Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  She wonders, vaguely, if this is why Tinney was so close to Gabe. Guarding another, seeing the powerful at their most vulnerable—it breeds a special sort of intimacy that she hadn’t expected.

  Seth has noticed her mood. Of course he’s noticed—he notices everything about her, even when she tries to shield him.

  “My father loved it here. When things got especially bad between him and Beth—after Isaac died—he came here. I remember visiting him here, and listening to him and Uncle Gabe talk horses in the stables, and business when they thought I was asleep on the couch.” Her voice is wistful, and lonely. “I felt closer to them here. Because my favorite memories of Daddy were here. And I was so young when he died that I don’t have many memories.” Dom watches her and she gives him a bleak smile. “If there are any answers, we’ll find them here.”

  “Is that what we’re looking for? Answers?” he asks softly.

  She doesn’t answer his question, but instead pops open the door of the rusty red BMW. It’s as far from the black Bentleys the family uses as Dom could find, and he flatly refused to take her out of the city in anything recognizable.

  Even this is dangerous—the Olivers are a threat no matter what peace Seth has negotiated, and she is their target.

  It’s a quiet, steady thought in the back of his mind that if anything happens to her, his will be the first life Seth demands as recompense.

  It’s less disturbing then it probably should be.

  He flanks Emma as she hurries across the wide drive and up the porch steps. The house has an understated plantation feel to it that is more appropriate in the Deep South, or a Kentucky farm. The quiet stables in the back, the long lines of black fence, all do their best to support that feel.

  “Do you still keep horses?”

  Emma tosses a look over her shoulder. “Where do you think our racers come from?”

  Her smile fades when they step into the house. It’s quiet and dusty, clearly undisturbed for a long time. She beelines for the office—if anything else in this empty house intrigues her, she’s willing to wait for the moment.

  “Emma, I need to check the house,” Dom says quietly.

  She sits at the desk, impossibly small in the desk chair—or maybe that is just the feeling of being in her childhood haunt—and tugs her gun out of the side holster. She’s taken to wearing it that way, under her coat, now that the weather has changed. “I’m fine,” she says quietly, and turns her attention to the desk.

  Emma barely registers Dom leaving. There is a slight smudge on the desk, a mess of wax and a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.

  Caleb was here before his death.

  Sometimes, she feels like she will never quite lose the ghost of the golden prince. And when she thinks that, she immediately feels guilty.

  She is one step behind him, always, chasing what he knew. She wonders if this is how Seth felt, uncovering Caleb’s secrets.

  The desk is empty. No papers or receipts, nothing that will tell her anything about her father or the affair. Nothing that says where the friendship with Uncle Gabe soured so much that it ended with two dead bodies.

  She doesn’t know why she expected something. A pointing sign, or a brightly lit corner containing the entire sordid story.

  Dom comes back and leans against the wall, watching her.

  She shifts out of the seat and paces the length of the room. There is nowhere else to search. No other home or family of her father’s to ask. There is only this and the wild hope.

  She drifts out of the office, and down the hall, to the library. How many times has she curled in the big window seat with a puzzle or a doll, as Gabe and Emilio talked in the corner? Or lain drawing on the floor while he wrote in—— Emma goes still. “The journals,” she breathes.

  Dom bumps into her, and Emma clutches his arm. “Daddy wrote in journals. He didn’t do it a lot—and never where other people could see him. But he did. They have to be here.”

  “Check the bookshelves?”

  “No. Mother would have searched them when he first died. Somewhere else.”

  There is a quiet pause. Dom’s eyes scan the room, skimming over the picture frames. She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t hide it there—it’s too obvious.”

  She sits in the window seat, curling her legs up and shifting the musty old pillows until they cushion her perfectly. It’s odd, behind here, in this window of her childhood. It feels familiar and too tight, like a favorite shoe she has outgrown.

  Her heel hits the wood paneling. Emma frowns, and kicks it again. The same noise echoes back emptily. Dom straightens out of his slouch, but she’s already moving.

  The seat lifts away, and Dom catches it as it wobbles. Emma stares down. How did she forget this—the hidey-hole where she kept all her treasures, where Emilio hid toys for her to find when she arrived. It’s empty, but once upon a time, it was full to bursting with toys and the things a small girl would love.

  Now, there is only a small picture, and an envelope.

  She lifts them out with trembling fingers. Brushes the dust away. She flushes, staring at the picture. Because there is no doubt that the affair happened, that everything Caleb said is true.

  Not with this. She closes her eyes, not able to look at it.

  Instead, she opens the old envelope. It crinkles and rattles. A key falls out, and a business card.

  New York Bank and Trust.

  There is a number on the back, and nothing else. Someone left this for her, someone who knew her father well enough to have a key to his security box. Someone who knew where to put it so she would find it.

  Fear squeezes her chest, and she pockets the card and the key. Folds the picture in half and shoves it into the envelope before passing it to Dom. “Burn that.”

  She tugs her coat straight, the cool weight of her gun on her side comforting.

  Dom pauses on the driveway as she slides into the beater. She flips her sunglasses down, and stares into nothing as he burns the picture.

  She isn’t chasing Caleb’s ghost. Not anymore. Whoever left this clue, it wasn’t Caleb.

  He would never have left a picture of his mother behind. She can feel the key pressing into her leg. And wonders what secrets her father will reveal next.

  Chapter 18. Graystone Apartments. New York City. November 10th

  The Penthouse Overlooks the Park, and just now, it is dark and quiet. Seth prowls through the living room silently. Emma has been quiet and withdrawn since the lawyer visited her. She hasn’t shared what’s on her mind, and he wants to push her. He’s waited for her to confide in him—they agreed that there was no place for secrets. He’s tired of waiting.

  Emma steps off the elevator, her head down, immersed in the reports Kai delivered as she left the office. For a few seconds, he can watch her—the tilt of her head and the way her shoulders relax as she pauses in the hall to step out of her heels. Barefoot, still carrying her briefcase, she looks for all the world like a little girl playing dress up.

  He moves quietly and her head snaps up, eyes narrowed. One hand twitches toward her hip, the gun she wears, and he steps out of the kitchen.

  Her shoulders sag with relief as she lets the report close, and she frowns at him.

  “What are you doing, Seth?”

  “You can't be unaware when you enter a room, Em. It's dangerous.”

  She wrinkles her nose, stepping past him. “Do we have to do this? I'm tired.”

  “Do what?”

  She makes a vague motion with her hand. “Lessons. It feels like every time I turn around, you’re teaching me something, or Rama is, and I'm exhausted.” She’s quiet for a moment, and then, plaintively, “Am I such a bad queen?"

  He jerks, startled. “Is that what you think?”

  She shrugs, dropping her briefcase on the marble countertop. “What should I think?” Seth twists to follow her. “Emma.” His tone is slightly admonishing.

  She ignores the quiet admonition and selects a bottle from the wine ra
ck. He watches as she pours a glass and extends it to him silently. She pours another and then turns to him, taking the first sip as she watches him.

  She doesn't cringe at the bitter red, and he realizes again that she's growing up. It's easy to forget sometimes, but occasionally she'll do something and it hits harder. Watching her in her own space, occupying it with negligent grace, her eyes quietly challenging—he can’t forget it today, and it hurts suddenly as it hits him again how much he missed while he was gone. Who she is, who she is becoming—he can shape and teach. But the foundation was set while he was in a foreign court, by a brother they both miss.

  “No lessons, Em. Not today.”

  She pauses in the middle of sipping her wine, suddenly tense. “What's wrong?”

  They have spent too much time living on the edge of danger. Her first instinct demands something is wrong—Seth doesn't have time to be here unless there is a crisis.

  He shifts, prowling to the sprawling view of Central Park, his thoughts circling.

  “What did you and Caleb do?”

  He watches her eyes go moody at the mention of Caleb. “Why?”

  “He was your confidant for two years. Is it so unusual for me to ask?”

  She shrugs, uncomfortable. Talking about Caleb feels strange, like stretching a muscle stiff from disuse. And there is the new knowledge weighing on her, changing every memory she has of him. “He'd pick me up from school. Not all the time—maybe once a week.”

  Seth takes a sip of his drink, waiting. “Sometimes, he'd take me with him. He hated the office, so he did almost all his work on the streets. We'd go to little cafés and I'd do homework while he met with his division or clients. He never wanted to take me on runs—said it was too dangerous.” She smirks as Seth's grip tightens on his wine glass.

  “He taught you the business.” Seth says, incredulous.

  “Some. As much as he felt was safe. He had a preoccupation with keeping me safe.”

  A wave of sadness hits her. How much of that was natural male Morgan protectiveness they’d shown her entire life, and how much was for the half-sister he had just discovered?

  “It changed,” she murmurs, and Seth steps away from the window, coming closer. “Right before he left—about nine months before you came home, how he was with me changed.”

  “He avoided you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. If anything, he came by more. To Mother's house, when she wasn't there, and he took me to his place a lot.”

  “What did you do?”

  She shrugs. “Ate bad take out. Watched movies. Nothing, really. It wasn't about doing something; it was about being there.”

  Seth sighs. “He believed in the value of family.”

  She nods, the tight pain in her chest blooming. She steps away from the counter. “I'm going to change,” she says. Her voice wobbles a tiny bit and Seth's eyes narrow. Why does it feel like she is shaking apart? The stress from the Oliver situation shouldn't be affecting her this much.

  “He loved you,” he says.

  She goes still, standing in the doorway to the back of her apartment. “Caleb loved us both,” she says, and retreats.

  Her hands are shaking as she reaches her bedroom. There doesn't appear to be a reason for Seth's presence, but he doesn't do this—there is too much demanding his attention for him to spend an evening in her apartment.

  She strips out of the pencil skirt and jacket, leaving her thin tank top and removing her thigh holster before pulling on a pair of yoga pants. She tugs her hair into a ponytail and pads back out to the living room. Seth is on the phone, his back to her as she enters and she goes to the couch, curling there and watching.

  He’s smiling when he hangs up, a smirk she recognizes. Her blood heats and she hesitates, watching him. “Where's the bar?” he asks.

  She sniffs. “What makes you think I have one?”

  He laughs. “You’re a Morgan.”

  He doesn’t wait for her response, just moves past her. She lets her head fall back on the couch, watching him stalk through the penthouse. She loses sight of him as he hits the formal dining room, stark and barren in its unused state. There is a soft exclamation, and then the clink of glasses. Seth is grinning when he returns.

  This is a bad idea, she thinks. Seth is at his most dangerous when he is like this, charming and carefree and completely oblivious to her.

  He sits down on the couch next to her and pours two shots. “What are you doing?” she asks, amused.

  “We,” he corrects firmly, “are taking the night off. And getting drunk. Dinner will be here soon.”

  “What did you order?” she asks, ignoring the shot of rum. He nudges it toward her and she huffs, “I don’t want it, Seth.”

  His expression turns pleading. “Don’t make me drink alone, sweetheart.”

  She stares, her expression steely and his a cocky assurance that she won’t turn him down—of course she won’t.

  Isn’t this the cousin she missed while he was gone? The carefree cousin cloaked in danger and sexier because of it? The cousin she’s missed since they returned from their island hideaway, and all the pressures of the syndicate engulfed them both.

  With a sigh, she reaches for the shot. His eyes sparkle and she shakes her head.

  “Bad influence,” she mutters, before throwing it back. Seth laughs, a dark noise that ripples across her skin like warm water, and follows suit.

  She leans across him to reach for the files she was reading and he catches her hand.

  “Nope. No work tonight.”

  “Seth!” she protests, and he gives her a quelling look. She sighs and looks out the window. Seth lazily clicks through a few channels and settles on an old sitcom. He drops the remote and leans forward, wincing a little as he tugs a bag of weed out of his pocket. She makes a disgruntled noise and swipes the bag, crossing her legs under her as she preps the weed. He watches her, amused.

  “Caleb taught me,” she says by way of explanation.

  For a few minutes, they sit in silence as she quickly and efficiently rolls two joints. There is a soft buzz from the hall, and Seth comes alert, rising to his feet and plucking one of his guns from the coffee table. She smirks as he stalks into the foyer. She hears the elevator doors slide open and the guard from the lobby talking to him. A few seconds later, Seth calls, “Do you want plates?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

  He comes back with two plates of greasy pizza and calzones. Her heart twists—he’s trying to give her back some of that ease she had with Caleb. He can’t—but she won’t tell him that. She blinks hard and forces a smile.

  “Smoke first,” she says, pouring another round of shots.

  Seth grins and throws the shot back, plucking the joint from Emma’s fingers and lighting it. He draws on the joint deeply, his eyes closing. She watches from the corner of her eye. There is something incredibly attractive about Seth smoking. She shakes her head hard, and pours another shot.

  “What’s going on with Rama?” he asks, leaning back against the deep couch.

  Emma picks at the pizza, glancing at him from under her lashes. “What makes you think anything is?”

  “You’ve been skittish all week. Something happened.”

  She hesitates—Rama hasn’t told Seth about the tattoo. She stands, walking to her bookcase and picking up the small present from Rama. It’s been sitting there, waiting for her to do something, for over a week. She tosses the box lightly and Seth catches it midair. He opens it and she watches his expression stutter, shock flitting across it before settling into an impassive mask.

  “He gave you his syndicate’s mark. Did he ask you to get a tattoo?”

  “No,” she says shortly. “But he did.”

  Now shock does fill his face, “He took our mark? The snake?”

  “Yes. As proof of his loyalty to us.”

  Seth’s gaze narrows, and he hits the joint again as she comes back to the couch, sitting next to him. She grabs it from his fin
gers and he shakes his head.

  “It’s not loyalty to us. It’s to you.”

  “Does it matter?” she asks.

  “I think so, since it’s clearly disturbing you.”

  She gives him a glare that holds no heat, and glances pointedly at his shoulder, changing the subject. “What did the doctor say?”

  He shrugs and she exhales a stream of smoke, some of her nerves loosening. “It’s slow, but it’s healing. He wants me to do some therapy.” Her head comes up, and he smirks.

  “Don’t worry; I will. I’d like to be able to use my arm again.”

  “What kind of therapy?”

  “Swimming. Sessions with a physical therapist, exercises to get back my range of motion and strength. It’s not that big a deal, Em.”

  “It is if you won’t do it on your own.” She leans forward to pour another shot. The weed and alcohol are loosening her limbs and tongue. “You won’t. You never remember to take care of yourself.”

  “That’s what you do,” he says, giving her a boyishly charming smile.

  She hesitates, staring at him. “Take your shot,” she says, ignoring the statement.

  Seth’s eyebrows inch upward, but he doesn’t argue, reaching for the little glass. She sticks her tongue out and steals one of the shots. “Ok. I’m going to change, and we’re going to do your therapy.”

  “Emma,” Seth says, his voice holding the hint of warning.

  She sways a little, a smile dancing in her eyes. It’s the happiest he’s seen her since they came home. He doesn’t want to do anything, but killing that smile isn’t an option. So he relents.

  “Fine.”

  She squeals, and bounces on her toes.

  He waits as she changes, smoking the second joint thoughtfully. She doesn’t take long, returning in a red bikini he remembers from the island with a sheer black cover-up, her hair piled on her head. He glances away—that damn bikini.

  She lists a little to the side as the elevator descends, and Seth tugs her upright. “Are you drunk, Em?”

  “I don’t have the tolerance you do.” She pouts, and he laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they wander out of the elevator and toward the private pool. It’s deserted, the room warm and smelling of chlorine and memories.