Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  In all the years I’ve known Gabe, I have never seen him like this. The only small blessing is the children are gone now. And the Olivers. There may be a way to contain this.

  We broke Gabe’s heart. I know it, and so does she. I betrayed him—and the family that took me as one of their own. My best friend and brother.

  If there is anything that I regret, it is that.

  She lets the journal slap shut, unable to read any more. How long, after this was written, did her father live? How long before Gabe—her stomach lurches and she barely makes it to the small wastebasket before the coffee comes back up, bitter and stinging the back of her nose.

  Not so bitter as the truth that her father and the boys' mother were in love.

  She stays there, hanging over the wastebasket, for a long moment. Then she swipes her hair back and straightens her spine. Emma grabs it all, the pictures and the fucking journals and Gabe’s tiny note. Shoves it all in her purse, and when the journals won’t fit, wraps them in her coat. She locks the empty box, and leaves. Mr. March is hovering just down the hall and she brushes by him. “Thank you. I’m done.”

  She can’t breathe here, carrying all the secrets of the dead. She wishes, suddenly, for that moment on the stairs at Irving, with Quinn batting for her attention. When Seth was away and Caleb was alive and there was no gray, no shadow to hide in. There was only the family, and the rest of the world.

  The icy air is shocking, and stings the tears on her face. She stares at the city in a daze, and her tumbling emotions seize suddenly.

  He’s sitting on a bench near the fountain, half hidden by stone mermaids cavorting in freezing water. But he’s watching her. And another piece of their fucked up puzzle slides into place.

  Emma stalks to him, and stands over the family assassin. There is no hint of a calm queen in her, not right now. She’s furious, spitting mad.

  He stops her with a soft word. “It’s time we talk, princess.”

  All the fight drains out of her at the endearment from a killer, from one of the men who has always protected her—and the last one living who raised her. She gives him a terrified stare and Tinney stands.

  “What if I’m not ready to hear this?” she asks, a little girl question.

  His gaze slips down to the black journals. She looks at them. Snow is clinging to the darkness

  “You’re ready, Emma,” he says firmly, and takes her by the arm, steering her past the waiting Bentley, toward a café across the intersection.

  The café is small and crowded. Tinney stands back, letting her gather her shredded dignity as she surveys the little room. A few patrons give her curious looks as she stands in the doorway and her shoulders come up and back, stiffening.

  Wordlessly, she stalks to an empty booth and slides into the far bench. She can see everything from there—a smile twitches the assassin’s lips before he blanks his expression and slips into the seat across from her.

  Emma studies Tinney in silence for long enough that he shifts, a slight fidget that appeases some furious part of her. Let him be the one off-balance for once.

  Then a waitress steps up to their table, and without waiting for Emma to speak, Tinney orders a black coffee and a hot chocolate with whipped cream.

  And just like that, she isn’t a queen—she’s a little girl again, enjoying a treat with her father’s best friend as they wait for Emilio and Gabe to finish a meeting. She’s a little girl and she’s cold, her hands icy as Tinney presses a thin Styrofoam cup into her small fingers and smiles down at her.

  “You’ve always protected me,” she says slowly. Tinney stares at her, and her brow furrows. “Why?”

  “Is that what you really want to know, princess?” Tinney asks.

  She flushes and shrugs. “Your job isn’t to protect me.”

  Tinney sits back, at ease suddenly. This is the girl he has watched grow up—even when she was protected by Caleb, he watched her. “Your father and Gabriel were my friends, Emma. They would want you protected—and I can do that.”

  “Gabriel killed my father,” she snaps, and she can’t keep the hurt out of her voice.

  Uncle Gabe, the man she knew was dangerous, but who had never scared her—he had killed her father. Sudden grief swamps her and she looks away, fighting the tears that want to rise.

  “Gabe was outvoted,” Tinney says quietly, something very tired about the way he speaks.

  “Mikie and Beth wanted their deaths, and even though he wanted to fight them, he couldn’t. The betrayal was too deep. Beth couldn’t look past it.”

  Her hands tighten on the black books she’s laid on the table. Tinney’s gaze goes to them.

  “My mother?” she chokes out.

  Tinney holds her stare as tears well in her blue eyes, and he wonders how anyone ever believed Caleb was anything less than her brother.

  “Beth never forgave Gabe or Emilio for the marriage. Gabe broke her heart when he forced her to marry Emilio. It was the biggest mistake he ever made. When she realized Emilio had been having an affair for a decade, she couldn’t handle that. She was furious.”

  Emma licks her lips, trying to wrap her mind around that. Fifteen years of lies and betrayals. She can imagine how angry Beth was over that—even if she can’t forgive her. “Why did Mikie agree to it? Why did he side with Mother?”

  “Because Emilio was a threat. As long as Gabe had Emilio, Mikie was on the outside. He hated that and this solved the problem for him.”

  She laughs, a bitter noise. “My father was a problem? Easy enough to pull a trigger and take care of that.”

  Tinney stares back, impassive.

  “Why did no one ever tell me?” she demands, tears standing in her eyes.

  “The children should not carry the sins of their fathers,” he says.

  Emma laughs, hysterical. “We are being fucking buried by their sins. When Gabe was killed—was that a reprisal from my father’s people?” Tinney’s face goes blank and she nods to herself. “Does Seth know?”

  “He does now,” Tinney says. He leans forward, startling her with his sudden intensity. “Your parents, Gabe, even Mikie were destroyed by their secrets. Because no one trusted each other.”

  “They were destroyed because Emilio couldn’t keep it in his pants,” Emma snaps.

  Tinney gives her a faintly reproving look. “And because he never told Gabe he was in love with Miriam before he married Beth. Because Beth wouldn’t tell Gabe who Isaac’s father was. Because Mikie wouldn’t talk to Gabe. Secrets don’t work, not for the Morgans—you have too many from the world. You can’t keep them from each other. Remember that, or you’ll end up just like them.”

  Emma recoils, her eyes going wide. Secrets—aren’t they what killed Caleb? Secrets and mistrust that turned to hate. She opens her mouth and closes it again. Tinney stands and leans down, brushing a kiss over her forehead. “You are a good queen, Emma. Trust yourself. Trust

  Seth.”

  Without waiting for her respond to that, he turns and leaves the little café.

  She isn’t terribly surprised to see Seth outside, his gaze trained on her. There is worry and a little bit of anger in his eyes. She shifts in her booth, slipping out and gathering her father’s journals. Her mind is spinning—for every question that has been answered, there are more.

  They can wait. She sets them aside and exits the café, going to stand before her king. Seth’s entire body is tight with tension as he stares at her. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

  He nods once, and some of the tension eases. Not all of it. Not enough. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into a hug as the snow spirals down around them.

  Chapter 32. Graystone Apartments. New York City. December 7th

  Emma Carefully Arranges The chair and frowns critically. Two bottles of red wine are sitting on her low coffee table with three glasses. A few files are nearby. It's everything she needs for this meeting, but she still feels under-prepared. Like a little girl playing at being an
adult.

  Caleb would laugh if she told him that. Laugh and drag her into the uncomfortable situation with an arm tossed over her shoulders, pleased with himself as he forced her into something that wasn’t in her comfort zone. He always loved pushing her boundaries.

  She sighs and smooths a hand over her sweater. It’s a strange thing—not quite formal and not quite casual, and that more than anything has her off-balance. She's chosen to dress down for this—a long sapphire cashmere sweater with a deep cowl neck over pair of black tights and blue ballet flats with cream polka dots.

  What would he think if he could see her now? He taught and protected her—but he was not able to see her as a queen. She rubs the still tender skin of her wrist and releases the breath she's been holding, glancing around again.

  Caleb's picture catches her eye. It's one of her favorites, taken of them at Seth's graduation party. He’s grinning at her and Seth as they stand by a bar, looking beautiful and alive and carefree, and so young it hurts.

  The elevator chimes softly and she straightens abruptly, coming out of her musings as Seth enters the living room. He glances over her and the space with quick, assessing eyes.

  “Does it meet with your approval?” she asks tartly, her fingers twisting nervously.

  Seth smirks, strolling toward her with his hands tucked in his pockets. He looks loose and comfortable in jeans and a button-down, two buttons undone around his neck—immediately, she wonders if he's been with Vera again.

  “Don't worry so much, sweetheart,” he says soothingly. “We aren't selling the proposal.

  Just fine-tuning the details.”

  Emma wrinkles her nose, annoyed, and Seth laughs, a soft noise. He moves to the chair and sinks into it, opening the wine with practiced efficiency.

  Her phone buzzes softly and she answers it. “Yes, send her up. No, I don't think you need to search her, Dom. She's a guest.” There's a pause as she listens and then, more firmly, “Send her up.”

  She hangs up and sets the phone down before meeting Seth's gaze. It's questioning and she shrugs. “Dom is feeling a little overprotective.”

  Seth doesn't say anything. It's the man's job to be protective and he's done well taking care of Emma. Being close to Seth will mean most want to use her. Dom seems free of that and he likes the giant bodyguard more for it. Loyalty is a rare thing to be given freely, and more valuable because of it.

  There is a soft swish of elevator doors, and then the distinct click of heels on marble. Emma straightens a bit as Aleja glides into the room. The other woman moves like a hunting cat, and she wonders briefly just how many weapons the Cuban assassin is carrying.

  “Morgans, it is so good to see you,” Aleja says warmly. Her eyes slip over Seth before they settle with speculative regard on Emma. “Thank you for letting us meet here,” she adds with a smile.

  Emma shrugs and nods. “It’s my pleasure. Please.”

  The older woman prowls deeper into the penthouse, and Emma perches nervously on the couch. Aleja doesn’t hesitate, sinks onto the couch next to Emma. She’s wearing a thin black sweater with a low v neck, and Emma watches Seth’s eyes trace that v, skate down over her black skirt and leather boots.

  Aleja seems oblivious, but Emma doesn’t buy that for a second. No one could be on the receiving end of that look from Seth Morgan and be oblivious to it. Emma clears her throat, and Seth’s gaze snaps to her, a boyish grin turning his lips. “Wine, Aleja?” she asks, and the other woman makes a quiet sound of assent. Seth pours the red and passes it to Aleja, who murmurs a low Spanish thanks before relaxing back against the couch.

  There’s a beat of silence, a quiet, awkward moment as the two Morgans watch her and she waits, patiently. They are young—good at playing the game, or she would not be here, but so painfully young. Seth has been part of her world long enough that she has a good idea of what the Morgan son will do. But his queen…

  She studies Emma from under her lashes. The girl is young enough that it’s almost unseemly to be working with her. But then Emma reaches for a thin file and flips it open, and some of the unease at her age vanishes. Because this is where Emma is in her element. “We closed on Valhalla,” she says. Slides a few glossy prints across the couch cushion.

  “Our crew will be there at the end of the week. We’ll have three weeks of downtime while upgrades are done.”

  Aleja makes a low noise. “Three weeks is a long time. That’s a substantial hit, financially.”

  Emma smirks, and Aleja can see her cousin in that expression—not the quiet king watching this meeting, but the man who fucked her on her father’s beach, whose bruises are only now fading.

  She wonders, suddenly, just how similar the cousins are.

  “We’ve scheduled four moving parties. Our hotels will host, and Ratchaphure is providing the ladies for entertainment.”

  Aleja leans into Emma, and feels the sudden tension in the younger girl as she brushes against her arm. “These dates are soon.”

  “Too soon for you?” Seth asks quietly, and Aleja glances up at him. Meets his easy smirk with her own.

  “Of course not. My cousin has been waiting for my word. He has everything you could ask for ready to move north.”

  Emma shifts at the mention of Miguel, something both Seth and Aleja catch. But because she is watching Seth and not the girl at her side, she sees the flare of jealousy, hot and quick, before Seth tamps it down, and goes back to a charming smile. Interesting. She can understand anger—has seen it often enough in her father’s eyes when confronted with one of her lovers. But jealousy is unexpected.

  She sits back, putting a little distance between herself and Emma, and sees some of the tension in Seth relax. “Your Thai. He has seen these plans?”

  Seth slides a smirk at Emma, who answers, her tone very cool, “Yes.”

  “The Ratphachure is very dedicated to this alliance, is he not? To wear your mark.” Aleja glances at Seth sidelong, but it’s Emma who answers.

  And this time, the queen is not distantly unamused. Her voice is hard and biting. “Not terribly unusual when you are the syndicate asking for an alliance. And his was voluntary.”

  “Emma,” Seth says, quietly. Admonishing. Emma glares at him, and Aleja studies her, sees the furious color in her cheeks and the defiant sheen of wet in her eyes. Aleja makes a startled noise, and Emma jerks to her feet.

  “Excuse me.”

  She stalks silently from the room, and Seth releases an aggravated sigh. Swallows his wine, and shifts. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t. I didn’t—” Aleja pauses. Shakes her head. “When you were with us, it was a vacuum. We didn’t know—or care—about who you left behind. She is very important to you.”

  He’s quiet, studying her. Aleja smiles, a tiny little thing, genuine. Not the sultry smiles she used to seduce him in Cuba. “I’ll apologize.”

  He nods and she sets her wine down, rising.

  Emma is in the bar, and her blue eyes are rimmed red. The look she levels at Aleja is just short of hostile, and the Cuban hesitates. Approaches slowly. Whatever else she is, however young and inexperienced, she is still the queen of the Morgan syndicate, and she deserves a little bit of caution.

  “You know, my father trusts your Seth. He sent me because he wants to further our alliance.”

  The words startle Emma, who goes still. Blue eyes watch her carefully, assessing. “But you are right. He did not take our mark voluntarily. And that angers you.”

  Fury flashes in the younger girl’s eyes before she takes a breath and drops her gaze. Hair swings down, almost a veil between them. She bites her lip and shakes her head. “What happened in Cuba is between Seth and your father.”

  “Except that I’m asking you,” Aleja says. “Not as Papa’s envoy—but as one girl to another. Seeing that mark on your cousin infuriated you.”

  She circles the bar and props one hip against it, watching Emma, ignoring the white powder on the bar that the other girl is chopping. “It wou
ld infuriate me to see it on Miguel.”

  Again, the slight flush and Emma makes a soft noise of assent. Aleja watches her chop the lines, her hands so steady and capable, her red-gold curls shinning in the bar light. A smile touches her features and Emma shifts the mirror to her, a slight challenge in her eyes.

  “I wanted to kill everyone responsible for that mark,” she says, staring Riza in the eye. Brave, idiotic girl. A smile tugs at Aleja’s lips and she tucks her hair back, dipping down and taking her line. The coke hits hard, a trainwreck of sensation, fire in her veins as her straightens.

  It’s good blow, and her fingers twitch a little as she passes the glass straw to Emma.

  The girl is a contradiction of vulnerable and untouchable, nerves and steel, self-doubt and confidence. Her summer sky gaze is fierce as she chews the inside of her lip, and her body is all sweet innocence as she leans down to snort her line.

  When she straightens, the tension is gone, and her eyes drift closed as she sways. Without looking at the Cuban assassin, she pulls herself onto the bar, and reaches for a bottle of vodka.

  “I get it,” she says, cracking open the bottle, and Aleja shifts. Emma smiles, a small but real thing. “He loved Cuba. Even with the mark being forced—Seth loved your syndicate. I hated that, more than anything.”

  “You missed him,” she says and the other girl nods.

  “More than you would ever believe.”

  Emma takes a sip straight from the bottle of Magnum Grey Goose and then tilts the bottle at Aleja. She takes it, watching the younger girl as she follows suit. The vodka is cold and leaves a trail of ice as it traces down to settle, so hot, in her belly.

  “You trust the Asian alliance?”

  Emma shrugs. “You heard about the regime change?” Aleja’s eyebrows arch, but she nods. “Before Mikie was killed, he tried to shoot me. He would have. I was in the open, and Seth had been shot and there was nothing to stop him. Rama took two bullets, bullets I should have taken. I trust him.”

  She reaches out, and Aleja tugs the bottle just a little, so that Emma’s gaze flares before she snatches it back and Aleja rewards her with a soft laugh.