by A. N. Latro
Now, the king is losing at chess. He snatches up his cigar and takes a few hearty puffs.
“I'm having a hard time believing that all of this just flew under your radar,” he says, his words edged enough that she throws him a heated glare in return. He bites down on the grin that wants to surface at her reaction. He continues, “Has my nephew grown so stealthy that he showed no signs, gave no indication that he was about to exact a very precise move to oust me?”
Where most opponents might react in a flare of anger, Nicolette holds his gaze as she shifts in her seat. She leans against the low, straight chair back and crosses her legs. Her eyes and lips are flatly unamused. She retrieves her Manhattan from the table beside her and takes a drink. She says, “I hardly see him. When I do, he tells me nothing. Not since he brought Emma on. And she quit telling me anything when she got caught poking around your Thai whorehouse.”
Again, Mikie has to suppress a smile at the bitter twinge to her voice when she mentions Seth's darling cousin. Blow for blow, just like that. He drops his gaze to wander over his pieces. The game is hopeless at this point, so why not push a few more buttons. He decides to call upon a rook he has left inconspicuously hidden. In her careful preparations, she has left a rook deliciously open. Perhaps she thought he would not be so ballsy as to rush her from one end of the board to the other. Maybe it's a trap, but he wouldn't mind for the game to end anyway. As he removes her piece, he says, “It's like he knows you're a conniving bitch.”
He catches the clench in her jaw, but she doesn't answer right away. Her queen is now in danger. She sweeps the piece over without second thought and takes the rook. She says, “You said that you and my father could keep the reins on him.” His rook makes a thunk as she lands it on the table, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. “You also said we'd be making wedding plans by now, and be Mr. and Mrs. Seth Morgan by Christmas. You promised me shares, Michael. Where's the pay-up?”
Mikie's anger flares, just as he has watched it do in her.
The difference between them is simple: experience. He has had years on her to practice being cold-hearted. Not even the tension along his limbs wavers. He calmly cycles through possibilities for his next move. Clever bitch, she had known she could safely take his rook without further endangering her queen. He must consider some other decision and accept that his sacrifice had been merely for effect. He stalemates one of her pawns with his instead. Yet another yank on her aggravation.
He says, “The deal went both ways, remember. You were supposed to keep me informed about any movements within his division and the company, and about anything drastic that he planned to do. You gave me nothing, and now he's taken over the whole goddamned company with nothing I can do to stop him. The pay-up is no longer under my control. And I've been paying you to be the ‘liaison’ with your father's bank for nothing.”
He can all but feel the hatred coursing through her veins. Maybe she's experiencing a moment of regret. If she had just stuck by her lover in the first place, she wouldn't be at risk of exposure as a traitor.
She is the only thing left in the world, it seems, that retains Seth's naïve idealism. The only chink in his armor. He would never consider that she would scheme against him, would never believe that her love for him had been outweighed by her bitterness.
Mikie knew it was true. He has watched her harden from the front row, until what she truly desired was power and she no longer believed in love. So interesting, to watch the devastation of the weak-hearted in the wake of Seth's absence: his own brother, the love of his life, even the poor young sap at the head of the Thai syndicate who didn't even know him.
Nicolette leans forward, her silken hair sliding over her shoulders. There are ribbons of her anger in her eyes, but her expression and voice remain calm. She says, “I did my job. He gave me nothing, on purpose, to 'protect me' he said. By the way you describe it, and my father, he didn't even tell Emma he planned to take over Caleb's shares. More aptly, it's like he knows you are a backstabbing snake. Maybe you shouldn't have left quite so many loose ends. Surely he realized you had been up to something when there was no contingency plan for him to take over his own division when he came home.”
“I thought I could stall his return just a little longer,” Mikie says, his anger slipping into his words.
“What difference does it make?” she says with a shade of amusement. She slips her knight around his and waylays his queen. He has to bite back his curse.
He barks, “Because I could have had the Cubans take care of him, and it never would have been an issue. I was so close.”
She gasps, freezes in her reach for the prized piece. Her eyes are genuinely wide. “You don't mean that,” she says, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
“No, you're right,” he hurries. “It doesn't matter. Though Caleb had a streak of brilliance with his plan to integrate the whores into the syndicate, he was never a good pawn anyway.”
He eyes the chess board, ignores her burning gaze on him. His thread of survival in the game is dire. He might as well light the funeral pyre. He takes the knight with his king. She clears her throat, re-focuses on the game, but her attention is now divided—somewhere else. Finally she says, “You've known all along that one of them would have to die.”
Mikie sighs, says, “Don't act like you didn't realize that. Together, they would have completely unseated my regime. Caleb's loyalty would have returned to his brother, and they would have forced me into retirement, and Seth would have realized right away that it was his division that I planned to dissolve. They would have taken everything I have built.”
“You mean they would have taken their rightful place?” she says, that deadly edge back in her words. “You mean you're too weak to manipulate them both?” She scoffs. “We see how well that fucking worked. Turns out you can't even handle one brother. Your plan failed, and you couldn't adapt in time to save your ass.”
“Careful,” he growls, grabbing her eyes with his, letting his rage shine in the connection. “I would hate for your beloved to find out that you've been sneaking around behind his back.”
“Like he would believe you,” she answers, ups the bet. They share a stretch of searing eye contact, before she dismisses him for the game between them. At length, a slow, devilish smile possesses her lips. She asks, “What now? What's your plan?”
His eyes are scanning the remaining pieces as he tries to determine what had put such an evil smile on her face. He says, “Without knowing where he is or what he's up to, I can't really make a solid move, now can I? Perhaps you should find him for me so we can gauge where we stand.”
She swiftly collects her knight and slips around his defenses, again. “Checkmate,” she answers, and she knocks his king off the table. She takes a victory sip of her drink, that sly smile still firmly in place. She pins him with her shrewd gaze and says, “Yes, I suppose I will clean up your mess. You owe me double for this.”
“Figures,” Mikie mutters, finally finding his brandy again.
Quietly, outside the cracked-open study door, Tinney hits the stop button on his phone's voice recorder. It takes every bit of his resolve to slide the device into his pocket and creep away on the plush carpet. His fists are clenched at the conversation he just overheard, and yet it's not his place to react as he wants and bury his bullets in the brains of both Mikie and Nicolette. No, he will let Seth decide how to exact his revenge.
The Hamptons, New York. August 9th.
They’ve gathered at Tinney’s request. Rama arrived early in the morning with word from the city. A quiet, waiting day.
He was speaking, when the giant assassin pressed play, and he fell instantly quiet as the Morgan king and Oliver princess talked shop.
The silence after the recording finishes is huge, crushing. Tinney has taken several steps backward, away from the table and the volatile man whose world has just come crashing in on him. Rama's ink-dark eyes are trained steadily on Seth, gauging the intensity of the
storm that has taken his eyes as he stares down at the offending piece of technology that has brought him word of treason. The round table at which they sit suddenly seems too small. Between them, Emma is also staring at the phone, but the emotion that boils in her gaze is hatred.
In a flurry of movement, Seth pushes back from the table, which upsets his ornate wooden chair with a clatter. In a flash much too deadly quick, his guns are drawn, but there is nothing to shoot. All eyes are on him. No one moves. Seth blinks several times, as if it will stop the torrent that wants to break, and he just holds the guns pointed at the ceiling, as though he can shoot down god. His hands and shoulders are shaking, and his breaths come labored through gritted teeth. He begins to move his head from one side to the other, like he can force his denial into truth, like he can somehow erase this monumental betrayal. Then he presses the tops of his guns to his forehead. The tears begin to roll down his cheeks, and he sucks in his breaths.
“All along,” he whispers. “They've both been fucking me all along.”
Without making a sound, Emma stands and approaches his left side. She lays a steady hand on his shoulder. The gravity with which she carries herself brings his eyes to her, brings him into some loose shade of focus. His tremors ease beneath her touch, and he lowers the guns to his sides. There is murder in her eyes, and for once, rather than wishing he could take it from her, he relates absolutely.
This, for her to witness this, is the final shove into the dark and twisting undercurrents of their world. And she has transformed gorgeously. Her curls look so soft against her icy expression.
“You were right,” she says, tone as unwavering as her hand, “Caleb didn't have to die. But you were spared because he did. Let's do him the honor of seeing you take the throne.”
The resolution in her voice is chilling despite the raging emotions coming from everyone present. Seth stares at her for another long, tense moment. Those determined blue eyes remind him so much of his brother that he feels the pang in his chest like a bullet. That's exactly what Caleb would have said in an instance like this. The well of his tears has gone dry, frozen so quickly to hate and rolling temper. His voice is deceivingly calm when he says, “You understand what you're suggesting, right?”
She doesn't waver when she nods, and if she feels a rash of nerves in her gut, Seth would never know by watching her. He holsters his guns then pulls her against his chest in protective agreement; some silent indication that from this point forward, they are truly in it together.
Nicolette was never worthy of being the Morgan's queen, but Emma, she will redefine the title. Over her shoulder, Seth's eyes flash to Rama, who is watching the exchange with intent. The eye contact between them is critical, full of wrath and lust, mutual purpose. Even an enemy's enemy is a friend, thinks Seth, and Rama is not quite an enemy. He is, however, a crucial key in a complete and hostile takeover.
Tinney steps forward, says, “Mikie's driver reports to me that there is a dinner party at Bethania's house tomorrow evening for exclusive members of the Board. I'm told that Nicolette is to attend in her father's stead.”
The information bounces around the room for a few moments before Seth twists his head to the side and says, “Mikie's driver reports to you?”
Tinney allows a demure smile, then says, “Your roots of loyalty run deeper than you know, son.”
Son. For the first time in a long time, the term doesn't make Seth want to break something. It reminds him of the way his dad used to say it. His fingertips brush over the scar on his shoulder, as they are apt to do when he thinks fondly of his father. He doesn't have a scar for Caleb, he thinks. Then, no, that's not true. He has a brand, bears the mark of the ally that cost him his brother's life. He all but shakes himself of his thoughts and refocuses on Emma.
“I hope you have a dress. We have a party to crash.”
The Hamptons, New York. August 9th.
She’s sitting on her bed. Her red-gold hair falls, veiling her face. He stands in the door, half shadowed as he watches her. For all that she looks like an innocent angel, he knows better.
She clicks the last bullet into the magazine and drops it onto the bed, shoving her hair back. Her gaze still has the power to bring him to his knees and conjure the ghost of their dead.
“What do you want, Rama?” she asks, her voice cool.
The Thai steps into the bedroom carefully. He is an uneasy ally at best—Seth is still protective of his cousin, and Emma has been distant and cold since he arrived in the Hamptons. Now, with the sting of Nicolette’s betrayal still fresh in her mind, she’s dangerous. Staring at him like he is a traitor and threat to her cousin.
“You,” he says simply.
She stares at him, fury clear in her eyes. “I’m not a pawn. I’m a Morgan.”
“You’re exactly what you were born to be,” Rama says, softly. “A queen.”
She hesitates at that, surprise flickering in her lovely blue eyes. She stands without a word. His breath stalls when she reaches for her zipper, sliding it down without hesitation or fanfare. He’s seen her naked. Seen her laid out before him like a pale offering. But never like this, like a challenge. He hasn’t seen her naked, not since the lies were stripped away, their truths and positions revealed.
Her sun dress puddles on the ground around her bare feet, and she stares at him with a challenge in her eyes. “You don’t see a queen, right now, do you, Rama?” she asks, her voice silky. “Right now, you see the girl you lied to and fucked.”
The words are harsh, like a slap in the face. She turns away—gives him her unprotected back, like he is hardly a threat—and he flushes, anger glittering in his eyes. He takes three steps to cross the room, catching her by the arm and jerking her back to face him.
Her gun nestles below his chin. She’s shaking, trembling with rage. Her cheeks are softly flushed, and he can’t help but see how perfect she is. She’s a worthy queen, more than Nicolette ever was. “I see you, mali,” he murmurs, a hair’s breadth from her lips.
“And I see a foreigner, intent on making an ally. I am not the weakest link, Rama. You can’t use me the way you used Caleb.”
She’s changed so much. “You know what you are asking for, don’t you?”
Emma steps away from him, letting the gun drop to the bed. He waits while she pulls on her white silk suit. The skirt fits perfectly, the pale blue shirt fluttering around her neck, sweet and feminine. She lifts the skirt and tucks her gun into the black holster on her thigh. Shrugs on her suit coat and fluffs her hair.
Finally, she meets his gaze. She’s learned icy from Nic, the best in the city. But she still has the heart and fire of the cousin who protects her, and it’s shining from her eyes as she says, coolly, “I’m not asking for anything, Rama. I’m going to kill the coldhearted bitch who broke his heart.”
The Hampton, New York. August 10th.
Seth has chosen his favorite suit for the occasion: slim, black, elegant. He has opted for a steel gray button up beneath his coat, the color of which makes his eyes look like cold metal. He didn't wear a tie tonight, and of course his collarbone peeks from beneath the sleek fabric. He hasn't spoken in nearly an hour. He just sips his scotch and watches Emma in her sleek suit, chopping lines on the table between them. She has stayed close to him, flitting around the room, filling their drinks, anything to burn some of her anxious energy. He has watched her for signs of fear. It's not fear that makes her so methodical now, she just lacks the discipline to calm her whirl of nerves. Her hand is steady.
Rama sits patiently in a third chair, completing the unlikely circle in which they seem to be increasingly finding themselves lately. He, too, sips at his scotch as he watches Emma's hands belie the innocence that her face might suggest. What a grand and dangerous world is hers. If he wants her—and Seth doesn’t for a moment believe otherwise—the Thai prince has the desire well hidden. Rama is here by request that he be a gun at Seth's back. He loved Caleb, as well, and the Buddhist in him insists that he do
right by Caleb's soul. Seth takes the gesture as a seal on the unofficial and still-shaky alliance they have made.
Emma presents the glass straw to Seth, eyes searching his face, perhaps for the same response he had sought in her. He makes a rueful smirk and accepts. He pauses before he partakes, glances at her and then Rama. They are both watching him as if he is some exotic dancer, here for their viewing pleasure.
Finally, he says to the table, “Tonight, we avenge my brother. Tonight, we live by the code one more time before we put it to rest with my father's soul. We begin a new era for this empire, and we will not be divided.” He glances up at them, fury and resolution burning in his gaze.
He takes his line. It burns as it travels through his nasal cavity. The sharp taste becomes a comfort as it slides down his throat. He passes the straw to Rama and retrieves his drink. His expression has become passive set, perfectly hiding the mystery of his thoughts. He lifts his glass, and stares at the floor for a moment of collection. He says, so softly, “Here's to you, Caleb. I miss you more than anything. I'm sorry I failed you.”
His eyes slip closed for just a moment, during which he must take a slow, steadying breath. When he opens his eyes, Emma and Rama have both raised their glasses in answer, and are expectantly watching him. Rama says, “May he watch over you, and both our houses prosper under your rule.”
“Thank you,” Seth says, his gratitude apparent in the way his eyes soften when he says it. He takes a long drink, banishes all the bitterness that tries to rise. His expression is carefully blank, but his insides are in shreds. Emma stares at him, too long, a question clear in her eyes. He gives her a minuscule nod, and some tension eases in her shoulders.