by An Latro
Havana offers the first line to Emma, extending a glass straw into the space between them with a precise manner that will not be rushed. She isn't breathing as she accepts. But she isn't shaking either as she fields his direct attention.
“Thank you,” she says just above a whisper.
She holds her delicate curls out of the way over one shoulder as she has done a million times. As she leans forward, the delicious dip in the front of her dress falls forward to reveal just a hint of those barely legal breasts.
Seth focuses instead on the line she takes, the smooth way she takes it all, then tilts her head back to let it slide down her throat. She makes a little face, unavoidable, and he thinks of when he did the same thing, all that time ago. This is the stuff that makes you feel like you'll vomit even as you lose feeling in a good portion of your body.
Havana is quite open about watching her technique, so she gives him a tiny smile, just a glimpse of the demure facade she has crafted her entire life. He laughs, wolfish and like the night itself, strewn across cooling sand and heady green. He sends Seth a wry smile and says “She is your creature indeed.”
He motions for Emma to give the next to Seth.
Seth answers with his own predatory smile, and nods his appreciation to the older man. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't give himself time to think of how he hasn't done blow since the night they killed Mikie.
The stuff is like fire in his veins, instant and consuming, and his body comes to life in a dangerous way. He takes a long breath as his heart starts to race.
The house girl returns as Seth hands the straw back. She begins arranging their drinks on the table, never speaking or looking them in the eye. Havana ignores her and takes his line. He puts the stuff away as they sip their rum. He lifts his glass, and says, “To the new Morgan
Empire.”
Seth's stomach pits into confusion as the pure coke battles his fortitude. He doesn't show it, though, as he clinks his glass and tips back the iced liquor. He can't taste it.
Part of him wants to watch Emma's every move, just to see how she's handling the stunning beast that is Havana, but Seth knows that paying her so much attention in this situation could only translate to his not trusting her to perform. And from a respectable court member, any internal tension must always remain inside. To show any division now would show weakness, and he can't afford to appear weak. So he keeps his focus trained on his feline host.
To his pleasure and his fear, his move works. Havana's eyes are hot upon him. He sets down his drink, and smooths the front of his shirt in hopes that it will also soothe his nerves. Havana continues, “My condolences on your brother and your uncle.”
Seth's jaw fights to grind, and his gut twists. He hopes his eyes are as flat as they feel, and he says, “It just goes to show that everyone must earn their place, blood or not. That's something I learned here.”
The smile on Havana's lips shifts into something dry, and he lets the silence linger as he searches Seth for . . . something. Seth can't tell if Havana finds what he seeks, but the kingpin looks away, back to the drawer. His movements are an urbane call to an older time, Gabriel Morgan's days, as he extracts a gold cigarette case and clicks it open. He offers first to Seth, who politely declines.
When Havana reaches the case toward Emma, she moves as if pulled by invisible strings. Her movements are ballet as she daintily accepts with a quiet, “Thank you.”
The smile returns to Havana's lips as he lifts his lighter into the space to her. She dips the end of the smoke into the flame as though she's done it a million times. Seth's eyes widen despite his every effort not to show the surprise that wracks his composure. Emma doesn't smoke. He's never seen her smoke, and she's performing like a veteran. Just like Caleb.
He clears his throat as his nasal cavity drains a little. He makes a tiny grimace, hoping the other two are wrapped in the moment enough not to notice. He feels like Emma has punched him in the stomach. She gives him a sidelong glance, accompanied by a smirk to rival his best as she pulls on the filter.
He's earned this retaliation. Every bit of it. Yet he can hardly believe that she'd choose now to lobby her attack, and prove that she's earned the place he just mentioned. Of course she will prove that she can perform under pressure; failure is never an option for her. It runs in the family. He retreats into his rum for a moment of collectivity.
Havana lights his cigarette and his gaze gravitates back to Seth, and he says, “So tell me, what is so important that you left your budding empire a thousand miles behind you to see me?”
Thank fuck, thinks Seth, business. Business is always easier. His calm falls like flowers on the Buddha in Rama's office. He says, “It's actually in attempt to expedite a profitable venture that I come.”
He catches the lift in Havana's right eyebrow.
“It turns out that my uncle had some plans that would redirect some of the family's assets, while conveniently getting me killed under your roof.”
Havana takes a long draw on his cigarette. Emma taps her ash into the crystal ashtray.
The tiny movement makes momentous waves in the tension that builds among the three of them. Seth takes a slow sip.
“Go on,” says Havana.
“Upon review of the plan, I believe we can revise it so that it's still beneficial for everyone involved. I'm here to present that idea to you.”
Again, that sharp calculation returns to Havana's expression. Momentarily, Seth feels like somehow this man will draw out all the darkness that plagues his thoughts. He stands his ground, careful to stay his expression from hardening in determination to keep his shit together.
Havana taps his ash and says, “You are a king now among your people. You do not need permission from me on issues within your empire.”
Emma’s cool demeanor stutters, and she stiffens in Seth's peripheral. She doesn't gasp, but her breath stops. He can feel the tension growing in her. So he says, “I consider it a courtesy to inform you that I'd like to do something that will traffic large amounts of your product, and will involve a third syndicate.”
Havana takes the first drink of his rum. His expression is unreadable, but his attention is intensely trained on Seth. His dark brown liquid stare is like an anchor to Seth's muscles, and Seth must remind himself to keep his breath steady.
Finally, Havana extinguishes his cigarette and says, “You are a soul blessed with wisdom and finesse. A rare thing, so much so that I wonder if you're real.”
He reaches into the drawer again and gets the mirror. He measuredly cuts out three more lines, and all the while a rather more mischievous smile plays on his lips. He knows both Seth and Emma are hanging on his words. This time, he hands the straw toward Seth, simultaneously leveling that keen gaze on the Morgan son.
Havana continues, “But every time I search your eyes for deceit, I only find honesty. You, Seth, are the real deal.”
His accent is like a foreign spice, and Seth finds his name sounds delicious wrapped in the Latin cadence. The magnitude of the praise that has fallen from his mentor's lips nearly stuns him to silence and inertia. He swallows thickly as he forces himself to accept the gift.
His tone is low, steady, almost foreign when he says, “I remember what you told me my last night here, when I was seething against the sand and my pride was broken in my hands. You said someday I'd thank you.” He lets his gaze drift down to the line he's about to take. He says, “I understand that now. And I do.”
Heat is rampant in his cheeks as he quashes the coke. His emotions have escalated to something like a hurricane. The winds are heavy, and the waves are high. He softly closes his eyes as the blow runs its ecstatic course into his bloodstream. The violin drifts back to him, and for a moment he's sure he can feel the waves outside. The vibrations of night bugs brush against him.
He turns to pass the straw to Emma, and finds her totally enrapt with his momentary peace. She covers it quickly, averts her eyes as she accepts. It is the same look she gave him the
ir last night on the beach—wonder at the shred of zen that he has found. He let his guard down, broke his own rule that every setting is a stage, and to always act like someone is watching. He slipped, and in doing so made a stronger play than he could have conceived. She takes the rail, a ready distraction.
Seth rolls his attention back to Havana, whose smirk has turned devilish. He clears his line with easy command. He sniffs a few times, lets the stuff seep. He drains his rum in the next movement.
“Stand up, Seth.”
Seth's eyes widen, but he doesn't hesitate. It takes every ounce of training to pace himself, instead of falling over himself because he can't get up fast enough. There is no other person on earth who makes him as nervous as this one. He leaves his hands abandoned at his sides. Linen rustles against his upper body, and his jeans hang precariously on his hips. He keeps his posture straight, chin up, proud as Havana stands and approaches.
Seth can't move as the older man bridges the gap with his hand, places his fingers under Seth's chin, and brushes his cheekbone with the thumb. Havana says, “I see before me a man, one who came to me as a boy. I see a rightful king. And I see an ally who has earned his place. But where is the passion that drove you into my keep? Where is your fire, Seth?”
Seth can't speak as the storm takes his eyes. All the rage and pain and confusion radiates there, and the words, like punch daggers to his lungs. Havana's smile is softer now, but everpresent. There, now Seth looks like the hell-bent youth that first came here, with his chin tilted up, just waiting for a drop of grace to fall to him. Havana's thumb is slow against Seth's dampened skin. The humidity is like an amplifier of all the emotions and hormones in the room. Havana's voice in so nearly a whisper when he says, “The climb to the top is a tragic one, but let me tell you this; no one will follow a cold king. Mind that you do not lose your soul in an attempt to protect it.”
If Seth was unsure of the raw hunger in Havana before, there's no mistaking it now. He has never hidden his attraction to Seth, but he has never fully acted on it either. For the moment, Seth has forgotten Emma, and New York, and the constant ache in his shoulder. Havana's words are such a close echo of his own father's dying words that his breath hitches in his chest. Again, he feels like he's been hit.
Havana pulls away. “Unfortunately I have some more business to which I must attend before my night is finished, so I have to take my leave. Anything you could possibly need will be provided. You are welcome in my home. I will look over the folder of information you have brought me, and we will meet again for lunch tomorrow.”
He turns to Emma, who stands. He kisses both her cheeks, and says, “It was most lovely to meet you, Miss Morgan.”
“Thank you so much,” she says. “You, as well.”
Then, just as quickly as he appeared, the kingpin is gone, and Emma and Seth are left standing awkwardly. Seth is still staring at the place where Havana was. Both of them are well aware that Havana's last words are an echo of what Seth has already heard from the people he cares about, that he can't shut down his emotions and shove everyone out if he is to be an effective leader.
At length, Seth mechanically sits down. His gaze falls to the mirror Havana left on the table, and his expression waxes forlorn. Emma follows suit, sips at her rum, content not to push him as he sorts through his thoughts.
A knock at the door garners their attention, then a house girl enters. She says, “A party has gathered in the bar. They request your presence, Mr. Morgan.”
Seth looks to Emma, who is watching him, eyes still shrewdly calculating his emotional state. He shrugs and grins. She knows the smile is to cover up his previous thoughts, but he knows that to her, his smile is damn irresistible, and she smiles back.
“Let's go then,” she says. “Introduce me to your friends.”
He glances at her, but doesn't hold the contact, doesn't hold the grin either. He smooths his shirt as he stands. “Let's go then,” he repeats.
Chapter 22. Havana's Villa. November 19th
Cuba Is Different. The party is different, exotic and extravagant in a way that is startling to her, and yet it reminds her of Caleb, when the golden prince would relax with his division. It's loud and rough and lacks the pretentious display that she finds so often in New York.
Seth is different. He's drinking a margarita one of the Cubans shoved at him, a loose smile on his lips. He has an arm around her shoulders as they sit in the center of attention, a silent claim and not terribly subtle order for the Cubans to keep their distance. But for all his easy smiles, she can feel the tension in him, the way he almost vibrates with it as she sits next to him with her wine.
A man slips into the room, the one who greeted them on the docks. Seth shifts next to her and she slides a glance at him sidelong, watching as the tension curls tighter and a grin appears.
Long and lean, that golden sun kissed skin and tousled black hair, and eyes that give him away—no matter how casually he weaves through the crowd, there is a shrewd, attentive mind looking out of those chocolate brown eyes. Still, whoever this is, Seth is genuinely pleased to see him. Emma shifts and sips her wine, watching the other man from under her lowered lashes. He moves with a lithe grace, at home in this place as he stalks through the gathered Cubans to drop into a chair across from them. For a split-second, his dark gaze darts to Emma and she holds it, startled by the intensity there before he looks away, smiling. “You've been busy since you left us, yuma.”
Seth laughs, a low noise that rumbles against her, and answers in easy rolling Spanish.
She shoots Seth a glare that he ignores.
Irritation sparks in her veins and she shifts, scooting away from him a little. The arm around her shoulders tightens, a silent order as he continues talking in that rolling language that is playing havoc on her senses.
So he is aware of her then. The Cuban across from them laughs in response to Seth and she smirks. Leans forward, away from her cousin. The Cuban's eyes slide to her, following the motion as she stretches and puts her empty wine glass down. Her dress shifts a little, the hint of cleavage deepening just a touch, and his eyes skate over the enticing view before he looks back up into her bright blue eyes and shy smile. His eyes widen a little.
Seth's hand is resting at her waist now, and his fingers dig a little before he relaxes and releases her.
“We haven't met,” Miguel says, directing a grin at her. She offers a shy smile, a delicate flush rising in her cheeks, and extends a hand.
“Emma Morgan.”
Miguel sends Seth a quick look and she holds her smile as she hears him, his voice tight and almost hostile. “My cousin and partner. Emma, this is Miguel, a good friend and Havana's nephew.”
Miguel flashes a wide smile and murmurs, “Es un placer conocer a una hermosa Morgan tales.”
She lifts a lazy eyebrow as she leans back and Miguel laughs, a low noise. “You never mentioned such a beautiful cousin, yuma.”
Seth makes a low displeased noise in his throat, and shoots back in Spanish, “Hay muchas cosas que usted no ha mencionado, sobrino. Déjala en paz.”
Emma makes a face, elbows Seth. “Stop that. We don’t all speak Spanish.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Miguel grins at her, slightly apologetic. “Well. Actually, we do.”
Emma makes a tiny pout, and reaches over to snatch Seth’s drink. He doesn’t object as she sips it—but she can feel his gaze, always watchful as she leans back and tucks her legs next to her Miguel watches the two for a long moment, and then produces a blunt. “Smoke with me, Morgan.” There is a bite of authority in his voice that snaps Emma’s eyes up, and she can feel the tension coiling in Seth. She smirks and rises, drawing attention as she sways over to the Cuban prince. Miguel’s gaze darts to Seth and back to Emma as she perches on his knee and loops an arm around his neck. Behind her, she can hear Seth hissing her name, but she ignores him.
Smiles at Miguel, all the natural Morgan charm she rarely uses—the easy sex appeal sh
e watched Caleb wield so often—and Miguel’s attention narrows on her. He shifts, slipping deeper into the chair so that she slides down his knee, and lands against his chest. “What are you doing, princess?”
“Smoking,” she says, a tease in her voice, and his eyebrows climb. She wiggles a lighter in front of him, and he smirks. He glances past her, at Seth, and she sees indecision flicker in
Miguel’s eyes, and without turning, she says, “Seth, do you want to smoke with us?”
There’s a quiet shift, and she finally looks back. Seth’s eyes are trained on her and she offers him a quick, knowing smirk. He’s been quietly taunting her since they arrived, and she allows herself—finally—to acknowledge just how angry she is. His eyes are dark and hooded, but she can see the tension in him, and for a moment—a split-second—she wonders if she is pushing him too hard.
A burst of Spanish and laughter turns his head, and her expression hardens. She turns back to Miguel and he holds up the blunt, a silent offering. “She doesn’t smoke those,” Seth says behind her, and Miguel’s eyes widen at the tone.
Emma knows why—that tone is banked fury. That kind of barely checked violence is startling in this setting.
Emma smirks and shifts on his lap. Miguel eyes his friend for a moment, and then lifts the blunt, pulling on it before tilting his head, almost meeting her lips as he blows a steady stream of smoke. Emma’s hands are braced on his shoulders, and her nails dig a little, a hint of pressure. Miguel’s eyes darken, and he drifts closer to her for a heartbeat, before she giggles and pulls back. Miguel blinks, shaking his head, and Emma sways on his lap and releases a sigh as he extends the blunt to Seth. For a long moment, Seth stares, and Emma finally shifts away from Miguel and stands on unsteady feet. “I need a drink,” she says softly, refusing to meet Seth’s gaze.
Seth watches her trip away from them and his gaze drops to the blunt, still in Miguel’s brown fingers, smoking lightly.