Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  “It’s not important,” she says, burrowing closer.

  “Do you mean it? Caleb—” He cuts off the words, and lets his gaze go back to the window as they clear the trees. The lake and Valhalla stretch out for them, a glittering kingdom.

  “He left me a letter in the care of our lawyer. DNA proof and everything,” she says, her voice empty. She shifts away from him and stares at the resort. “It was something that killed our parents. He didn’t tell you for the same reason he didn’t tell me—he couldn’t. Ignorance was how he protected us.”

  There is the bite of anger, that the golden Morgan son felt the need to protect either of them, but he ignores it, gathering his calm around him as the cars come to a smooth halt in front of the resort.

  Rama slips out before Dom can move, needing the fresh air and a moment to clear his head. The air has turned cold since Seth brought him here, and it stings his nose a little as he stands by the back of the car.

  Emma emerges slowly, elegance in motion. She’s wearing a pair of black wool pants, a silver sweater that dips in a low v-neck. Black boots that end just below the knees, her red-gold curls pulled back in a complex braid that his fingers itch to explore. A tiny smile turns her lips, but her gaze is hidden behind her sunglasses.

  Seth steps out of his town car, and Rama shifts, watching. He’s wearing a suit, and hasn’t tugged his tie off. His expression behind his sunglasses is bland, but a small smile turns the corners of his lips when he sees Emma.

  Aleja follows him out, startling Rama. He hasn’t spent much time around her since she arrived in the city with the Morgans. She looks formidable and severe in a feminine black suit and white silk. Her hair is caught away from her face in a knot at the nape of her neck. With nothing to soften her features, she is even more striking.

  The Cuban’s eyes slip over Emma and then Rama, assessing before she looks around.

  “It is yours now?”

  Seth smiles, looking around at the expansive grounds proprietarily, and nods. “It’s ours.”

  Emma is shivering, feet stomping slightly. “Inside,” she says, and Seth laughs, turning away.

  She’s watching Rama, and she sees his expression stutter, confusion clearing as she waits. He slips an arm around her waist, pulling her into him, and they follow Seth and Aleja into the quiet hotel.

  It’s been deserted, and it is almost eerie, their steps echoing in the wide lobby. Aleja’s eyes are wide and assessing, and Emma squeezes Rama’s hand briefly before slipping away to lean against the oak reception desk. “The renovation crews will arrive tomorrow,” Seth says.

  “And we’ll begin the traveling parties as soon as Rama’s girls arrive.”

  Emma nods toward the staircase that leads toward the second floor. “The bulk of business will continue as-is; the amenities will stay the same. And we’ll work the extras in for those who are interested——the girls, a private club. Cuban blow.” Her eyes skim over to the assassin.

  Aleja aims a wicked smile at Emma, her eyes dancing as she prowls the room, taking in the details.

  “It’s a beautiful facility,” she says. The admiration in her tone makes Emma want to preen—this is the first venture of the new regime, and the approval in their partner’s eyes soothes some of her nerves. She glances at Rama again, relaxed a few feet away. His hands are tucked in his pockets, a serene expression on his face. He’s watching her, Seth and Aleja almost forgotten.

  From the way Aleja eyes Rama speculatively, she has forgotten no one.

  “Will your girls be up to the task?” Aleja asks, curiously. It’s a question that borders on inappropriate in this formal setting, but neither Morgan moves to intervene, and Emma can almost see everything click into place for Rama suddenly. The formality, and the four of them, the location—the Cuban assassin is gauging him, weighing his syndicate’s value. Something that is overdue. It makes her nervous for reasons she isn’t quite ready to confront.

  There’s a breath of hesitation, and then Rama smiles, a slow thing. Were they in any other situation, with anyone besides Emma and Seth, he would flex his skills, show the assassin just how talented a whore could be. Instead, he lets a wicked smile play over his lips and his lashes lower. His voice is teasing as he says, “We have never had complaints about our girls. But you are always welcome to come to Bamboo and see them.”

  Amusement flickers in the woman’s eyes, and she nods. “I would like that.”

  Rama inclines his head and Seth speaks. “We will bring her to Bamboo. It would be good for her to see the way you run your operation.”

  Rama smiles. Bamboo is his territory, and where he is in his element, a natural king—to be seen there is to be seen in his best light. Emma’s eyes are wide and startled, but Seth is smirking. “Come,” he orders softly.

  Emma resumes her place at Rama’s side, and they follow the king and Aleja through the empty building as Seth spins out their plans.

  A lunch is waiting for them in the presidential suite, a chef standing nearby looking anxious. Relief slides across the man’s face as they enter the suite. A fire is burning in a wide fireplace, and for the first time since they’ve arrived, the place looks alive and inhabited. The room is done in white silk and dark wood, and there is something elegant and seductive about the softness against the hardwood. It’s an understated, earthy beauty that effortlessly drips wealthy and begs for decadence. The change is startling and Rama gives Emma a quick look. She smiles, a secretive thing, releasing his hand to flank Seth. “Please,” she says, motioning to the table.

  Aleja recovers first, and moves gracefully to sit across from Emma, reaching casually for the wine that is waiting. Rama takes the seat to Emma’s right. When both Morgans are sitting, Seth clears his throat. She’s waiting, watching him, and her smile has died. All of her nerves have gathered around her, but there is something very calm in her solemnity.

  “I wanted to bring you here because after this, everything changes,” Seth says. “This—all off this, has been a long time coming. And is the product of my brother’s efforts, as much as mine and Emma’s. You have been patient through the changes in our organization. Now that it is ours, things will move faster. But I wanted to take this time to thank you. For your trust and loyalty.” His gaze skates to Emma, and she nods once. Aleja is watching them, curious and assessing. Rama looks distant, his eyes dark and haunted. Emma watches him and she can almost feel Caleb, leaning over them both, shaping things even now. She touches Rama’s leg gently and he blinks, his eyes widening a little as he stares at her.

  What does he see, when he watches her in times like this? Does he see her, or the ghost of their dead?

  “I am honored,” Rama murmurs, voice rougher than usual, “that you chose to follow Caleb’s wishes. He would be pleased.”.”

  There is a beat of silence, and Aleja speaks, unexpectedly. “I wish I could have met

  Caleb Morgan.”

  Seth shifts, and Emma does not need to look at him to know the pain in his eyes. Instead, she lifts her wine glass and says softly, “To our continued success.”

  Chapter 35. Bamboo. New York City. December 11th

  Emma Can Feel The music in the soles of her feet. Aleja is watching the scene with a predatory smile—but there is excitement in the assassin’s eyes that reminds Emma of herself.

  Aleja hooks an arm around Emma’s waist and gives the younger girl a conspiratorial smile. “Vodka?”

  Emma’s cheeks burn and behind them, Seth snorts softly, the noise almost lost in the music. Aleja’s eyes are laughing as Seth pulls Emma away from the Cuban and toward the stairs. His gaze is questioning and Emma gives him a quick smile, all shiny bright reassurance. His expression goes doubtful, but she ignores him. She’s getting better at ignoring him.

  Emma moves through Bamboo like a queen in her kingdom—something that is faintly disturbing because it isn’t hers. The pretty working girls don’t catcall. They watch her with a grudging respect, aware of their prince’s choice. The s
ecurity greets her warmly, by name.

  She is comfortable here, in a way that she isn’t in their own operations. There is still a slight distance—a disconnect—in her at the office, and when she and Seth venture into the syndicate’s street level operations.

  She wonders, suddenly, if it is because here, there are no expectations. There is freedom in that—in the delicious lack of demands and duty and constant fear. Isn’t that what drives Seth to Vera?

  “Mali,” a familiar voice says, and she blinks out of her thoughts. Emma steps onto the landing of the VIP section, and into Rama’s arms. The Asian prince wraps an arm around her waist, holding her snug to his lithe body as he kisses her.

  Emma curves into him, a hand coming up to clutch at his arm. Her lips part under his touch, and Rama goes stiff with surprise for a brief moment, before all of that surprise melts away and he pulls her closer, a hand in her hair as he deepens the kiss.

  A low feminine laugh brings Rama’s head up, and he blinks at his royal guests, a slightly shy smile turning his lips. Aleja is watching with a smirk that isn’t quite a leer, Seth with amused tolerance. He steadies Emma as he steps away, and gestures at the booth reserved for them.

  “Come.”

  The club is packed and the VIP section is no different. Seth had made it clear that Aleja wanted the full experience, wanted to see exactly how the Asian syndicate ran their clubs. Rama took him at his word, and they weave through drunk socialites as they make their way to the empty booth that sits toward the back, offering a little privacy. One hand wanders a bit too close to Emma’s ass, and she makes a low huff of displeasure before the offending asshole is pulled away by Rama’s security. It happens quickly, fast enough that it doesn’t cause a scene, but there is a murmur of awareness in the crowd that draws more eyes to them.

  Rama stands next to the table as Aleja and Emma seat themselves, and gives them a slow smirk. “What can I get you, ladies?”

  “Tequila,” Emma says immediately.

  “But we have so much fun with vodka,” Aleja says, offering a pretty pout. Emma’s expression turns severe and the other woman laughs.

  Seth watches them. How did that even happen? Somewhere between Cuba and New York, and a drunk night of sex, the two have bonded. Emma squirms away from older woman whispering something in her ear, and Aleja laughs, that low noise that brings to mind sex in Cuba, and the soft purr of pleasure she makes when he moves inside her.

  Seth shifts, and Emma’s eyes flash to him, questioning. With Aleja’s head bent toward her and Emma’s eyes on his, it’s hard to see anything but the two of them naked in Emma’s bar.

  “Fuck,” he mutters and a blush fills her cheeks.

  “Let’s dance,” Emma says suddenly, scooting out of the booth. Aleja’s eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t argue, just slips free of the table and follows Emma. They pass Rama on the way to the stairs, and Aleja leans into the Morgan princess. “If I get you drunk enough, will you share him?”

  Emma’s smiles sweetly, “Not a fucking chance.”

  Aleja laughs, and they descend the stairs onto the dance floor. Rama stands next to the table, his eyes on Emma as she falls into the dance, Aleja writhing against a drunk playboy. Seth watches Rama, and finally asks, “What’s wrong?”

  Rama blinks, startled to have been called out so abruptly. Seth pours a shot of tequila and pushes it to Rama. Takes his own in hand and waits, staring expectantly.

  “I’m losing her,” Rama says, ignoring the drink. “And I don’t know why.”

  Seth follows his gaze down to Emma. Her head is tipped back, long red-gold hair hanging down. She’s wearing a one-shoulder green dress with a short, tight skirt and a black corset wrapping around her slim waist. It’s sexier than she usually favors, daring in a way she typically avoids. Paired with fuck-me red heels, she’s gorgeous and sexy, and there is no hint of the little girl she once was.

  He still has trouble letting go of that little girl.

  “Then find out why. Or you will lose her,” Seth says softly.

  Rama stares at him, liquid dark eyes full of questions and doubt. Seth keeps his face blank. Emma’s secrets and demons are hers to share. He leans across the table, and says softly,

  “Secrets destroyed my family once. We could all learn from that.”

  Then he takes the tequila shot and rises. Rama watches him move through the VIP section, watches the way women and men alike move away and toward him, almost as if unaware of their actions. Emma’s head comes up as he comes down the stairs, tracking her cousin, and jealousy kicks in his gut.

  Rama takes two shots quickly, and stands. Enough. He seduced her first on a dance floor.

  Maybe it is time to remind her of that, and the base level of their courtship.

  A dangerous smile twists his lips and he stalks down. His girls and staff scatter as he moves, pulling the dancers aside until there is nothing between him and Emma. Seth has Aleja in his arms, a rare unguarded smile on the Morgan king’s lips. Aleja twists, catching Emma’s hands until she is pressed between the Morgan queen and king. Seth sees Rama and knowledge flares in his eyes.

  Aleja leans down, pulling Emma close, and everything slows—time seems to stutter—as the assassin kisses her.

  There is a natural ease to it. A softening of Emma against the older woman, and Seth’s hands on Aleja’s waist—the throwaway comment overheard upstairs makes sense in a sick way that churns Rama's stomach.

  Without thinking, he grabs Emma by the arm and yanks her around.

  She’s smiling—a dazed, drunk smirk that digs knives into his gut. He’s killed for this girl. Bled and sworn his allegiance. Does she even care?

  “Come with me,” he snarls. Emma’s eyes go wide, and she licks her lips. There is a shiver of apprehension in her that slays him—he never wants to see fear in her eyes when she looks at him. But another part—the furious part—says that it’s about damn time.

  Emma trips once, her heels twisting as Rama pulls her through the club, and Rama reacts by yanking her up into his arms, and carrying her into his office. He kicks the door shut behind him and dumps her into a chair. Emma bounces up, her blue eyes wide and furious—a mirror of Caleb. Always ready for a fight.

  “What the hell, Rama?” she snaps.

  “Did you fuck her?” he asks, without preamble. Emma freezes, the blood draining from her face. He prowls closer to her, and fear tightens in his belly. “Or did you fuck Seth?”

  “Whom I fuck is none of your business,” she says, her voice shaking. And that, without admitting anything, tells him everything.

  Rama jerks his sleeve back and shoves his wrist up, inches from her face. She flinches away from the ouroboros that marks him as hers. “That says it is. The man I killed to protect you, the bullet I took, the mark I gave you—all of them say I have a right to know just who the fuck I’m sharing your bed with.”

  “I didn’t promise you anything,” she snaps, stung.

  “You wouldn’t. I’m not one of your precious cousins,” Rama spits. Emma pales, and he pushes, because this is where she’s weak and he knows it. Because after months of being strung along, and losing his lover, this is one insult he can’t look past. “Does Seth fuck as well as Caleb? Did you fuck him because Caleb is gone? Maybe I should take him to bed and we can compare notes.”

  She slaps him, hard, and his head snaps to the side. His eyes are furious, and she’s torn between anger and shock that she hit him. Anger is easier. “Don’t you fucking talk about Caleb.

  He was mine. My brother.”

  Rama smiles cruelly. “He was my lover. And he didn’t trust you so much that he shared that, did he, mali?”

  The word has always been an endearment. It’s always been a way for him to tell her how much she means to him. But now, it comes out like a curse, mocking, designed to hurt. She flinches. His face is a mask of anger as he taunts, “Caleb didn’t trust you, Emma. Because when it comes right down to it, you’re a child. A little girl playing games. Bu
t these games will get someone killed. Do you think I’ll let the woman I’m with fuck her way through the city? Do you know I would kill for that? For less? Fuck, did you even think?” “Rama,” she starts, stricken, and he shakes his head. Emma reaches for him and he backs up a step, out of her reach. Her eyes are so wide, big pools of hurt.

  “I’m not your toy, Emma. I’m not Dom or the little shitheads you went to Irving with. And I will never be your cousins.” There is none of her coaxing sweet prince in him. This is Rama furious and every inch a royal.

  “I don’t want you to be,” she says, her voice strident.

  He laughs, bitter. “No. You want me when it’s convenient and you need someone to use.

  When you want to get off or someone needs to be handled. When the syndicate needs to expand. But even when I’m fucking you, you’re with him.”

  She goes still. Looks away, her expression distant, and he waits for her to deny it. To argue with him. Emma stands quiet, and he finally sighs. Softly, he says, “You left me with a bullet hole in my lung to take him to a fucking beach. Left me with an assassin to chase him to another syndicate’s court. And you want to fuck her like I have no right to say anything.” Everything crystalizes suddenly and the tension drains out of him, all of the anger cooling. He steps back, aware suddenly that he’s crowded her, her back pressed against the wall.

  He remembers, suddenly, pressing Caleb against the same wall, going to his knees, and sucking him off until the Morgan son cursed and came, his hands buried in the black silk of Rama’s hair. Sometimes, he can still feel Caleb, larger than life, all lazy lion grace.

  “I should never have fucked you,” he says, softly. “You are a ghost of the one I loved— but you’ll never be Caleb. And I will never be Seth.”

  “I don’t want you to be,” she says, weakly.

  He smiles, but it’s different. Not the slow, sexy smirk she sees when he fucks her, or when they sit across from each other in a business meeting. It isn’t even the smile he directs at any of his girls, any of the many people who serve in his syndicate. It’s the smile he gives strangers.