Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  Somehow, in the face of everyone, the honesty comes much easier than face-to-face with those for whom he really cares. There's no place for an ounce of doubt in his declaration.

  “I ask you to be patient within the chaos. It won't last forever. I will address any concerns. The divisions will be restructured some—new heads will be appointed for the weapons and drugs divisions. For whatever reason, the lines of communication have broken down, and more than I want to know why, I want to fix them.”

  Seth retrieves the glass of champagne that someone – it had to be Emma—left for him. He raises it into the spotlight, and says, “To the family, and regrowth.”

  For a pressing moment, silence resounds. The words swish around the room like the coattails of their many dead. His words are so optimistic, so reminiscent of his youth, yet carried by an entirely more wise voice of a man. Then, the light begins to fracture through the glasses that rise. Seth's vision blurs from the assault, but it doesn't stop the smile that takes him.

  Someone in the back yells, “Cheers.”

  Seth stares into his champagne as he takes a drink. How many of them are just doing it because it's expected? Only time can tell. Time and perhaps some sacrifice.

  Chapter 8. Pish Posh. East Village. September 29th.

  Pish Posh Is A High-End lunch establishment nestled into a bank of town-houses-turned -businesses, on a nondescript block of the East Village. The place caters to wealthy, busy metro types – CEOs, top lawyers, the mayor on rare occasion. More importantly, the place operates below the radar of most of the media, and has even installed a back alley entrance for the more high-profile guests. It's never been Seth's choice of settings, but the staff here is silent unless addressed, and it's neutral.

  His nerves stir as an attendant slides a key card to open the private rear entrance. Tinney flanks him to the left, a quiet menace, and a comfort. For a skidding moment, Seth thinks of watching his dad, followed closely by Tinney, the somber and gut-turning presence that surrounded them. As they move forward into the restaurant, Seth reminds himself of something else; Remi will also remember the presence of the Morgan head gun.

  A brisk wind follows them inside, and a chill runs down the back of Seth's neck, ruffling his hair. Tinney insisted on more security, but Seth had fervently stood against it. For just a flash, the time it takes to transition from daylight to the ambient and modern lighting, he doubts himself. Maybe Tinney was right.

  It takes Seth longer than normal to slip his still healing arm out of his coat. He has chosen again to leave the sling behind, and the free movement wracks him with hot pain. Tinney and the host are silently patient. Seth fights off a wince.

  The attendant takes their overcoats, and Seth calls upon the same calm as he had when he strolled into Remi's bank unannounced. The number of guns won't matter here. This will be a matter of the kind of confidence that has total backing. Sure, Remi's operation has the benefit of extended and intelligent rule, but Seth has an impressive amount of firepower at his disposal, and the temper of a lesser god. He also has a newfound respect for strategy.

  They are a quiet procession, even the host, as they travel down a sleek, sparsely decorated hallway full of closed doors. Smells drift around from the kitchen area; garlic, ginger, fish on a grill. The aroma does nothing to bait Seth's hunger. His stomach is far too knotted to desire food. Outwardly, he is the haughty, sexy heir of Morgan Estates, as elusive as all the papers would have one believe. He tucks his sunglasses into the inside pocket of his suit coat as they stop in front of a bright red door.

  The host rings a button, a bell to indicate that someone is about to enter – a courtesy to the guests, who may not want their servers to overhear any conversation. The host waits a beat, politely, then pushes open the door and holds it. Seth forces a slow, steady breath as he crosses the threshold.

  The private dining room is done in deep reds and gold, hard wood and chic designs. The round table could easily seat six, but there's only one seat currently occupied. Remi sits with a straight back and blank expression, looking every bit the dignified – and so seasoned – banker. A glass of dark red wine sits in front of him, and standing behind him close to the wall, his security silently wait. There's one on either side——twins, Remi's nephews.

  Seth's anger twists in his gut as his gaze slides over the two. Their dark hair and eyes are so familiar it hurts, and their grim expressions are telling him that though they are here to back their uncle, they don't agree with Remi's decision. They've never wanted shit to do with the Morgans, and always reacted to Seth and Nicolette's relationship as they might to a homeless man begging them for change.

  An interesting move, thinks Seth, as Remi stands and they extend hands across the wide tabletop. Perhaps this is Remi's way of representing Seth's generation, just as bringing Tinney will give Seth a link to his father's empire. Or perhaps it's because it is quite obvious that these two would hardly think twice about disposing of the Morgan king. Whatever Remi's intentions, Seth's one balancing thought is that the nephews have never been quite bright enough for the banking side of things. They fit in much better with the thugs.

  The host disappears, and the door clicks shut. Remi's gaze is an answering calculation, slipping to make solid contact with Tinney. Seth will never know what sentiments pass between the two older men, and it may be the first time ever that he'd rather not know. That the neighbor king would show such attention to security is telling that there's something, but Seth would rather leave it alone, along with the fact that the neighbor king also has two security guards to Seth's one. He'd take Tinney's experience any day.

  The bell rings as they take their seats. Tinney steps back, again flanking Seth's left shoulder at a respectable distance. The server enters, a serious man in his forties. Seth lets his eyes skate over the menu with proper disinterest. He orders an oaked chardonnay and sushi—— the King Dragon roll. Remi orders a filet mignon, rare.

  Seth thanks the man. Remi does not.

  When the door closes again, the kings lock eyes. The setting has eased Seth's nerves, all the pomp and to-do that he's used to, reminding him of who he is; a brat-born-king. With an army of dead behind him, it's easy to ignore the thug twins, and it's easy to hold a blank mask.

  “Thank you for meeting me. I know your schedule is demanding,” Seth says, finally breaking the thick silence with formality.

  Remi makes a close-lipped smile, tiny and without humor. He says, “When you're the boss, it's not as hard as one might think to rearrange your schedule. Something with which you're familiar, as I recall.”

  A back-handed blow, a minor jab at Seth's antics with the board meeting that derailed Mikie's best-laid plans. Is it a jab, or a nod in the same direction?

  Seth smiles either way, a modest smirk, but one tinged with mischief—a flash of the brat. The bell rings, and Seth relaxes against the back of his chair. The waiter sets down his wine and a glass of water, and leaves without a word.

  Seth grabs his glass by the stem, lifts it, and says, “Cheers to that.”

  Remi does not answer the toast, but Seth takes a sip anyway; it's bright and bitter. The smile is gone when he pulls the glass from his lips. He sets the glass down, and holds eye contact.

  He says, “I really do appreciate it. I think both of our families would benefit from a reprieve, a break from all the bullets flying.”

  Remi watches him with that level, shrewd look for an extended moment. This is the way Remi commands a situation. He won't be rushed, won't be intimidated by setting or person. He too takes a sip of his wine, a slow, thorough appreciation of the red. Then he cocks his head slightly to the side, and his dark eyes narrow.

  He says, “It was your family's bullets that started this mess.”

  Seth's fingers twitch against the arm of his chair. Anger wants to rise, like the memory of Nicolette, all dressed up for a dinner party, pointing a gun at him. The brat wants to return. But the point is a valid one, one with an obvious flaw.


  His tone is not quite as relaxed when he says, “Your daughter chose to ally herself against me.”

  Remi goes still, so Seth does too. Tension stitches between them, then out to security.

  Everyone's frozen, waiting for someone to move.

  “You're right,” says Remi.

  Seth is too shocked to respond, and so he still doesn't move. His breath is stuck beneath something heavy on his chest, and his shoulder chooses now to begin a dull ache. He waits in a special breed of agony.

  Remi continues. “She was supposed to marry you. You two were supposed to bring our houses together.”

  Flashes of Caleb's funeral, of Remi's hand on Seth's back. Seth's brow furrows, his calm slipping, and he leans forward.

  “Together in a way that benefited the kings, not the children,” he says tightly.

  Remi doesn't flinch when he says, “As it goes.”

  Rage swells in Seth's chest, forcing out his breath long and strained, but he sits back. Remi is taunting him, testing to see if he will be the child Remi knows, or the man who walked with head high into Remi's bank.

  Seth's features reset, level as his temper dissipates a little. The child feels the rage of helplessness against the truth, but the man recognizes that it is truth. He and Nicolette were practically bred for that alliance.

  The bell rings, shrill against the tension in the small space. The waiter enters with a tray containing their lunches. He serves Remi, then Seth, perhaps rushing his presentation a bit. Anyone with a moderate IQ would not want to be in this room any longer than they had to.

  Remi takes the time to cut a chunk of bloody filet, and enjoy it. He eyes Seth as he chews, watches Seth stare down at the sushi without moving to take a bite. Finally, the Morgan son's eyes lift again to meet his. Remi swallows.

  He says, “It was her choice to come back after Cuba. She had some impressive demands from your family. Michael agreed.”

  “He agreed on behalf of a throne that wasn't his,” Seth says, somehow steadying his hand as he picks up his chopsticks.

  A predatory smile tugs Remi's mouth into something resembling pity. He takes another bite. He dabs his mouth with his cloth napkin, and says, “Yes, unfortunately Mikie wasn't smart enough to handle the throne. He was never cut out for it like Gabe.”

  Seth pauses, his chopsticks poised over his King Dragon roll, and he glances at Remi. It's a forward thing to say in this formal setting, but it rings truer than Seth would like. So maybe Mikie thought Seth was the dumb little brother, too, the one who would be easier to control. All at a point when Caleb had already outsmarted him.

  He sets down the chopsticks, still without eating, and favors, instead, his wine. There's a familiar warmth in his cheeks associated with the alcohol, and it fights off the icy hatred that wants to encase his emotions.

  He says, “And yet you chose to work with Mikie anyway.”

  Remi is ever at ease, slicing a piece of asparagus in half with his steak knife. He eats as though the whole world will wait, chewing with the same precision as he had the raw meat.

  He doesn't look back to Seth when he says, “Would you expect me to put my business on hold until your triumphant return? Your brother did.”

  Again, Seth's insides wrap around themselves, so that the thought of eating nearly makes him gag. This is the difference in age. Remi's fortitude is iron; Seth's is as brittle as tin.

  “Of course not,” Seth says, so quietly.

  “You are quick to call me a villain for preserving what I have built. Yet here you are, begging for the sake of what's left of your empire,” says Remi, gesturing across the table as though he, too, can see Seth's ghosts.

  Seth's fingers tighten on the stem of his glass. He says through a tight jaw, “Did you call it begging when you sat down with my father?”

  Remi lifts an eyebrow, almost lazily. Almost. That coldly amused smirk returns. He says,

  “It never was with him.”

  Seth finds himself leaning forward again, but it's not violence that wants to rise. No, this time he wants to be heard; he wants his presence to be felt. And so it's not anger that hardens his features, it's the determination to maintain his shit. An offhand thought of the Buddha in Rama's office strings an unexpected calm through his thoughts.

  His voice is steady when he says, “Then give me a chance to be like him. Don't write me off as Mikie's pawn, because you damn well know better. You knew it at Caleb's funeral. That's why you tried to put me in line.”

  Remi has nearly finished his steak. Seth hasn't touched his sushi. The Oliver king pins the younger with a heavy stare. He drops his napkin into his lap, sets down his fork, and also leans forward.

  He says, “That's exactly why I'm here, Seth. I want to see what you've got. I want to know if you have learned anything at all from your father. My wife's call for retribution is the madness of a woman who has lost a child, but I won't act so brashly. So I'm here to see. Can you handle the weight of your crown, as your uncle could not?”

  Seth's eyes widen, despite himself. In some strange, off-putting way, the words feel like a lecture from Gabriel Morgan himself. Seth suddenly feels the urge to turn to Tinney, to seek guidance from the generation that adored his dad. But a king can't show doubt, can't look to an elder in the presence of a neighboring court.

  “I know that Dad would do what's best for the family, and that what's best is to make peace that we can both benefit from,” Seth says, his expression holding stoically. Let there be no doubt in his sincerity.

  Remi has taken to his last bite of filet, and he holds eye contact as he eviscerates it. He plays the moment with expertise, and ease, and he washes down his bite with a long drink of wine. The air in the room is so thick it's hard to breathe. Remi wipes his mouth, and leaves the napkin on the plate.

  His face is unreadable, as is his tone, when he says, “I will grant you a truce, Seth. Because I believe you. I want to see you prove it. Let it be understood that this is not a deal done in blood. If you choose to move against me, no amount of money in the world will save your family.”

  Remi stands, so Seth does the same. The twins shift, scowling at Seth, who makes no movements but to reach an open hand across the table again. He says, “I have no reason to move against you, save to keep anyone else from dying.”

  Remi glances coldly at Seth's hand, but he accepts. The grip is hard, and it strings familiar pain through the barely healed break below his elbow. He doesn't show that it hurts.

  “Good day then,” says Remi, and he leaves the room, the twins trailing him and still shooting heated glares at the modest Morgan entourage.

  When the door closes, Seth sinks back into his chair, his tension and apprehension leaking from him in a sigh. He bumps his shoulder against the wood, and hisses his pain. His nerves shudder from his center out, and he feels like the world's about to shake apart.

  Tinney steps up to the chair, casting a concerned look at his king. He half expects to see the little boy, staring up at him for guidance. But he doesn't, he sees his best friend so many years ago, when the stress came out where no one could see. No one but Tinney, or Emilio.

  “Are you going to eat?” Tinney asks.

  Seth takes another shaky breath, and sits up. He says, “No, do you want it?”

  “I don't eat sushi,” Tinney says flatly. “Are you ready?”

  Seth stares down at the brightly colored food for a forlorn moment. Then he nods. “Yeah.

  Let's go.”

  Chapter 9. Upstate New York. October 10th.

  Rama's Dark Eyes Are Wide as he watches the expansive forest pass by around them. Seth's Bentley winds along the long road to the state's -best-kept secret. The resort is called Valhalla, and it's nestled at the base of a mountain, on the shore of a lake. He hears Seth chuckle beside him, but he ignores it. There is something so peaceful about a forest. With a pang, he realizes that he misses home, and the honesty in the criminal world of Bangkok. Seth says, “You look like you've never seen a bu
nch of trees before.”

  Rama continues to refuse the king his attention. Seth isn't trying to be cruel, at least Rama is fairly sure he's not, but the words sting.

  His breath creates condensation on the glass when he quietly says, “The trees of your parks are restrained by concrete and exhaust. Here, they're free.”

  Seth quiets, and Rama hears him moving. Rama hasn't asked why Seth chose to leave Emma behind. He won't. There are so many questions he won't ask. Why is she pushing him away, holding up such a cold mask? What happened in Santa Lucia? What else does he have to do to prove to her that he's real?

  Then, he gets it. Seth is smart. He's caught the tension between his cousin and his ally. Could this be his way of expressing concern? Rama hears the click of lighter, and his attention betrays him.

  He turns in time to see Seth raise a lighter to the end of a joint, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but his lips curling into a grin. Rama's eyes widen, though they are also hidden. Just when he thought he was getting to know the youngest Morgan brother, this.

  Who is this?

  Seth takes a couple puffs, holds the last one. And he extends the joint across the seat to Rama. Rama's memory flashes back to Caleb, in slacks and a button-down, guns strapped in place, passing Rama a joint in the back of a Mercedes limo. He sees himself accept, but he is momentarily numb. He presses it to his lips and inhales. He lets his eyes slide closed, and feels the tension begin to creep from his muscles.

  Suddenly, he gets it. Somewhere on that exotic beach, Seth found peace through this simple, magnificent plant. He's done the same damn thing many times. He and Caleb used to smoke together all the time. Like everything else, that seems like forever ago. Maybe, he thinks, he and Seth are not so different.

  He passes the joint, letting his gaze sweep down Seth's easy posture, the cocky way he sprawls in the seat. His suit jacket is in the seat between them. His black guns rest in a double shoulder holster, over a burnt orange silk shirt. He's not wearing a tie, and the top two buttons of the shirt are open. Buddha help me.