Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  When his dad was around, they were strong, because everything Gabriel Morgan did was to strengthen that foundation: love, friendship, alliances based on the code. They were real at some point. There was a time when siblings would never kill each other, and mothers wouldn't order hits on their daughters. Even Remi Oliver saw it at Caleb's funeral. Seth has stopped believing that Remi meant that, but just now, he thinks maybe he really did. So far, the truce between them has held, and Seth is the only one who can put it all back together.

  He swallows the urge to twitch away from the sting and sound of the tattoo machine. Just take it, because after all of it, he has finally earned the right to wear the mark of his family. He's the fucking king, and he will not be unseated by the greed of his uncle. He will be the man worthy of the snake, and the crown, and he will honor his dead.

  And once he's done that, he'll make it all bigger.

  Caleb was always worthy, regardless of his parents’ transgressions. He earned it a long time ago, and never knew why he had to. And Seth wasn’t’ there for him when he learned the truth, and because of the nature of it, no one was there for Caleb. No one could possibly understand the demons that troubled the golden prince.

  Tears well against his eyelids, he can't stop them, and they roll down into his hair. He doesn't move. His expression remains the mask, except for that telling wet. Here's to you, Caleb, the most infuriating and stubborn asshole I've ever known. The one to always have my back, who beat some humility into me and kept me from becoming a smoker. You were a martyr, died so it wouldn't be me, and you never said a fucking word about it. Maybe you weren't a real Morgan to some of them, but you were still my brother.

  He doesn't say a word during the entire tattoo, so neither does Fitz, not until he sets down his machine, and says, “You're done.”

  Seth opens his eyes, stares up for a moment and realizes that Fitz's eyes are misty, who makes an embarrassed grin and looks away. He says, “Sorry. You were crying, and she was crying, and I'm a big softy, and I got to thinking about your brother.”

  Emma surprises them both by stepping up beside Fitz, and laying a hand on his shoulder. She smiles at the artist, and it's genuine, not the facade she can so easily call upon. Then she looks down at Seth, at the slightly swollen black and gray snake. She says, “It's gorgeous. They both are.”

  Seth stands, faces the mirror. He stares for a long time, until the tears threaten to rise again. Then he nods. Caleb would be proud of him for finally taking it. Emma ambles to his side, and he puts his arm around her. She quietly says, “He would like them.” He can hear the tears in her voice.

  Seth smiles, squeezes her shoulder, and he says, “Yeah. He would.”

  Chapter 30. Morgan Estates. New York City December 1st

  It's Early Afternoon, and the sun has begun its downward arc, so it shines full through the windows behind Seth's desk. His morning was fraught with tense deliberation. Several of the Coast Guard on Syndicate payroll have seemingly organized, and are demanding higher fees for their services. Ripples of defiance have reached the outer rungs of the empire, and even the damn guard peons are testing Seth's age.

  He's so damn young compared to so many of them, those who worked for his father, and then his uncle. How can he blame them? He can't. That's why he lobbied to negotiate, regardless of the vicious cycle that could result. All he can do is show them that he's trying, and all he can do in this quiet, sunny moment is stare out at the city.

  It feels good with his sleek chair's back to his desk, and the lobby beyond. The days and weeks have begun to blur together as momentum builds. His time is filled with meeting after phone call after camera flash, and his rare quiet moments are haunted by hushed rumors and shaky alliances. Always, there are possibilities that Remi Oliver has been lying to his face. The bank tycoon swears by the code that he’s’ ordered no further retribution, and Seth wants to believe that the man will actually honor that code. Then there's still the issue of Emma's mother.

  Seth fingers his double Windsor, his frustration getting the better of him, and his features darken as he rips the thing free. He can already breathe a little better. He drops the expensive silk to the floor, and works loose his top few buttons with his free hand. It's Friday. The weekends have held no meaning since his return. He works every day. Not a single day passes when he can wake up and say, “I'm not the king for today. Business will handle itself.”

  Emma has locked herself away with some financials, which she has taken to doing when she needs space from being the middle point between Seth and Rama. She'll be at it for hours, and not in the mood to enjoy a relaxing afternoon.

  He slips the button of one cuff through its hole, then deftly rolls the sleeve up to his elbow. He suddenly can't stomach the thought of one more serious conversation today. The warmth of the sun is nice, brings a thin sweat to his skin despite the artificial chill of the office.

  He honestly can't remember the last time he took a moment to appreciate something so simple.

  He smirks.

  The chair doesn't make a sound when he spins around and smashes the button on his phone. He's already rolling up his other sleeve.

  “Rissa?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Reschedule this afternoon's meeting with Legal. I'm leaving.”

  The silence is thick on the speaker, then, “Yes sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He snatches his cell off the desk and spins back to the city. New York can be warm sometimes; you just have to find the right perspective. And who better to find perspective? The scarlet-lettered reporter. He taps the phone icon beside her name.

  “Well, if it isn't Prince Charming, who whisks a girl to the ball and then doesn't call for weeks.”

  His smile breaks into full-fledged. Will she always be the only one who isn't scared to talk shit to him?

  “You're a sweetheart as always, Vera.”

  The quiet on her end is telling, both of the effect of her name in his tone, and that she isn't in the newsroom. Then she says, “What could you possibly want now? I never know what to expect. Shall we fly away on a private jet to some island that you own?”

  Her sarcasm is ever-pointed, and it gets him every time. He has to stifle a laugh to say,

  “Do you want to?”

  He can practically hear her scowl, can picture that look in his mind's eye. His cheeks have fired, and he thinks of that morning in Cuba, dick in hand with this impetuous woman as his muse.

  She says, “Oh you grandiose asshole.”

  Now he does laugh, a low growl that vibrates into the phone. He says, “I want to see you.”

  Her voice is so quiet when she answers, “You're impossible. You know that, don't you?”

  He ruffles a hand through his hair, just in case it's behaving at all. He's got her; they both know it. Still, he appreciates her attempt at resistance. He says, “What? You're not working.”

  She huffs, says, “I'm about to go to the gym.”

  He spins around to his office, to the testament of his status. He has everything, yet still he's using everything he's got just to get the girl. Little red lights blink on his phone, lines full of people trying to reach him. He says, “You'd rather go work out than let me take you out?”

  “Is this something that requires a dress? Because this is rather short notice.”

  She puts as much bite into her words as she can manage, but she still doesn't say no. He laughs again, a genuine sound that is almost foreign to him these days.

  “No dress; wear whatever you want. I'm going to change clothes, then I will be on my way in five minutes.”

  “Seth, what the hell –” He hangs up.

  On the drive to Vera's townhouse, Seth taps out a text to Emma that he will be off the grid for the afternoon. He sees that she responds with the one question he doesn't feel like answering: Why?

  He ignores it.

  Then they are pulling up to the curb. He abandons the phone on the Bentley's seat, and hops o
ut to wait for her. He has dressed down in a pair of jeans, his old Docs, and a trusty white v-neck t-shirt under a lightweight brown coat – nothing new, all well-worn. Shades in place, he leans back against the car door.

  Something about this uncharacteristically warm afternoon, something in the clear blue of the sky and mottling of shadows on the sidewalks, reminds him of fall in high school. It's chilly, but not quite cold like the days have been, and the air smells crisp. He almost expects to see Caleb sauntering toward him with his gaggle of girls in tow. Back then, things were so simple. Friday, the beginning of the weekend, which lasted so long when he was young. What else to do but gather the girls and find some trouble?

  He shakes himself of these thoughts when the townhouse door opens. Vera emerges in a calf-length brown skirt and thin cream sweater, black leggings and boots. Seth sings a silent,

  “Fuck yes.” Her hair is down is all its fiery glory, hanging around her shoulders in soft curls.

  She slips a pair of giant sunglasses over her eyes and struts down the stairs, though she stops several feet in front of him to dramatically lift those damn glasses right back off her eyes, and look him over. She says, “Oh my god, he is a real boy.”

  He gives his most charming, boyish grin and shrugs one shoulder in mock shyness. He doesn't say anything though, just steps forward, hooks an arm around her to pull her closer, and catches her mouth against his. Any further verbal attack halts in her throat, and she takes the passion he unleashes against her lips. When he pulls away, he's grinning again, and her eyes are wide.

  His voice is hushed when he says, “I've missed you.”

  His tone is still that strange shade of sheepish, so that she must wonder if it's not an act at all.

  “Don't bullshit me,” she says.

  He shakes his head with a silent laugh, and opens the car door for her.

  She climbs in, past his phone, and he climbs in after her. As they begin the smooth roll into traffic, she glances at the phone. He fields her gaze, can almost know what she's thinking, so he grabs the device, and presses the power button. He says, “Not today.”

  She stares at him for a long moment, disbelief clear in her features. She says, “What exactly are you doing, Seth Morgan?”

  He stashes the phone in a compartment, and says, “I'm taking an afternoon to do something I want to do.”

  Her gaze wanders down his so-casual attire, the ease that lies beneath the clothes, and he reminds her of himself, so many years ago. She leans toward him, so close that they're almost touching, and she looks him straight in the eye with that intense green. The bite is still there when she says, “Is that how it is, then?”

  He runs a thumb across her bottom lip, cups her face in his hand, and smirks the words, “You have no idea how it is.” His mouth brushes against his own finger, all that separates their lips. “And no bullshit. I've missed you.”

  She goes still against his touch, her gaze intense as she searches him. She wants to believe him, but she doesn't know this side of him. He's so surreal, or real, as the case may be. She pulls back, but he stops her by curling his fingers into her hair, not so hard that it will hurt, but enough to stop her retreat.

  She says, “So does ‘take me out’ mean a quickie in a rolling limo?”

  She's still clinging to the bitter side of what has always been between them—the fact that she doesn't see him for months at a time, the fact that evidence shows they overwhelming only meet up to fuck, or do some shady business that could make or break them both. But this, this softness, and this intimacy—it's everything she could have imagined during long sleepless nights, and it's so goddamned perfect that she has to question it. In a world like his, can he ever really be himself? Can he be so honest to the enemy he beds? Or has she really and finally crossed the line from enemy to ally?

  He lowers his hand, presses his lips to hers, more gently than ever before, and says, “Not even close.”

  She lifts her eyebrows, says, “Oh really? What then?”

  Finally, he pulls away with a smirk. Good thing. His proximity is like a drug, and his kisses even more so. He says, “You'll see when we get there. I do hope you went ahead and cleared your schedule for the day.”

  She laughs. She can't contain it, and the sound comes dressed in disbelief. He is so incredibly and completely sure of himself, sure that he can call her to his side with no notice and become her priority. He's so certain he can demolish any plans she may have had. Goddamn him, he's so right.

  She gives her attention to the city's creep outside the window, rather than let him have it so easily. She's quiet when she asks, “How did you know I wasn't working, that I just happened to get my assignment in early today?”

  He chuckles, amusement thick in the sound, and he pops open the minibar. He doesn't look at her either when he answers, “I didn't, but don't you know by now that this city loves me?

  She works it out, just for me.”

  Vera turns back to him. Sure, she's always known that that's true, but to hear him say it in his relaxed-fit tone sets a smoldering mass in her. She wants him already. There is never a moment when she doesn't. His eyes are bright when he turns back to her with a drink in each hand, two fingers in each.

  “What is this?” she asks, sniffing hers as she accepts.

  “Applejack,” he says. “Feels like a good day for brandy. Cheers.”

  Their glasses clink, and Vera says, “To the illustrious Seth Morgan, conqueror of my

  Friday afternoon, and day-drinker without shame!”

  He laughs hard enough to bring color to life in his cheeks, and he joins in the toast. “And to the devilish Vera Rohan, the spoils of my Friday afternoon conquest, and a damn good thing to toast to.”

  A blush fires in her cheeks, and she feels like she has already been drinking. A blush, something Seth is sure he's never seen her do. He watches her as they both sip their drinks. She glances away, asks, “What?”

  “You're blushing.”

  “I'm not blushing. I probably wasn't even the first one you called.”

  His smile fades a fraction, but it still hooks in one corner. “Actually,” he says, soft and serious, “you were.”

  “I'm sorry,” she says quickly. “That was rude. I just—well, I don't know what to do with this version of you, Seth.”

  She can't say exactly how she expects him to react. She's definitely not expecting that boyish smile to stay fixed, but it does. She doesn't expect him to slip his hand into hers, but he does. And she doesn't expect his tension to melt, but it does.

  He says, “I think you'll find you know exactly what to do. I was counting on it.”

  His breezy manner puts her at ease, makes it simple for her to say, “Fucking you is easy, darling; it's all this time before that happens that's strange.”

  He grins into another sip, eyeing her sidelong. Then he says, “Then I guess you'll have to get to know me all over again.”

  Half an hour later, they're in the middle of downtown Manhattan, standing atop the Empire State Building and staring out over the city. The view is beautiful, but Vera only has eyes for Seth. She can't help the smile that takes her, not the sly thing she usually uses, but a giddy, girlish one. The sass is nowhere to be found in the look she gives him.

  She says, “I probably don't have to say it, but I've missed you, too.”

  It's just the two of them, a “private tour” that Seth arranged when they arrived. Beyond them is the city that sprawls on regardless of the king or the confidante. The late-season sunlight makes everything glitter and shine, and the wind rustles around them. It makes Vera's hair dance and glint like the fire she produces in his gut.

  He reaches past her, runs his fingers over the metalwork that prevents anyone from going over the edge. He refuses to meet her eyes, instead watching the sparkling mass of metal and glass below them. He has removed his shades, and his eyes are so brown, charged with some youthful energy.

  He says, “It's still nice to hear it.�
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  He pushes forward with the slightest pressure against her, so that her back is pressed against the crisscrossed railing, and the whole of Manhattan. His hands find her hips, but not with their usual roughness. The touch is almost . . . reverent.

  “I haven't been up here in so long,” he says against her ear.

  Part of her believes he will fuck her right here, ass bared to New York, screams of abandon rising into the atmosphere, but there's something so different about him against her. This truly isn't some quickie, some impersonal exchange between two people who fuck well together. She can't stop herself from brushing her knuckles along his cheekbone. Her hair tickles them both, yet neither of them moves to stop it. He continues.

  “Caleb and I used to come up here after-hours. I've been bribing security for years.”

  She laughs against him, a throaty, velvet sound that makes him pull against her just a little more. She says, “And here I thought it was just that good ol' Morgan charm that got us up here.”

  Now he looks to her with a smirk. “In a way, it was,” he says.

  “Bribing security sounds like Caleb's idea to me.”

  He pauses, glances away, but then he smiles again. Sometimes he likes to forget that she knew his brother in the time he was gone, and that she began chasing their father for interviews long before the boys knew who she was. He buries his face in her hair, and says, “You're right. It was. But he taught me well.”

  “Mmm, I'll take your word for it on that one.”

  His lips brush her ear, so soft it sends a shudder through her, when he says, “And some talents just run in the family.”

  Just now, she's sure she wouldn't care if they don't fuck, but to be snuggled up to the most elusive, cold playboy in the U.S., it feels like everything she could ever want from him. Again, she must wonder, how real is this?

  She gasps when she realizes it, that this is real, that his battered, broken soul doesn't have many comforts left in his world. And that she's never been anything but real to him. The sensation is overwhelming, numbing in the certainty that they can never be anything traditional—but they can always be an escape for each other. He's absolutely right; she is still getting to know him, the deepest layer of his soul that he could never show before. Now, he doesn't have to tiptoe around the older generation. Now his heart no longer belongs to that harpy.