it. And yet, there is honesty that is refreshing. “He will be furious, when he realizes you came here.”

  A wrinkle of her nose amuses him, but her eyes are worried. “Yes.”

  He touches her knee, softly. “Go, mali.”

  She hesitates, and he can almost feel the longing pulling her toward her cousin. Then she leans forward, and her lips are hot and demanding on him, softer than he remembered, impossibly soft. He groans and jerks her forward. Her weight is so slight it is almost unnoticeable, delicious friction against his cool, wet pants.

  She pulls away and gives him a shaky smile as he reaches for the door. He slips into the darkness and turns. “I’ll have Kai bring you the reports this week.”

  Emma nods and forces a smile as Dom slides into the car and heat floods the backseat. The rain has slowed, almost to a stop. The chatter of those waiting in line reaches her, and she see him half turn toward them. “It would have changed things,” she says

  He nods, dropping down for a moment to offer her his lopsided smile. “Maybe that’s why neither of us were honest.”

  Pondering that, she calls to Dom to drive, and they vanish into the wet, waiting night.

  Chapter 33

  Morgan’s Commerce Building, New York. July 30th.

  At 2:13 p.m., the temperature inside the indoor exotic garden at the very top of the Morgan Commerce Building has reached eighty-seven degrees. Sun pours through glass walls and ceiling, filters through ambient green leaves onto the faces of the eight board members who are sitting at a long, sleek table made of bamboo. There isn't a pleasant expression among those faces, only thin grimaces of discomfort and damp collars. The women have pulled up their hair, and several fan themselves with papers or folders. The men, even Mikie, have removed their coats. Tempers are rising, and guns are starting to show.

  They are waiting on Seth—and Emma, whose shares in the company only recently became liquid, and who has started attending board meetings with Seth. The present members are incensed, for the day for them has been riddled with inconvenience. Everyone has been walking on eggshells since the news that Seth had wrecked the executive office, news that spread like wild fire. It’s been a tense month. This is the first board meeting since, and the second consecutive time he has changed the meeting time—a meeting that always happens at eight in the morning. The tension was again compounded after each of these members had managed to rearrange their schedules; Seth one-upped himself by changing the meeting location, as well, and thus changed their respective ideas of “last minute.” With roughly an hour to travel across Manhattan, every single one of them had made it to the meeting on time.

  Now, as only Seth can add such insult to such injury, he is late.

  Glasses of water that had ice in them thirteen minutes ago now sweat onto bamboo coasters in varying degrees of empti
ness. Mikie looks down at his phone to check the time as he reaches for his water. Just when his fingers curl around the still-cool-to-touch surface, the screen on the phone lights up with a text message from his assistant. The door opens some ten feet behind him as he taps open the message. He’s here, it says, and anticipation makes a bid for Mikie's nerves.

  He hears footsteps behind him, two sets, and anger crushes all other emotion, which makes his body go rigid and deceivingly still. He does not turn to see the approach—he knows who is coming, and he has no patience for the art of the entrance now.

  He does, however, see the art of the entrance's reflection on the face of his first cousin, Vincent, who sits directly across from Mikie. The expression there is wide-eyed surprise, and it is accompanied by a small shake of the head. Then Vincent realizes he is being watched, and his slightly chubby frame freezes. Mikie only looks away, back to his cell phone. He stares at it, even though the screen has gone black, as Emma slips into the chair to his left. The one that used to be Seth's. Mikie can feel rather than see Seth take a place behind a sleek, bamboo podium at the head of the mutely stylish table.

  “Hello, Uncle,” Emma says in neutral tone, calmly breaking the dead silence. Mikie's surprise nearly takes him off guard, almost makes his body betray his control of it, for he wants to see what she looks like dressed in confidence. Instead of looking at her when his vision lifts, his gaze gravitates to the empty chair across from Emma—Caleb's place that Seth has arduously demanded remain empty since his brother's demise.

  Mikie says, “Good afternoon, niece.”

  Never before would he have suspected her to be so brave as to break the silence of the Board. He also could not have prepared himself for the dramatic effect of the empty chair at the head of the table. He can't know it, but Emma is staring at the same thing. And she can't know it, but Mikie feels the shift in dynamic among his peers like the slug that never hit him in favor of his own brother. He feels that the reverence, the fear, that others once held for only him is now divided—in two. He says, “Your tardiness is far from fashionable,” and lands a dark-storm stare on Seth.