Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  Seth finally removes his hands from his pocket, and he knocks away Rama's hand with his forearm. He rips his shades off, too, so that they're locked in a tense stare. His voice is tight and furious, “I need you to trust me. Not just my cousin. Your loyalty needs to be to both of us. What you two do in your bed is none of my fucking business, but I need to know that the sheets won't be the downfall of this alliance. Caleb could handle his shit, business and pleasure, but Emma hasn't had the time to learn that yet. That means you are the one who will have to make the decision whether you can handle your shit with her around.”

  Rama makes a bitter smirk, an expression Seth has never seen on him, and the Thai takes a step back, calm settling over him, so much like Emma hiding behind her demure smile. He slips his hands back into his pockets, and he says, “You have no idea what I have sacrificed for my own family, Morgan. Not a fucking clue. No piece of pussy will ever come before my people. You'd do well to remember that in the coming days.”

  Silence stretches between them, in which they hold the contact, and neither of them moves. As much as Seth wants to deck Rama in the mouth for calling Emma a piece of pussy, he can't. The original gut feeling that the Thai is not an enemy is the same feeling in Seth's gut now. It's true; Rama has kept quiet, almost docile when it comes to Emma, but there's a past that's clouded in mystery. And again, there is the subtle ruthlessness that hints at the things Rama has seen, and for the first time, Seth wonders if the pimp and Caleb shared more in common than sex.

  The fight drains from Seth. He slides his shades back into place, and he says, “We will meet with Remi within the week. If the sit-down goes well and we can agree on terms for a truce, everything will be ready to set in motion. If we still have a banker, we'll figure out details on a visit to your homeland.”

  Rama's hesitation is palpable. He's certain he just saw the brat prince lift his head; he knows he got just a glimpse of the anger, but just as quickly, Seth quelled it. Impossible, but it reminds Rama so much of Caleb. He bites down on the urge to curse.

  Will there ever be a day when everything doesn't scream of Caleb Morgan?

  Rama replaces his shades as well, and resumes their pace. He says, “Good. I'll send word to my family.”

  Chapter 38. Midtown. New York City. December 15th

  She Steps Into The Coffee Shop with a soft clatter of the bell chime. Her nose is bright red from the cold as she shrugs out of her long black coat and hands it to Dom, who stands quietly behind her. She's still dressed for the office, in straight-legged charcoal pants, a pale blue shirt, and demure heels.

  She likes this place, it's familiar, which should put her at ease. The fact that Seth chose here to meet does just the opposite. Seth is already here, lounging comfortably in a booth, watching her. She stalks through the space, and slides into the seat opposite him.

  “Where were you today?”

  It's not quite a demand, but it's closer than anyone else would dare, and it strings a smile across his lips. She isn't happy about his continued absence from the office. She wouldn’t be. It's good for her to stand alone. She'll need it, if he goes to Bangkok to cement the alliance with the Thai prince. She still doesn’t know about the impending trip—he hasn’t decided how to tell her that he will be leaving the city and syndicate to her while he accompanies her sometimes lover to a foreign court.

  That thought spurs him into speaking. “Rama is important to our plans, Emma.”

  Because he’s watching, he sees the tiny spasm of pain slip across her face, the regret in her blue eyes.

  Whatever she is saying, whatever Rama believes, Emma cares about the foreign prince more that she wants to admit.

  “I won't jeopardize that,” she says softly. A server comes by and refills his coffee, taking Emma's order before retreating. She focuses on Seth. “I wouldn't put my personal shit before the family.”

  He nods and sips his coffee. She lets the silence stretch between them and kicks her feet nervously. When the barista returns with Emma’s coffee and then slips away, she leans forward, her brow furrowed in demand. “You called me here to talk about Rama?”

  Seth swallows the irrational urge to smirk at her imperious attitude and instead picks up a file from where it’s resting on the bench next to him. Slides it across the cheap table to her. Emma gives him a frown and flips it open. It’s a set of numbers and projections, familiar to her on the Morgan letterhead. One entry is different from the ones she gave him and her gaze comes up, furiously. “What the hell?”

  “We need him,” Seth says quietly. His calm stills her anger, and she leans away from him, and reexamines the projections.

  “We could do this without the Olivers,” Emma says, not looking at him.

  Seth doesn’t respond, just watches quietly as she looks over the proposal. He feels a twinge of regret for blindsiding her with this. But it’s a solid plan. And from the slump of her shoulders, she knows it. “This is the best move for us, Em.”

  “Working with a traitor is never a good move,” she says, but her voice has no heat. She’s thinking, past the initial anger. When he was that young, did he ever do that? Who taught her that lesson? “He will never agree to this. There is too much between our families.”

  “And if we withdraw our business, Remi loses as much as we do. He’s a businessman.

  He won’t sacrifice his business.”

  “He’s a grieving father,” she snaps, and the specter of a dead princess is suddenly there, heavy between them. Seth grits his teeth, forcing away thoughts of Nicolette, and Emma stares, watching him. Finally, she says, grudgingly, “Even if it’s a good idea, Remi will never agree to work with me.”

  Seth leans forward. “We’re meeting him tomorrow.”

  Her eyes are wide and terrified, all scared little girl and furious queen mixed in the gaze that will always remind him of the brother he lost. “Are you fucking serious?” she asks, her voice weak and scared and scathingly angry. “He wants me dead, Seth.”

  He gives her a dark look, and lets his gaze travel the room quickly. It comes back to her heavy with warning. “We have a truce. He’ll hear us—and you will attend.”

  “Why?” she snaps, “Why would you force this if you know how much he wants my head?”

  “Because Oliver needs to know you are my equal. That if he works with our family that includes you.”

  She opens her mouth, and then closes it. There is nothing to say to that. Seth reaches across the table and snaps his fingers in front of her, jerking her scared eyes back to him. “I wouldn’t do this if I thought you would be hurt, Em. Trust me.”

  Her expression slips, more annoyed than scared as she frowns at him. “I do trust you. It’s him that’s the problem.” He rewards that statement with a rare smile, and she shakes her head.

  “This is a bad idea, Seth.”

  “It’s the only one I have to make the ceasefire permanent,” he admits and she stills, studying him. He waits a moment, then pins her with a dark stare, all serious and deadly. She shivers. “When we sit down with him, you are to say nothing. Do nothing. Do you understand?” Her lips twist into a grimace. Of course she does. To play the role of the silent princess is one she’s intimately accustomed to. Seth has never asked that of her though—he wouldn’t. She is his equal, taken from the depths of the family to rule at his side. That he asks it now is telling.

  She stares a moment longer, at the worry he’s trying to hide, and the tension in his shoulders.

  Finally nods. “Whatever you need, Seth.”

  His breath comes free on a sigh that is more relieved that he wants to admit, and Emma gives him a dry stare. With a quick nod, Seth retrieves the file and slides it away, and Emma, recognizing her cousin’s cues, gathers her purse. He moves behind her as they walk toward the door, flanked by their security and watched by the quiet patrons.

  Always watched, she thinks ruefully.

  “Where will it be?” she asks, as he opens the door to the coffee shop and they step
into the cold twilight.

  Seth stares into the city and answers quietly, “Somewhere neutral.”

  Chapter 39. Manhattan Dry. New York City. December 16th

  Manhattan Dry Is A Posh Period Speakeasy hidden behind a false storefront in Uptown. Though completely legal, the place has managed to keep a low profile reputation that caters to more private matters of the city's elite. It's a place that the Morgans used to frequent, often with business partners or potentials. Caleb, especially, loved it. Seth hasn't been here since well before he left for Cuba, and the memories are heavy.

  The lighting is low, and the gilded décor teases his thoughts to the first time he came here, with Caleb of course, and the purpose of laying waste to some kids who had jumped Caleb after swim practice. Seth was sixteen, and completely awed by his brother, who had paid off the bartender to let them waltz in and beat the shit out of five kids who were too young to even drink yet. He sips on a Manhattan, another painful memory, and ignores Emma's fidgeting beside him.

  For the most part, she's handling herself well, keeping a watchful eye on the handful of patrons across the room, holding her hands in her lap, and ignoring her Cape Cod as it sweats onto a coaster. But Seth can feel the vibration of her foot as it taps incessantly on the floor, and he can't help but notice how Rama and Emma avoid each other's eyes.

  Aleja is settled on Emma's other side, closer than is probably appropriate, enough that their arms are touching, and the Cuban princess possesses a chilling comfort. Of course she wouldn't be nervous. How many important meetings has she sat through? How many of her father's problems has she “dealt with”? She scans the room like a bored cat, systematically stirring her Bloody Mary. Seth would bet a hundred dollars that the drink is spicy enough to kill an ox.

  Rama is on Seth's left, utterly still and silent. His expression is carefully passive, and the hostility is gone from his dark gaze, but Seth can feel the hum of quiet rage coming from the Thai. Rama is drinking scotch.

  There's so much tension among the four of them that Seth momentarily doubts the wisdom of this meeting. Word came from Remi's people two days ago, an agreement that they would all meet in a neutral location, with no heat and proper security details. Thus far, the truce with Remi has held, but it's just a ceasefire. The future of their endeavors lies in this meeting— the first time Rama will meet one of the main players who has been invested in him from the start,, and the first time Emma will be face-to-face with Remi after shooting his daughter in the throat.

  Seth hears the phone ring behind the bar, a shrill harbinger of a moment of truth. The other three don't seem to notice the sound, don't consider that it means someone is standing in the false storefront awaiting entry. Seth smooths his coat as the bartender answers, then the door buzzes. Anticipation radiates from Seth so that the others automatically follow his eyes to the opening door.

  Remi enters like the king he is, shoulders square, chin up, swathed in royal grace and an expensive suit. As any of their criminal instincts would insist, he quickly surveys the scene. It takes mere moments for him to lock eyes with Emma, and he stills for a split-second. Seth pushes himself out of the booth to stand, a show of respect and a play for the attention. It works.

  Remi refocuses on Seth, and a collective sigh of relief whooshes through the room.

  Remi cuts across the floor, his security taking up positions that would seem nonchalant if there were more people. A couple patrons have taken interest in the little party of extremely high profile characters, but the magnitude of the meeting is obvious, and nobody stares for too long.

  The others are also standing as Remi reaches the table, and Seth is the first to reach out a hand in greeting. The banker king has banished his emotion from his face, and his movements are far from mechanical when he accepts the gesture. The two kings lock in a hardy handshake and somber eye contact.

  Seth says, “Thanks for coming, Remi. These are my associates, Aleja and Rama.” Nobody misses that he doesn't mention Emma.

  Remi kisses Aleja's hand, says, “Encantado de concocerle.”

  She draws one of her sly, sexy smiles, and says, “De nada.”

  Remi looks from her directly to Rama, shakes his hand as well. Again, they are all quite aware that Emma is excluded from the greeting, yet if it burns her ego, she doesn't make a sound. “Please, have a seat,” says Seth, motioning to the curve of the booth next to Aleja.

  Remi accepts, but he leaves enough space between them to fit another person. The large booth positions them in a wide half-circle that leaves Remi facing Seth and Rama, and for a moment, they are all silent. A cocktail waitress sidles up to their table, eyes nervously scanning them as though she expects to get shot just for approaching. Remi orders a cognac without looking at the girl, and she flits away.

  Even here on neutral ground and in the presence of so many syndicate royals, Remi is nonplussed. He folds his hands on the tabletop with inherent ease. His face is a painted mask, perfect and emotionless, and though the spaces beneath his eyes are dark, he doesn't give away an ounce of his inner state. What would he have to fear from these . . . children, on whom he has a lifetime of experience? He is the last remnant of Seth's father’s kingdom, one who also dealt with Mikie. Moments later, the girl brings the cognac.

  When she's gone, Seth says, “My associates and I are poised to begin a new chapter for Morgan Estates, one that stands to make a lot of money—for us, and for you ––should you choose to accept our offer. By the code, reparations for past . . . grievances can be made in monetary form. Our plan will more than cover that cost, as well as bring impressive dividends in the future.” He taps the file on the table. “Our projections, and with adequate numbers showing what you stand to gain.”

  He slides the bland, brown folder across the table. For a long stretch, Remi just stares at Seth as he sips his drink. His expression doesn't crack as the hot liquor rolls down his throat. He doesn't touch the folder. He says, “I think it's fair to point out that my wife is completely against this alliance and still calls for more traditional means of compensation.”

  For the first time, his hard eyes slide to Emma. She freezes and the blood drains from her face. He lets her squirm, before dismissing her and looking back to Seth, who must remind himself that his temper has no place here. He swallows the anger that wants to rise. Remi's right; it is fair to say that. Even if the veiled threat does make him furious.

  “However,” says Remi, “it has been a long time since anyone has invoked the peaceful clauses of the code, not since I called your father a partner. And though I very much enjoy the thought of wiping you Morgans from my city, and I certainly could do so, it's too late in the game to risk everything I've built to do it. I'm an old man in a new generation, and our two families are too intertwined. An all-out war now would not only decimate you, but both of our families, and I will not risk exposure. Destroying you is not worth the price. It is for this reason that I have chosen to hear you.”

  Seth takes a measured drink, intensely aware that Rama is frozen with his hand on his drink, his dark eyes boring into the Oliver patriarch.

  The long sleeve of the Thai's pale dress shirt hides his mark of loyalty to the Morgans, but the fabric does nothing to shield him against the veiled bitterness directed toward his allies. He was there. He too watched Nicolette meet her end, and he has been the shield that has kept the heat off of Emma—he, and Seth.

  And as Seth expected, Rama chooses now to shed the shadows.

  Casually, Rama says, “In that case, it's also fair to point out the disgrace to my family that I had to endure when you and Michael Morgan strung us along only to disappear without a word. As your code might suggest, you owe us this meeting, because it wasn't Seth that allied our three families; it was you.”

  Remi's black gaze locks onto Rama's. The tension rolls over them like high tide, everyone waiting for someone to lose their shit. The air is thick to breathe. Seth glances at Rama, a coiled spring of aggression, sitting so very still
and fearless. It anyone loses it, it won't be the Buddhist prince.

  Aleja watches the exchange with open interest. Experience lends her deadly grace, and she is not cowed by the open belligerence of the men. Emma is as still as a statue next to her, making no indication that she plans to interject.

  Remi holds the eye contact, as if he needs to prove that he is not intimidated, and he says, “That is perhaps a fair assumption on your part, Ratchaphure, but I'm afraid your facts are not quite right. Michael Morgan and I were ready to act as soon as Caleb returned from your country, but he quite effectively stalled the deal. Mikie refused to see it for a long time, but he eventually admitted that I was right. It was not we who shamed you; it was Caleb.”

  Rama's hand tenses around his glass, and the violence is contagious. A rash of offended anger rises into Seth's cheeks, and he literally bites his own tongue just so he doesn't chuck his drink across the room.

  “How dare you?”

  The words are low, hoarse, and so full of hatred that for a moment, no one realizes it was Emma who said them. When they do, even Aleja lifts her eyebrows, and glances sidelong to see how Remi will react.

  “How dare you speak of him that way,” Emma continues. All the blood that had blanched from her expression earlier is now apparent in her cheeks. “You know damn well you played Caleb.”

  For the first time, Remi's expression breaks into a glare, the only thing belying his calm facade. He doesn't move, but his presence swells, and the room is suddenly too hot. He looks like he'd just as happily put his hands around her throat as address her. But his voice is quiet, steady, when he says, “I have a hard time believing you have any idea what you're talking about it, since this business was conducted while you were still prancing the halls of your prep school, and worrying over what dress to wear. If you want this meeting to continue, I'd advise you to keep your fucking mouth shut, child.”