Black Collar Empire

by A. N. Latro

  Her mouth goes dry, and she nods, shaky. His eyes gleam, and he leans toward her, gently blowing another gun. His fingers feather in her hair, long fingers tracing the shape of her face. He leans into her, his lips ghosting over her cheek and dropping down, hovering over the pounding heartbeat in her throat. His grip on the back of her neck tightens, and she jerks away, shocked.

  “Seth?”

  “That,” he spits, sitting up suddenly, “is how Cuba was. That is what the foreign syndicates are like.”

  A confused frown furrows her brows “What?”

  He runs a hand through his hair, and the carefree high is gone—he looks tired, worn. “They use you, Emma. They use sex like a weapon. They use whatever they can and break you.”

  She sinks down next to him. “What happened? Who was she?”

  He smiles, icy cold, distant. “No one. There was no one in particular.” He takes another hit off the blunt, and she watches him. Her stomach is still twisting, filled with delicious knots and longing. Every move he makes is graceful, gorgeous, and unconsciously sexual.

  His eyes find her, hot and filled with promise. She gasps.

  “And you,” he says disdainfully, “are not nearly strong enough to face them.”

  Anger fills her, and hurt. “I faced Rama,” she snaps, stung.

  “And how long, exactly, did it take for him to fuck you?” he demands.

  She flinches, and he smiles, coldly. Inhales again, a glint filling his eyes. “Want another gun?” he asks suggestively.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demands, her voice shaking.

  Seth stares at her, at the wide pools of hurt in her eyes. She’s almost trembling, close to breaking. He suppresses the sigh that is filling him—he knew, even when he dialed her number, how difficult this would be. He’s avoided it. His first instinct is to protect her. This—this does not protect her. But he knows that it’s long overdue.

  “When I went to Cuba, I grew up,” he says slowly, aware of her watching him. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “I grew up in a hurry. In Cuba, my name didn’t mean shit. My family was only good as long as they held up their end of the deal. I was just a tool, one easily killed if they didn’t like something the syndicate did. And I knew it.” He shrugs and, finally, puts out the blunt. “When I got there, I thought it’d be in and out. I thought my name would carry me through—but Havanna didn’t give a fuck. I was a gun, one with a useful family, but one who hadn’t proven his worth.”

  “What happened?” she asks, her voice trembling.

  “I killed. I made deals. I did their drugs and fucked their women.” A tiny smile tugs his lips at the last. “And eventually, they started to trust me. A few, I think, could even be called friends.”

  He glances at her, caustically. “In the end, Havanna did trust me. For my worth, not the syndicate’s.”

  “How do you know?”

  He knows she’ll ask, and he reaches for a glass of rum. It slides down his throat like liquid fire that summons the ghosts of women and sticky nights and an ocean so soft it seems unfit to hold the dead. “He accepted me into his organization. They have a ritual, when someone joins them.” His voice is dead. “They have to take Havanna’s mark—a small brand.”

  She gasps, and his eyes dart to her, before he looks back into his drink. His stomach churns—he has spoken of this to no one, not even Nicolette.

  “They branded you?” she demands, furious.

  He shrugs and throws back the rest of the drink. Maybe, he thinks, through the fog of alcohol and drugs, they will drown the memories.

  “I was expendable to them. When he gave me his mark, Havanna told them all I wasn’t. I was more than just my family name.”

  “Seth,” she whispers, her voice full of shock and horror. It hurts him, somewhere deep inside. Even knowing there is no other way, knowing she has to go through this, it still hurts.

  “That’s what they’re like. What your whore is like,” he says, his voice empty.

  She flinches, and anger fills her eyes. And hurt. “He’s not like that,” she says feebly.

  “Really?” he scoffs. “You think you know? Because he was good in bed? Because he didn’t use you?”

  She flinches, and he leans close, invading her space. She can smell the rum on his breath, see the shape of herself in his eyes. Her breath is short, and she wants to move away, but he has her trapped. “You sit in your offices and count numbers. You go to board meetings, and see the family who has always sheltered you. You think because you carry that little gun, you have some idea what our world is like.”

  “Don’t I?” she asks, her voice shaking. Her eyes are burning. She hates it, seeing him like this. She hates when he acts like this—so cruel and untouchable.

  “You don’t have a fucking clue,” he says, his voice flat.

  “And whose fault is that,” she demands, her voice a hiss. “You protect me as much as Mikie and Gabe ever did. Caleb is the only one, the only one who didn’t think I would shatter if I saw something real.”

  He smiles, a smile so cold and feral, panic slithers down her spine. “I know.”

  She blinks, and Seth uses the moment to put space between them, standing and unbuttoning his shirt. It falls to the floor with a sigh of silk. Her palms go damp as she watches him, the warm golden skin, the hair tickling the base of his neck, the strong arms that taper into elegant, long fingers. He turns as he pulls on a gray button down, and, faintly, she can see the raised skin of a scar—just the tip of it—peeking over the waistband of low slung pants.

  He buttons the shirt with quick, efficient movements, and she follows his fingers up, meeting his grin. A blush stains her cheeks, but she lifts her chin, arches her eyebrows in silent question.

  Approval flickers in his eyes briefly, before it’s gone.

  She looks away as he reaches for the creamy white suit pants, and he pauses. “I’ve always protected you, because that’s what I thought was best,” he says, seriously, all the taunt slipping from his voice, leaving his tone empty. “I never wanted to expose you to the truths of our family. But the Asian—” He shakes his head, and a sardonic smile twists his lips. “If you want to learn, you will. My way. Not his.”

  She licks her lips, staring at the silver silk of her dress. He’s crouching in front of her, looking delectable, sex seeming to pulse off of him. “First thing to remember—you’re a Morgan. Use it.”

  Confusion flickers in her eyes, and he leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Wednesday morning. My car will pick you up.”

  She swallows hard, but she jerks a nod. Stands, forcing him to back up as she rises. “Give me your tie,” she murmurs.

  He hands it to her, and she loops it around his neck, her small fingers buttoning the last button before quickly knotting a double Windsor. The skinny cream tie lies like a noose, but he is more aware of her, the way she stands so close, the way her fingers brush his skin when she adjusts the collar. She steps away abruptly, and her hips sway, a bit. The fear is gone from her eyes when she pauses, looks at him over her shoulder. “The party won’t wait, Seth,” she reminds him.

  The heat and subtle invitation in her eyes makes him grit his teeth, and then she’s gone, her heels clicking on the marble.

  He shakes his head as he shrugs into his suit coat and goes to join her. That’s one lesson he doesn’t need to re-teach her.

  The Ritz, New York City. July 3rd.

  It's a party in like the old days. Family and high-ranking guns mingle with the cities wealthiest elite. As Emma walks in, her silver gown sparkling in the light, she sees a pale assassin dancing with a rising Hollywood starlet. There are all types here, to pay homage to the city’s favorite son.

  Mikie beckons her, and she fixes a smile on her lips as she glides across the marble ballroom floor to stand in front of him.

  "It's a lovely party, uncle," she says, kissing his cheeks. The king smiles, genuine warmth in his gaze for Emma. She has always been his favo
rite—everyone loves Emma with her sweet smiles and biddable manner.

  "Have you seen him?"

  Not since they left the penthouse. He sent her in a different car—needed a few minutes alone, he said.

  "Not today," she answers, looking down. Lying to her uncle has become easier. He is quiet, staring at the top of her head. For a long moment, she wonders if the man is having her followed as well, if Nic's men are not the only ones she needs to dodge. She feels a spark of anger and jerks back, out of Mikie's grasp. He smiles, a benevolent uncle, and she forces one in return. There's a commotion building at the front of the room, cameras flashing. Even Nic, in a stunning, simple scarlet sheath, has turned her cool interest toward it.

  Seth has made his appearance, at last.

  Emma turns toward the bar. If there is anything she has learned about her cousin, it's that he takes his time—there are lesser family to wade through, pretty girls to flirt with, board members to ignore for the sake of the party. All of them waiting, impatient and eager for a moment of his time. She's his right hand, and a few approach her as she makes her way to the bar, with questions about the restructuring of Caleb's division. There is still turmoil, still so much unrest seething beneath the surface of the family. She makes small talk and soothes their worries, making a mental note of who approaches her—and who doesn't.

  "Talking is thirsty work, miss," the bartender says, grinning at her.

  She wrinkles her nose at him, and he laughs. She smirks and says, "Can I get a glass of Chardonnay?"

  He pours it quickly, sliding it across to her. Emma takes a sip and turns on her seat to face the crowd.

  "People sure love that Morgan boy," the bartender says, watching with her. She smiles. From here, Seth is hidden from her view, obscured by the crowd. She can see the top of his unruly hair, but nothing more.

  "He's like the sun," she murmurs. "People can't help but stare and fall into orbit around him."

  The bartender sends a glance her way and asks, curiously, "Do you know him?"

  He has to be a new hire. Everyone in the Morgan hotels knows her. She doesn't answer, because her driver and bodyguard appears at her elbow. She eyes him lazily.

  "Who pays your checks?" she asks, sipping her wine.

  Dom doesn't even blink, "You do, ma'am."

  Emma frowns, and the man ducks his head. "He would like to see you, Ms. Morgan." She takes a final regretful sip of her wine before setting it down and standing. Seth is still surrounded, but Nic is at his side. His dark eyes find her across the room, questioning and challenging. She grins back at the bartender, all sultry Morgan charm, and then saunters through the party to flank Seth.

  She has lost count of how many times she's been dragged to the dance floor. She's danced with more cousins and soldiers that she can remember, each of them a whirling, laughing face that blurs with the next.

  She has danced with kings and killers, and still, the one who matters has remained aloof and apart, watching as he is courted and celebrated. After the display in the penthouse, she’s annoyed and close to tears, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

  Another dance ends. "Excuse me," she murmurs to her partner, a tall enforcer from Mikie's division. Displeasure flickers on the man's face at the dismissal, but he doesn't argue. Not with her. She takes four steps before a hand catches her and she starts to turn, a polite refusal already forming on her lips. Seth smiles at her, his eyes bright in the dim light.

  "Dance with me, Emma," he says, making it an order.

  She never even considers refusing.

  He moves her easily, with simple pressure and quick, smooth movements. Around the dance floor, family has slowed to watch. She can feel their uneasy glances, the not soft enough whispers.

  “Why are they so afraid of you?” she asks, for a moment feeling like the little girl she was, looking up to her older and dangerous cousins.

  “They fear us,” he corrects, gently, turning her, “because we will rule. And because they don’t know what we will do.”

  She makes a little face. “We have that in common, then.”

  Seth laughs. He is looser, somehow. Relaxed after the quiet tension in the hotel. It was, she realizes, a test. And a trust.

  “What am I, Seth?” she asks, forcing her gaze up to meet his. She’s tired, the weight of the day, and the earlier encounter, the watching syndicate—all of it tugs at her. Seth pauses, going still on the dance floor. Around them, the whispers intensify. But she can’t hear them—all she can see is Seth, his wide brown eyes.

  “You’re my family. The only family that matters, Em. You belong at my side.”

  She shakes her head and breaks away. Vaguely, she’s aware of Nic watching from the bar. The room is too hot, and she makes for the balcony. The night is crisp, with a hint of coolness to it that makes her shiver. Beyond the steel railing, the city sprawls, glittering and indolent.

  Emma feels him step out onto the balcony, but doesn’t turn. He waits until the last of the partiers retreat back inside and then steps up beside her.

  Seth doesn’t push—that was Caleb’s role. He is content to stand quiet next to her while she grapples with her thoughts.

  “You say you want me in your division, but tie my hands. You say you want me by your side, but you have a queen. You don’t tell me anything, but the entire family is waiting, and half are convinced I know what you're doing next. Do you know what it’s like, not knowing? When, by right, I should? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”

  His hand clenches on the rail. “I’m trying, Emma. I want you with me. But I don’t want to expose you to everything—“

  “I am a Morgan,” she says, her voice shrill. “This is my birthright, as much as it’s yours.”

  He closes his eyes. “Emma,” he begins. Stops because there isn’t anything he can say that refutes that. She’s right.

  “I want to help you, Seth,” she whispers, facing the city again.

  They stand, shoulder to shoulder, facing the kingdom both are fighting to protect. “I want you by my side.” He says again, “You are the only one who matters, Emma. This is our kingdom.”

  “You have a queen,” she says.

  “Nic isn’t family,” he says, and she finally looks at him. “I need you to trust me.”

  She stares at him, blue eyes so similar to Caleb’s, searching his face for the truth.

  “I want to use the Thai,” he says, at last. She blinks, startled. “I’m still trying to figure it out—but I want to meet with him.”

  “Rama works the sex trade,” she says, cautiously, and he relaxes. Business is easier—Emma is smart and has brilliant instincts. He knew she was smart when he brought her into his circle, but he’s still surprised by her quick wits and razor sharp instincts.

  Sometimes, he still sees the knobby-kneed little girl who followed him down hallways and made faces at his stories, while batting away smoke from Caleb’s cigarettes, half in love with them both.

  She’s still there—that pretty, loyal cousin. But she’s grown up. He releases a breath and draws her closer, leaning down to brush a kiss on the top of her hair. The door to the balcony opens, and the cousins turn. Nicolette is backlit by the party lights, and he squeezes Emma’s shoulders before letting her go and taking Nic’s hand as they return to the party.

  She stays there, for a moment, staring at the glittering party. She feels suspended, somehow—a ghost hovering between the shining kingdom and the brilliant royalty. His words play in her mind—the things he didn’t say are louder.

  He trusts her. Despite her betrayal, he trusts her, and he wants her by his side. A knot of tension that she has lived with for so long she’s forgotten it eases, relaxing at the show of confidence. She smiles, a quiet, secret smile.

  Luxe, New York City. July 17th.

  His hands shake. Rama inhales deeply, forces himself to steady them. The tiny tremor is the only evidence of nerves, and for that, he can be proud.

  It has been almost a
month since that night when Emma came to the club exuding sex and danger and risk. It had shaken him, seeing her deadly prince exposing secrets with a surgical skill and crippling precision..

  Almost a month since he has seen Emma. Since Seth so effortlessly plucked her from his arms and returned her to her rightful place.

  And then came the quiet, unexpected call. An invitation, and an order. Rama understood it instantly, known even as he thought of ignoring it, that he would meet the native son at the time and place of Seth’s choosing.

  A waitress comes by again, a quiet intrusion. He smiles at her, the full devastating charm of his ethnicity. She blushes, and then something above his head catches her attention. Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open in a perfect little ‘o.’ Rama sighs.

  He turns in his seat, almost rising. Seth pauses in the doorway, cool eyes professionally assessing the hotel bar.

  Standing quietly behind him to the left, a subordinate of rank, is Emma, the lovely and unassuming princess. Seth twists to her, murmuring, and Emma nods almost shyly. It is a quiet movement that reminds Rama—forcefully—that this is Seth’s woman, Seth's right hand.

  Her presence is a reminder that Rama is also a subordinate, lesser syndicate being granted audience for Seth’s pleasure. Nothing more. He shivers as Seth’s sweeping gaze finds him. Seth smiles at him, darkly, before taking Emma’s arm and guiding her to the chairs where Rama waits.

  “Ratchaphure,” Seth says, dipping his head slightly in greeting. The cordial motion, the manners, startle Rama. From where she stands, Emma can see the surprise rise in the black eyes she had thought she loved.

  When Seth told her he was interested in business with Ratchaphure, she had been startled, and then dismissed the idea that he would meet with her former lover. Surely even Seth would avoid something that explosive. When his car came for her, she hadn’t known what to expect.

  Seth takes the seat directly across from Rama, a sharp glance from him indicating she should take the one at his side. She hides a smile as she sinks gracefully into the plush cream cushions—despite the time that has passed, Seth is still angry with Rama for laying hands on her, and where she is concerned, Seth will never fully trust the Thai.