Black Collar Empire

by A. N. Latro

  Mikie tries for his defenses, his icy mask, but Seth can feel the dark understanding in the man, who asks, “Would you have ever acted this way with your father?”

  Seth hardly misses a beat with his rebuttal. He says, “I would never have needed to,” and stands firm in his resolve. He sidesteps the other and adds, “And he never would have used me as business collateral.”

  Mikie's hand flashes from pocket to catch a hold just above Seth's elbow. “What?” he growls.

  Seth locks eyes with Mikie sidelong, his gaze so very dark brown and burning with intensity. He rips his arm away. Mikie's grip is bruising, but it breaks under Seth's force. His jaw line tenses, and he says, “You made the wrong plays.” He stands long enough to watch comprehension crash into Mikie's expression, then delivers a stiff shoulder check as he brushes past his uncle. He doesn't turn back once on the way to his grand exit. As the reception door closes behind him, he smiles, and it is cold, just like his uncle's office.

  Graystone Apartments, New York City. June 17th.

  She wakes slowly, aware of the pounding in her head. Her mouth is dry, and she is wearing her dress from the night before. Light is streaming in through her windows, and she winces as it blinds her.

  As she falls on her back, she remembers last night, and dread fills her. She had expected Seth last night. For over two hours, his driver had cruised her city. Their city.

  She reminds herself—again—that she had told Nicolette about this. The Oliver princess knew what she had been doing. But the fury in Seth’s eyes was unlike anything she had ever seen from him.

  There is soft noise from the kitchen, and Emma jerks upright. She finds her pearl handle derringer, a gift from Caleb for her sixteenth birthday, in the top drawer of her bedside table—the same place it has rested at night since he taught her to use it. She holds it tensely as she creeps from her bedroom, down the wide, dark hall to the brilliant light of her living room.

  He leans against a counter, reading letters from a small black box. For a moment, as his heavy glance finds her, disgust and contempt in his eyes, she wants to use the gun she holds.

  Instead, she puts it on the bar and steps past him to pour herself a glass of orange juice. Her temper is flaring, and she wonders at the wisdom of facing his anger with her own. Decides it is probably as wise as going to Bamboo in the first place. She glances at the clock, and her eyes grow wide. “The board meeting! We're late!”

  He snorts a bit of dry laughter, doesn't bother to look at her when he says, “I postponed it. Guess you're lucky, huh?”

  The panic that had risen so quickly ekes from her nerves, and indignation at his cock-sure tone takes its place. She sets an aggravated furrow to her expression and lifts her chin defiantly.

  “Didn’t bother to change?” he drawls. She eyes him over her glass, noting the stubble on his face, the long hair falling into his eyes. He looks terrible.

  “I didn’t get home till almost four,” she snaps. Emma watches as he discards the letter. Seth prowls to the window, moving with sleek grace she has always loved, and her stomach flips. That he is furious is apparent.

  She could handle that. Anger is easy—Bethania at least taught her how to deal with that. But this—disappointment—is so much harder to bear. She shivers as he finally turns to her. “Why?” he asks simply.

  He is gorgeous, his eyes heavy with shadows and his shirt unbuttoned—he’s discarded his jacket. He stands casually, his hands tucked into his pockets, but his eyes are hooded, hiding his thoughts. It hurts her to see him this way.

  “You needed answers,” she says softly. “Caleb always conducted his business in clubs—I learned that when he took me with him. I thought…”

  Rage fills his eyes for a moment, and she flinches. “Caleb was an idiot to put you in that kind of danger,” he mutters. He focuses on her and shakes his head. “I told you not to go.”

  “But you couldn’t,” she answers steadily. “How were you going to get any information without using someone? And who would you use? You can’t trust anyone enough to use them.”

  “You didn’t do this for me,” he snaps. “You’re bored—don’t pretend it’s anything else.”

  Her anger rises to match his, and she pushes away from the couch she’s been standing behind. “Why are you so mad? I did what we do. I went looking for answers, and I found them—Caleb was forging an alliance with Ratchaphure.”

  “I knew that,” Seth answers icily.

  “Did you know Uncle Mikie and my mother knew? That Remi Oliver knows?”

  Surprise fills his eyes for a moment. Then he shakes it off and glares. “You had no business there, Emma.”

  “It’s not your call,” she snaps.

  “It is my call!” he yells, startling her. “You’re in my division. You’re my cousin—I won’t let you risk yourself and get yourself killed because you feel some insane need to be fucking useful!”

  “Rama wouldn’t hurt me!”

  “And you know that because he was so honest, right?” Seth almost spits the words. She flinches. Pain fills her eyes, and she looks away. Drops to the couch.

  Seth hates the pain in her gaze. She’s biting her lower lip, her hands clenched, and for a moment he worries that she’ll hurt herself. He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Emma, you promised me you wouldn’t go there,” he says, exhaustion washing away his anger. “So why would you?”

  “You can’t do everything!” she screams.

  Anger fills him, fills the room, so heavy and thick it’s suffocating. For a moment, she wonders if she’s gone too far—he is still her prince, and deadly. “I gave you a place,” he says quietly. “I gave you my trust.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she whispers, and he gasps. “You took me from one cage to a bigger one. Caleb did the same thing.” Her eyes are heartbreaking, pleading. “Seth, would you ever tell Nic to stay out of harms way? Keep her from the ugly realities of our life?”

  He remembers Nicolette, pinning Vera to the wall at Caleb’s wake, her gun in hand as she faced a dealer skimming profits, coldly facing the kings. “No,” he admits.

  “Then why do you do it to me?”

  Seth finally moves, leaves the window to sit across from her. “I’ve watched this life kill my father and brother, cousins and friends. I know how dangerous it is,” he says, wearily. Did Gabe ever have a conversation like this—had he ever had to protect someone he loved who didn’t want protection?

  “Seth, you brought me in,” she reminds him, gently.

  “To protect you,” he says hollowly.

  She ignores that and rises. He looks so tired. So exhausted that she wonders how he is still moving. Sheer determination and coke?

  He watches her, somewhat amused, as she digs in the fridge and emerges with eggs and cheese. “You cook?” He grins.

  Emma feels the tension seep from her at that grin. The anger that has been so present slips under that irresistible smile. She flushes a little under the attention, and wonders why it is easier to face Seth’s anger than it is his charm. “Not really. I can scramble eggs, though.”

  “Bethania has a cook,” he points out.

  Emma wrinkles her nose adorably. “Do you want something to eat or not?”

  He watches her as she moves around her kitchen. The dress is still gorgeous, despite the hours she spent in his car, despite sleeping in it. She works easily, confidently, and he finds himself intrigued with the domestic Emma, apart from the influence of her mother. She is humming, soft and off-key.

  “Why did you kiss him?” he asks abruptly, pulled back to that moment, seeing her wrapped around the Thai. The kiss bothers him—Emma kissing anyone feels wrong. He can’t let himself consider why.

  Her eyes jerk up to him. Then she shrugs. “I was drunk.”

  “He’s a pimp.”

  She sighs, tiredly. “And you’re a drug lord. Caleb was a gun runner. I’m a money launderer. Does any of that really matter?”

  “He
’s not in our syndicate,” Seth points out as he stands and retrieves juice from the fridge.

  “Neither is Nicolette. What’s this really about? Is there someone in this family you would rather me be with?” she demands.

  The anger that had filled him last night comes back. “He’s using you. You aren’t really so naïve that you don’t see that.”

  “I know he is. But I’m doing the same thing, so how can I complain?”

  She smiles at him, a small quirk of the lips that reminds him that, despite how much he may want to protect her, she is a Morgan, his cousin, born to this life.

  He sighs, takes the plate she offers. “Rama is not the best you could do, Em,” he says, disapproval evident in his voice.

  “I liked him.”

  “Why?” he wonders, and she freezes.

  His eyes are on her, demanding an answer, and she sighs. “He reminded me of someone.” Her expression turns bitter. “I suppose we both reminded each other of someone.”

  She flicks a glance at him. There is sadness in his eyes, although she knows he will never apologize. He is a prince, a king, and she would never ask him to lower himself to that.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes on her plate, “that you were hurt—that you found out this way. I should have called you. I went to your place, yesterday. I had enough that it was time to go to you. Nicolette even thought so.”

  He sucks in a breath, and she smiles. “I would not risk myself without some security, Seth. I told her, because you would refuse me outright.”

  “She let you?” he whispers, eyes wide pools of anger and hurt.

  “Nic wants you safe. We both do, and until we know what Caleb wanted, that won’t happen.”

  “I’m supposed to protect you, Emma. Not the other way around,” he protests.

  “No,” she says, “you’re supposed to trust me. Like I trust you.” He stares at her, silently, and she curses. “I did this for you—and now it’s done.”

  “How,” he asks quietly, “am I supposed to trust you when you lie to me? How long, Em?”

  She pales, her hands going flat on the counter between them. His eyes flick down and then up. “The truth,” he says quietly.

  “Since graduation. That’s the first night I went to Bamboo.”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “How did you lie to me that long?”

  “How did you find out about Bamboo?” she challenges, and his eyes come up, startled. “You’re doing something, too, Seth. Keeping your own secrets—and you won’t even tell Nic what it is.”

  “Did she tell you that?” he asks, surprised.

  “No.”

  He sighs, and she can see the conflict in him. “Emma,” he says quietly, “the ways of foreign syndicates are dangerous. You went there, and he saw someone in you that he lost. But that is not the way of them—and in time, you would learn that. I don’t want you to carry that kind of scar.”

  There is pain in his voice, raw and heartbreaking, that strips her of every futile defense she came up with in the darkness of his car. His eyes, when they find her, are haunted, broken, so full of something beyond her, she gasps. “Seth,” she whispers.

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head again. Exhaustion is pulling at him, and he is wavering where he stands. “You will not see him, without me,” he says, putting steel in his voice.

  She shivers, but dips her head, silent acquiescence. He stands to leave and pauses next her, fingers brushing her cheek. “Thanks for breakfast,” he murmurs.

  As he reaches for the door, she calls him. He glances at her, over his shoulder. “You’re exhausted,” she says quietly. He quirks an eyebrow, and she laces her fingers, shrugs eloquently. “You can sleep in the guest room,” she offers.

  His eyes widen, and she understands it. Hesitation and worry is filling his gaze. She looks away. “If you want,” she whispers.

  Can trust be built so quickly? Can he ever forgive her for this? Noise jerks her gaze back to him. “Thanks, Em,” he whispers hoarsely, suddenly so close she can feel the heat coming from him, the smell of alcohol and spices.

  She nods, refusing to look up. He glances at the pearl handled derringer she left on the counter, the delicate curling vines that wrap around the barrel. It’s a designer, a gorgeous, deadly piece.

  Caleb.

  He shivers as he steps closer to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he vanishes down the hallway. She hears the creak of the bedsprings, and her breath rushes from her.

  The admission, the warning—it was so much more than she ever expected from him. It brings a soft smile, a tiny sliver of hope that she may not have fucked this up forever.

  Seth is snoring, softly, exhausted, and she sighs as she picks up her messenger bag and the mass of paperwork waiting for her attention.

  Morgan Wyndsong, New York City. July 3rd.

  The world is moving around her as she cranes her head up and stares up at the glittering façade of glass and metal. The hotel looms above her like a taunt, and she shivers. He’s in there, somewhere. Waiting.

  “Miss?”

  She gives her driver a distracted smile and pushes the door open, stepping out in the sunlight and the masses crowding the streets. They flow around her, giving her space, unconsciously. A tourist gives her a curious look that snaps Emma to the moment, and how she must appear, her hair falling around her shoulders in perfect curls, her dress long and silky around her legs.

  He’s been distant since that morning after finding her in Rama’s arms. That he has called her to him, now—today, of all days—makes her heart race.

  Someone bumps into her, and she can feel the tension rolling off her driver as he steps forward, involuntarily. She gives him a sharp shake of the head and then moves toward the shimmering glass doors. A sharply dressed doorman pulls it open, winking at her. She doesn’t notice—she doesn’t notice his model good looks, either.

  Her palms are damp as she stands on the elevator. A few other hotel guests occupy it for the first few floors, edging away from her. She knows they’re sending cautious, curious looks her way, but it registers distantly, the way a fly would. All her concentration is on the penthouse, and him, and the too-slow rise of the elevator. She barely notices the stops, except to realize irritably that it’s slowing her progress. Eventually she is alone, rising into the heights of the tower. The elevator bumps to a stop, and her stomach twists as the doors glide open to reveal a brilliant, luxurious interior.

  “Seth?” Her voice is shaking, and she pauses, discards her purse and raw silk wrap. Taking a deep breath, she tries again, louder. “Seth?”

  The suite is painfully silent. Instinct—a tug that she has never been able to fully ignore—pulls her toward the French doors to her right, past the chocolate leather couch and oak table in the sunken living area. A discarded glass of wine sits there.

  She pushes open the door to the master suite, peeks inside. He’s sprawled on the bed, propped against the pillows, a fog of smoke surrounding him, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Come in, Em,” he says, his voice rubbing against her like rumpled silk—a disturbing image that makes her ponder the wisdom of being here with him.

  He props himself up on an elbow and lifts an eyebrow. She flushes, stalks into the room, pulling her long narrow skirt up a little. He hands her a cigar—no, a blunt—and she wrinkles her nose.

  “You don’t smoke?” he asks, skeptical.

  “Not those,” she sniffs, disdainful. Her pounding heart is settling a little, either from the smell of weed filling the room or the smell of him, so close she can feel the heat pouring off him.

  He glances at the blunt and smiles, a sexy smirk that makes her blood heat. “I’ll blow you a gun,” he says, and she shakes her head, even though it isn’t a question. He inhales on the blunt, the cherry flaring between them, and then a hand hooks behind her neck, dragging her closer. His lips are there, so close they are almost kissing, and he exhales, a stream of smoke filling her waiting mouth
.

  She sits back, coughing, and he grins, inhaling.

  He’s watching her, and beyond the amusement in his eyes, there is something cool and dangerous. She goes still, waiting, and he inhales again.

  Confusion hits her as the smoke clears—the sexual tension is thicker, charged. He never plays on it, never even acknowledges it. Not in the years she crushed on him, not in the time he’s been back. What is he doing?

  “You want to know,” he asks, his voice silky, “what Cuba was like?”