by An Latro
Seth's attention flashes toward his cousin. The court training in him rages that she would interrupt a question so obviously directed toward him, but a much more subtle shade of him wonders why the word ‘brother’ alone didn't stop her voice. His suspicion is so hot in his cheeks that the words are on his lips to call her out on it when Havana says, “So you are the one who wrote this financial plan?”
The question surprises both Morgans into momentary silence. Seth could interject, could pick up her slack, but he won't. No, if she wants to step up into the spotlight, she will handle the consequences. She doesn't fumble for long, and if she's terrified of the implications of Havana's question, she does a damn good job of hiding it.
She recovers with the old faithful shy smile, and says, “Yes, sir. Everything was done with both of our approval, but the numbers are my job.”
Havana lifts an eyebrow, and nods with a quiet ‘Hm.’ He retrieves his mimosa and lifts it in cheers.
“Your plan is quite brilliant, Miss Morgan. Well done.” He looks to Seth and adds, “What an asset you have in this one. And if your brother was anything like the two of you, I do wish I could have met him.”
Another string of profanity steamrolls through Seth's brain. Neither Havana nor Emma could know the blow Seth has already taken by the very serious and possibly dangerous fact that he has fucked this kingdom's beloved princess. So neither Havana nor Emma can guess at the gutted sensation that accompanies the simultaneous praise of his protégé and his dead brother. He struggles to breathe steadily through the toast. At length, he says, “We are honored.”
He's managed to eat half his salad, but he hopes that's enough to be polite. His appetite is still somewhere between here and home. He looks instead to the fresh mimosa at his right hand. He only sips at it though. No amount of booze or weed or any other substance on earth could calm the tempest of nerves in his gut. Dad would be ashamed of the wreck I have become.
House girls come to clear their salads and serve them a spread of shrimp, scallops, and lobster over rice, garnished with pineapple. It looks amazing, but still Seth's stomach just turns. He imagines Emma's to be doing the same, because, for some reason, in this misery he values her company. He follows the lead of his host anyway, and takes a bite. The chewing sensation is a mixture of taste buds rejoicing and cocaine rebelling.
Just as he manages to swallow, Havana continues, “I actually like your plan so much that I have decided to send Aleja to New York with you so that we may have a more direct input in the venture's development.”
Seth's fork clangs against his plate, louder than he intends. Aleja smiles at the Morgans. Emma's fork is poised before her mouth, her body very still. Havana watches Seth.
“Of course,” Seth manages to say through the chaos in his gut, forcing a smile. “That would be most helpful.”
Emma bites down on her food, and Seth is sure he can hear her teeth hit metal. Havana makes his modest smile, and says, “Good. She is familiar with all aspects of my empire, and I feel it will be beneficial for you to have a more open channel to me. That is, of course, if you’re allied syndicate will not have any problems with that.”
Seth denies the urge to glance at Emma, to see how she reacts to the mention of the Ratchaphure. He doesn't give her time to interrupt again either, not when it comes to Rama. He says, “Our partners will respect our decision in the matter.”
“Good,” Havana says with a rather more devilish smile. “Very good.”
Chapter 27. Havana's Villa. November 20th
Seth Finds Her In A Small Room that looks untouched. She’s sitting on the bed, her eyes on the floor, unfocused. She's lost in thought.
What does she think about when she’s like this, her mind wandering and her back unguarded?
He shakes the thought and lets the door fall closed with a quick snick. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even move, and his worry kicks up a notch. She’s been distant all day, and quiet.
“Emma?” he says softly. He moves to her side, crouching in front of her. Her palms are wet, catching the tears that spill silently. She’s come out of her dress, her bandaged arm bare in the room, showing a hint of red.
“What happened?” he asks, forcing his tone to remain gentle and unthreatening.
“Rama,” she whispers. “I fought with him.”
Some of the tension in him eases. A lovers’ quarrel is easy enough to fix. Time. “I fought with Nic all the time. Do you remember?”
She rips away from him faster than he can stop her, an explosion of unexpected violence.
“I don’t want to be that.”
The ferocity of her declaration surprises him and he leans back on his heels, watching her. She’s pacing, her entire body taut with anger. “I don’t want to be you and Nic, and worried that the one I love will be the knife in my back. I don’t want what my mother had. Every relationship in our world is fucked. Even you and Vera are all about the power you can give each other. “
He bites down on his sharp response. “We aren’t all dysfunctional, Emma. My parents loved each other. We can find that.”
She laughs before she can stop it, a noise so bitter and mocking it can’t be mistaken for anything else. Seth goes still, staring at her before he rises from the crouch. He feels like he’s walking on glass that is slowly shattering. There is something here, something that he’s not sure he can follow without it changing everything.
“You’ve been keeping a secret from me for a few weeks,” he says, hoarsely.
Emma stares at him, and he doesn’t see a trace of the shy, pampered princess he grew up doting on, protecting, coaxing smiles from. Somewhere along the way, she’s lost what remained of that girl, and a woman stares back at him now. One with worried eyes and a tired stoop to her shoulders. “I haven’t meant to keep it from you. I just haven’t been sure how to tell you.”
He sits on the bed so that his back is to the wall, his legs propped up. She lets out a sigh and comes to sit next to him. The satin sheets are cool under his fingers, her skin warm where it brushes his arm. Red-gold curls hang over one shoulder, and he resists the urge to smooth them down, to draw her against him and ignore wherever this conversation is going.
“I look like Caleb.”
It’s so out of left field, he doesn’t quite comprehend what she’s said for a few seconds.
Then she twists her head to look at him, with eyes that are a mirror of Caleb’s, but never that hard or cynical. “Emma?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why?” she asks softly. He shrugs, and she faces him. “I have my father’s eyes, Seth.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he does, his voice comes out edged in fury and arrogance. “Say it, Emma. Don’t dance around it. Fucking say it.”
She pales, and then she glares, because he’s lashing out and she isn’t the enemy. Furious, she slides away from him.
“I didn’t do this. And it wasn’t my idea to get a fucking letter from the dead. So maybe cut me a little fucking slack.”
Emma slaps him on the chest with the envelope, wrinkled now from being folded and worried by her anxious fingers. But not so much so that he can’t read his brother’s scrawl perfectly.
Seth hesitates once more, a final time, before he slides the papers out and scans them.
She watches nervously, taking in his face and the slow tightening of his shoulders as he reads.
His fingers tighten on the paper, and she makes an involuntary noise, soft protest, before she reaches for the letter. His eyes snap up to her, furious and disbelieving, but he surrenders the papers. She smooths the wrinkles out and he stares into nothing.
“This is why you asked about the Marzetti,” he says. She doesn’t answer—doesn’t need to. “Jesus Christ, he’s saying Dad had mom killed.”
Emma doesn’t say anything—there is nothing to say that won’t set him off, nothing she hasn’t struggled with herself. She waits as he stands, running a hand through his hair. There is anger
and agitation in his posture that makes her nervous, but she sits quiet and still. “How long have you known?”
“Oleander came to see me the week we got back from Santa Lucia.”
“That bastard kept a lot of Caleb’s secrets,” Seth murmurs, staring into space.
“I went to the brownstone. And the country house—she kept a lot of Daddy’s things in storage there.”
His eyes find hers, darkening, and she shrugs. “Dom went with me.”
Seth sighs. Standing by the window, he stares at the place that has been his home more than his own syndicate for so long. “It makes sense, why he took care of me. Why he taught me,” she says softly, her voice sad.
“He taught you because you’re family, Emma. Even without this, he would have taught you. You are a Morgan first and forever.”
She moves to where he stands, leaning against the window. Seth stares at her for a moment, and the echoes of Caleb are there, and heartbreaking.
“This changes everything, Emma,” he says, and his voice is very tired.
Everything he knows about his father and family. About the clan who killed his father.
About his brother and his motivations, and Emma’s place in it all. His head aches, a reminder of the night before and what drove him to Emma in the first place.
Emma, always aware of the things that weigh on him, nudges his shoulder gently with her own. “This is our secret for now. The only person who knows is my mother, and she would never admit that my father was having an affair.”
She’s quiet, and then, “Do you think Gabe ordered a hit on his best friend?”
Seth shakes his head, but it’s less denial than it is refusal to consider it. “We have more pressing concerns.”
Her eyebrows go up, startled, and Seth grimaces. “Aleja.”
“You didn’t,” she breathes, and Seth gives her a dour look. A laugh, ridiculous and inappropriate, bubbles up and she covers her mouth. He looks so disgusted and put out.
“I thought she was one of the house girls.”
Emma remembers the regal woman who moved with the grace of a dancer and the hunting glide of a panther. She disliked her on sight, but there is something undeniably intriguing about her. She snorts. “You didn’t think at all.”
Seth gives her a dark look, and she smiles sweetly. “How much of a problem will this be? Will Papa be angry?”
“That I fucked his daughter like a whore?” Seth says, incredulous.
“Maybe don’t phrase it like that,” she says dryly. “Will she tell him?”
“No. I don’t know what she will do, but telling her father would destroy the alliance, and she can’t want that. The family has too much invested in our syndicate to jeopardize it over a meaningless fuck. Besides, she came on to me. You know how royals are, always wanting their trophies.”
Emma stares for a long time, and then nods. He's being overly casual, but she decides to let him have it. He looks at her from the corner of one eye. “What did you and Rama fight about?”
“You.”
His eyebrows go up. He turns to look at her, and she meets his gaze head on, honest. Not hiding. “You come first, Seth. The family does. It always will. He’s jealous.”
The phantom of that kiss, fueled by alcohol and weed, rises between them, and she waits for him to address it, but he doesn’t. Maybe they have had enough confessions for one day.
“Do you know that Caleb took our mark?” Seth says softly.
She nods. It was a badly kept secret—something that had enraged Gabe—that the golden prince had taken the mark, and she had seen her cousin shirtless enough to know that the snake had been inked on his chest. Emma stares at him, a quiet question in her eyes. Seth smiles, tugs lightly on one lock of her hair. “That’s something you have in common with your brother, Emma. Your loyalty to the family.”
Chapter 28. Morgan Commerce Building. New York City. November 22nd
Tinney Clears His Throat. When he does, Seth realizes he is staring at one of the huge, leafy plants that surround them. How long has he been gazing off like that? He shakes himself from the direction his thoughts have taken. He was thinking of Cuba again.
Isn't that why he requested that he and Tinney meet here, in the glassed-in, rooftop garden of the Commerce Building? Outside, New York is a gray churning sky and bitter cold. In here, the temperature is in the high seventies, the humidity is a gentle kiss against his skin, and the sub-tropical plants are so vibrant.
The last time he was here, it was for a board meeting, the one in which he made the stand that led to the toppling of his uncle's regime. Even so, those memories don't have his thoughts. No, he's thinking about the constant comfort of the waves, the warmth of Latin hospitality, and the heat.
He focuses his attention back to his head of security. Of course Tinney would notice that far-away feeling that creeps into Seth's eyes. Seth says, “I'm sorry.”
They are situated near the edge of the garden, close to the windows, a table between them bearing folders and reports, and all the pieces of the world Seth is trying so valiantly to keep afloat. A bottle of scotch sits beside them, untouched.
Tinney closes the folder in his hands with a closed-lipped smile. He is dressed down in a black sweater and jeans, far more casual than most have ever seen him. He did at Seth's request that his post-Cuba briefing be as informal as possible. Seth has chosen to wear a cotton button-up with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of dark jeans. Tinney sets the folder aside and says, “Sometimes you look so much like Gabe that I have to remind myself this isn't twenty years ago.”
Seth stills. The eye contact is already established, so he knows he can't save himself by looking away. His brown eyes drop wide, and Tinney's words are like needles in his brain. How could he think of Cuba at a time like this? Because it's the only part of his world that isn't a mystery. Sprawling beaches and keys of blow aren't complicated. Morgan family history and current Morgan enterprise——that's a maze of locked doors and skeletons. Then, the two worlds collide in his mind with thoughts of that last conversation with Emma, before they came home.
What a mess, indeed.
He ignores the paperwork between them and looks to the most solid link to the past he knows. Sure, Tinney would know; he would know everything. All the secrets and the motivations and the truth about the past for which Seth has been desperately searching. Yet not until now does Seth realize that the answers he's been looking for have been in front of him the whole time. Now he realizes that he doesn't know jack-shit about the man his father trusted.
The Morgan son snatches the scotch off the table. This, something as simple as a drink between men, and Seth has never shared one with Tinney. He pours two drinks and sets one in front of Tinney. His head of security eyes the glass, his expression unreadable in the wake of a faded smile. Surely a man as highly trained as he is has already read the signs: Seth's rebellion against meeting in an office, his wistful eyes wandering to the small-scale jungle around them, his father's—and his brother's—drink of choice. Seth says, “I'm sure you used to drink with him.”
He nods, says, “I did.”
Tinney is as motionless as the greenery, so that if it weren't just the two of them, he could fade into the background. Yet, he is suddenly a main player on the stage.
Seth makes a rueful smirk, and leans back against the chair. The lust for inebriation that he might have shown in his youth is not to be found. No, he leaves his liquor untouched, has ignored it until now. At that board meeting, in this place, Mikie accused Seth of an inability to balance his work and his play. Yet now, just as then, he is sober, and it doesn't change anything. Mikie is dead, and Seth's emotions still possess him, just as his demons do. The tightrope routine grows ever more intricate.
He says, “Will you drink with me?”
He is staring at a man who may know him better than anyone else left alive. He's face-to-face with a man who was childhood friends with his dad. In everything he thought he learned, he still
knows so little.
Tinney's deadpan features soften, and he retrieves his smile, a smile Seth has seldom seen. Tinney says, “I will.”
Seth raises his tumbler. Tinney lifts his glass, all smooth grace, a habit older than the king he serves, and they drink. The scotch is a hot accent to the winter outside, and it burns all the way down Seth's esophagus. He only manages not to grimace because he's shot a man in the head. Such a pale comparison to the things Tinney has seen.
Tinney lets the smallest grimace play across his face. Perhaps scotch is not his drink of choice either. Or maybe the past is as heavy to him as it is for Seth. Maybe it's heavier. Maybe not.
The brat prince preens, kicks dirt at whoever is behind him. He says, “I guess protocol demands that you do.”
It's not really a jab at Tinney; they both know as much. But it's rude, and it's childish. It's everything Seth has come from, everything he has worked to rise above—just a ghost haunting him, along with his family and his idea of love. It's just a defense mechanism that Tinney is not obliged to accept.
The family assassin lets his glass thud on the wooden table, and he leans forward, one forearm resting on the table edge. He levels a dark glare at the boy-king, and says, “You would presume so.”
Seth's stomach flops, sends the scotch sloshing, and he is suddenly a child again. His limbs freeze. He feels the instant guilt of childhood, the knowledge that he has broken so many rules, but he doesn't know for which he's been caught. His mouth goes dry, and the feeling is so vivid, he expects his brother to sweep in at any moment and save the day. He expects his dad to come ground him. He blinks. Damn.
He looks away, at the windows. Doing so won't help him get out of his insolence, but the monochrome world of cloud cover and skyscrapers is a perfect scale of his internal conflict. The silence ticks by, and Tinney is content to let his words linger on. Seth is content to suffer them. And just like some strange windfall, the sky begins to spit fat snowflakes onto the city. It comes in a flurry, and Seth is enrapt as it splats against the glass and starts to melt.