Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2)

by An Latro

  “It meant nothing.”

  That earns a reaction, and Rama turns dark eyes on the Reaper. She stares at him, curiosity in her eyes.

  “The sex. It means nothing.”

  He stiffens, that anger from before bristling to the surface. This—this is why he fights for his calm. Why he rarely allows his temper to snap—because it is very difficult to quiet that fury, when it boils to the surface.

  “She cares for you,” Aleja adds, her eyes knowing.

  “Cares,” he spits. “But doesn't love.”

  Aleja's eyes narrow thoughtfully and then she shrugs. “With Morgans, is that a bad thing? We aren't them, Ratchaphure. We take what they can give.”

  “We are not below them,” he snarls.

  She nods, slowly. “But you serve.” Her gaze drops to his wrist and the unending snake there. “By choice.”

  Her words infuriate him, but he doesn't snap at her. Aleja releases a soft breath and turns back to the door. She hesitates once. "She is asking for you."

  Rama's eyes go wide because he expected Emma to demand her cousin. He didn't expect to be called for by either of them. Aleja watches him from the doorway and then she makes a haughty noise, a reminder of her own position, and leaves.

  For a long time, he stands at the window, fighting the chill that won't quite leave him, and the urge to leave headquarters without seeing her.

  But he sees her again, the flash of movement as she fell, the way her face slid from desperate to determined and her eyes left Seth’s, locking on his in the split-second before she hit the water.

  Eventually he shakes himself and leaves the room.

  The hall is empty, almost eerily so. Seth and Emma are too weak to tolerate anyone but the closest of their allies. Even the syndicate enforcers they trust have been sent away as the queen and king recover.

  The med suite Emma is in feels too similar to a hospital room. She’s propped on a pillow, an IV in her arm feeding her fluids.

  For a moment, unnoticed still, he allows himself to study her.

  Bruises and tiny cuts criss-cross her face. Her lip is split and raw where she bites down nervously. She's wearing a satin robe and he can't help his eyes dropping down and tracing over her.

  He knows her body well enough that the bandages stand out, bulky and unnatural around her ribs.

  She looks fragile in ways that she would hate if he were to tell her. Pale and weak and so utterly breakable, with her red-gold hair fanning out around her.

  Then her eyes open, and he sees Caleb, bright blue eyes and bruise-darkened face staring at him through exhaustion, wary and expectant.

  He blinks and Emma shifts. Aleja turns from where she's pouring a cup of coffee. She doesn't say anything as her gaze sweeps over the Asian prince. The Cuban adds a little sugar to the coffee, stirs in creamer before she hands the steaming cup to Emma and straightens. “I’ll check on Dom.”

  “Thank you, Aleja,”” Emma says, her voice soft and raspy. The assassin gives her a flashing smile and then ducks out.

  Silence settles over the room and Emma’s head drops, her hair slipping down to mask her expression. It makes him pause and he stares at her, fascinated. He knows what role Emma had in the family. The favorite cousin, the only daughter, privileged and protected. And for most, overlooked. The demure, easily forgotten princess.

  He will never understand how anyone can look at her and see anything less than a brilliant, capable queen.

  But right now, with a flush in her cheeks and her hands twisting in her lap, he can see the mask she hid behind.

  This is the girl that Caleb loved. The one he loved enough that he didn't trust Rama with her. And that is part of the anger, when he is honest with himself. Caleb had secrets but there was trust between the Morgan son and the Thai prince.

  That he didn't trust his ally with the cousin he chose to protect stings.

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. And he's furious suddenly.

  “You don't thank the ones who serve. You accept that service, because you are queen and they are loyal.”

  Her head comes up, the bruises dark shadows in the soft light. “I will thank anyone I damn well please. You are my equal.”

  The words ring heavy in the quiet room and Rama takes a steadying breath. “Why did you jump?”

  “Because she would have shot him,” she says, simply. As if risking her own life was that simple.

  For her, it is.

  “You risked yourself,” he snaps, his hands balling. Furious that once again, she is putting Seth before everything——even her own wellbeing.

  A tiny smile tilts her lips. “No, I didn’t.” That makes Rama go still, his dark eyes wide and searching. “You wouldn't let anything happen to me.”

  He makes a choked noise and she looks away, the flush on her neck deepening a little.

  “I'm sorry. The way I treated you—it was wrong and there are no excuses for it.”

  She's quiet for a long moment and he can't bring himself to breach the silence. Because even though she is apologizing, the sting is there.

  “Caleb taught me. The years when Seth was gone—it was Caleb taking care of me and teaching me about the syndicate. About our world. I didn't always learn what he wanted me to, but he did his best. And he trusted you. Loved you.” His breath catches and her eyes dart to him. A tiny smile. “I was scared. Because I watched love destroy Seth and my parents. How could I trust that it wouldn't again? Right? But Caleb was never like the rest of us. He worked so hard to earn what the rest of us took for granted. And I think that includes you. I forgot that.” She takes a breath, and he sees the flinch she tries to hide and it hurts him, even as he tries to cling to his anger. “Mali,” he whispers and her eyes widen, finding him.

  “When Beth had me, I remembered something. You told me once that you didn't see me as a weak link. That you see a queen. That kept me going. Not Seth. The fact that you have never seen me as anything but strong enough to be your equal. I want to be that.”

  She looks at him again, and her gaze is determined. The girl with enough confidence to intrigue him on the dance floor, wearing echoes of his dead.

  “I can’t,” he says and her eyes widen. He thinks she is as startled as he is to hear those words. But they feel right. “I can't do this right now, mali. I need—" Time, space, Caleb. He takes a breath. And says, ““I can't right now. I need to know you aren't coming back to me because you were scared and almost died. And I need to know I'm not taking you back for the same reason.”

  He leans down and brushes a kiss over her forehead. Murmurs softly in Thai as he runs a hand over her hair. Then he pulls away and slips out of the room.

  Epilogue. New York City, December 25th

  Seth sits on the leather loveseat in his living room, in white sweat pants and nothing else. Jazz plays softly from his stereo as he sips a glass of Chianti. The shades are drawn against the city night outside, and the lights are low, soothing, like the jazz. The remnant of a joint is the lone occupant of a crystal ashtray.

  It's been a tense week since the showdown with his aunt, but the dust has begun to settle. So far, there have been no suspicions that the fire upstate was anything but faulty wiring in an abandoned house. Their crew successfully drained the pool, removed the bodies, and torched that haunted place. Though Emma's injuries are not life-threatening, the fact that she was so easily taken from him has him spooked. This is the first time he's left the med suite since they arrived.

  “Go away,” Emma had said with a crinkled nose. She was joking, and her voice was still weak from the pain of breathing. It had broken his heart all over again, that she was trying to be light-hearted—some shade of what used to be. She had known the small space and monstrous thoughts were getting to him. She had looked so sad when she said, “Don't you want to see

  Vera? She must be worried about you.”

  He makes a quiet sigh, a slow one that still strings pain along his left ribs. Two of them are fractured, but he refuse
d to be restrained, and he didn't tell anyone. The stitches along his cheekbone itch, the gash from Bethania's pistol whip, which was surprisingly deeper than the bullet graze. He also refused stitches for that side. Still, the wounds nearly mirror each other—— a reminder; he has been marked. The times he has cheated death are stacking up against him, and fearlessness comes with a cost. Isn't that something he should have learned from his father?

  Maybe now, finally, he has learned that much.

  He should be seeing to the details of his pending trip to Bangkok, to the last step before he reaches the top. Just as he had with Rama, he will have to amend the disrespect his uncle showed to the Ratchaphure's elders. It also means he will be leaving Emma behind, a thought that causes a barrage of anxiety every time he thinks it. How can he leave her? How can he go with the only other person who has risked everything for her?

  That beast is a little too much for him to face, so he takes another drink of wine and stares down at an eight-by-ten framed picture from the Christmas after Emma was born. Everyone was there: Isaac looking cool beside his younger cousins, Gabe with his arm around Miriam, who stands beside Emilio. Emma is a bright-eyed, tiny thing in her dad's arms, and Bethania is barely smiling, her hand on Isaac's shoulder. Mikie stands on Gabe's other side, flanking the king. His smile is a little more real, warm like Seth's childhood memories. Mikie’s arm is wrapped around Seth’s chest, Seth beaming for the camera while Caleb's brow is furrowed. Tinney is not in the picture.

  Finally, it all makes sense, as much as it ever will. And finally, the sins of the parents have been assuaged. It’s’ not what his dad wanted, not what he wanted, but he has preserved that shred of hope that his dad passed on to him. It wasn't Caleb's fault he was shrewder. Caleb was born of deception, and yet he lived and died by honor. Now, Seth has seen the darkness that came naturally to his big brother. To give under its weight would be a discredit to Caleb.

  The intercom by the archway entrance to the living room buzzes, then security says, “Vera Rohan to see you, Mr. Morgan.”

  He draws a deep breath, sets the picture down on the coffee table beside the pair of wine glasses, and the bottle. He stands, perhaps a little slowly, and stalks across his space. He punches the button and says, “Yes, send her up, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His lips twist into a small smile, the feathering pain be damned. He could use something bright in his world.

  The seconds crawl by, the limbo of an elevator ride, so that when the thing finally dings, Seth has already sat on the couch and stood up again. Nervous is not a sensation he experiences often, but the thought of Vera in his living space is some new kind of strange. And as the doors swish back, he thinks that every time he sees her lately, he's just there, actively waiting for her.

  The doors draw back to reveal her in a long brown coat, big free curls damp from melting snow. She hesitates, no doubt taking in the expansive room done in hardwood and warm color. She steps into the room. The doors close behind her and Seth can't help but notice how her deep red hair comes alive in the low lighting.

  Her eyes do a quick scan before landing on him. She gasps, lifting a hand to her mouth at the sight of his bruised and ravaged body. Her steps lull in her shock, so he steals up to her, expression solemn. He puts his hands on her upper arms, squeezes gently. Tears well in her eyes as she inspects his injuries.

  He says, “Shhh, I'm fine.”

  She shakes her head, moving the hand from her face toward his. He twitches away, and she freezes. The tears spill over to slip down her cheeks. Her hand falls slowly to her side.

  She quietly says, “I've never been so scared in my life as when I thought I might lose you forever.”

  He lets go of her arm in favor of running his hand up her neck and into her hair. He pulls her close, so that their lips are almost touching, and says, “I'm here now.”

  She presses her mouth to his, a gentle kiss, drinking him in. Her hands lift to his sides, and she hesitates.

  He pulls away, says into her ear, “Let me take your coat.”

  She sniffs, swipes a hand across her cheeks, and nods. As she hands him the coat, he pauses, eyes crawling over her. She's wearing a faded pair of jeans and an oversized tan sweater that hangs off of one shoulder. Her eyes grow wide when she notices his attention, and she says,

  “What?”

  He gives her a little smirk and says, “I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans.”

  She sucks in a sharp breath and her shoulders straighten, accentuating the bit of collarbone that peeks from beneath the sweater. She lifts her nose and says, “Don't get used to it.”

  He laughs softly. “Please, come in.”

  She watches him disappear into his inner sanctuary, and then scans the room again. It's elegant, simple and certainly expensive. She pushes further into the space, over to the loveseat. As she sits, her eyes wander over the coffee table——one wine glass half full, another one empty, the open bottle of Italian wine. Then, the picture. Her eyes widen.

  “I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to see you.”

  Seth's voice makes her jump as he walks back in the room. She locks eyes with him, no doubt in her mind that he knows what she was looking at. Surely he wouldn't leave it there by accident.

  “I know how it works,” she says, her voice a husky compliment to the fevered jazz.

  She watches him take the place beside her, losing against herself and letting her eyes ghost over his bruises, the stitches, and then his discolored ribs. Again she wants to cry, because she can do nothing to ease his pain.

  He takes the bottle and pours a glass for her. His movement catches her attention and her gaze drifts to the ashtray. Her eyes widen. He's so blatant, so debonair in his disregard for rules. He sets the bottle down, smirks, and says, “You wanna get high?”

  Her eyes flash to his, half shaded and undeniably interested. But she shakes her head, says, “I've never had a taste for it.”

  He retains that little smile and nods toward her wine glass. She obliges, lifts it into the space between them. She can't quite smile back. The sight of him so broken is like a disease that starts on the inside. She can't do anything to change it, can't help him.

  His smile fades and he says, “Please don't ask me what happened. Don't worry that I'm in danger. Just know that I really appreciate you coming. And I'm sorry that you had to deal with my security.”

  Her eyes flame. She had been in the middle of an interview when said security had entered the cafe, and lurked around until she was forced to reschedule. Not long after that came the phone call—a very quiet Seth with apologies and vagueness and the mention that he might die. She pulls her wine glass close to her body, and says, “Your security? How about dealing with the certainty that any minute, you'll be dead, and I'll never see you again?”

  His brow hardens and he looks away, to his own glass. When he finally looks back to her, his eyes are heavy, full of pain unimaginable. He says, “You've always known what I am.”

  The tears rise again in her green eyes, and she blinks. She clinks her glass against his, and says, just a little bitterly, “You're right. And it's always broken my heart.”

  He leans in, presses his lips to hers for a moment that passes into eternity. When he pulls away, her tears have fallen. Still, she is beautiful.

  She takes a slow drink of her wine, gaze falling to the family portrait on the table. She stares at it for a long time, in which Seth can't help but follow her attention. Neither of them look away as she says, “Seth, there's something I've never told you.”

  She hears his breath catch, feels the tension coil within him. He's been through so much that she can only imagine in her wildest moments, and her words draw such an edge in him that she almost regrets them. Yet, doesn't she owe him this honesty now? Now that he's given the same to her.

  She says, “The first time Caleb came to me, it wasn't about the Ratchaphure.” He bristles in her periphery.

  “It was about t
he details of his biological parents.”

  Seth's eyes drop closed. A familiar pain streaks through him, the ghosts of his family. He takes a long breath, then opens his eyes. Vera is watching him, wary of his reaction. Has she betrayed him by omitting this truth?

  He reaches out his free hand to her, runs his fingers down her cheek. He says, “That's all history now, a different world. That was a world of lies, one that collapsed because its core was rotten. I'm just glad that there was someone who didn't stab my brother in the back while I was gone. So thank you for helping him. And thank you for loving me. You are one of few who have never fucked my family over, though by all means you could have.”

  Vera just stares, eyes mirrors of surprise. Her lips move, but she makes no sound. Seth bridges the gap, presses close so that her mind goes white. He says, “I told you before that your hooks were an anchor. Just be that for me now.” “It never ends, does it?” she asks breathily.

  “There's always an end,” he says, his lips brushing hers.

  Eyes closed, and body humming with his proximity, she answers, “I don't want it to end.”

  “Good,” he says, lips curling into a smile against hers. “Because it's not over.”

  Read the final novel in the Black Collar Syndicate

  BLACK COLLAR ASCENSION

  Coming early 2016.

  About the Author:

  I loathe writing bios. So let’s play a game. Two of these are a lie. One isn’t…

  AN Latro lives in Ireland with her dog and cat and an over abundance of books. She loves solitude and boy bands, and hearing from readers.

  AN Latro lives in Florida, where the ocean is her favorite muse. She enjoys wine and tequila, and old movies about the mafia. She loves hearing from readers on Facebook and Twitter.

  AN Latro is the pen name of two friends. They love hearing from readers, and are usually getting into trouble with new ideas for the syndicate.