Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (18 page)

Chapter 25.
Grigg's Warehouse, Brooklyn. November 20
^th
 

Rama slowly lowers the
phone, toying with a lighter. Her words are ringing in his mind and he doesn’t
know what to do with this new knowledge. Caleb was his friend, his ally, his
sometimes lover. The man had kept secrets—Rama was not so besotted that he
didn’t realize that.
 

But this is more than a
secret. It’s a betrayal that stings almost as much seeing Emma in his clubs had
been.
 

Caleb had always
protected her. Even from the people he trusted—she was sacrosanct and
untouchable. With this new revelation, another piece of the puzzle that is the
Morgan family falls into place, shifting everything into focus a little
more.
 

There is a slight tap on
the door and Rama looks up, away from the bar where Caleb had once fucked
him.
 

Memories are dangerous
things.
 
“Come in,” he calls, swallowing
the last of his scotch.

Kai opens the door and
steps inside. “The delivery arrived, sir.”

A grim smile creases his
face, and Rama stands. Straightens his suit coat. “Then we shouldn’t keep our
guest waiting any longer.”

Kai follows Rama out of
the office, through the back of the club to the waiting car. Once inside, Rama
glances at his bodyguard.
 

“Any issues?”
 

Kai shakes his head.
 
“Nothing.” Satisfied, Rama leans back.
 

It’s been four days
since the attack. Four days of holding the Oliver thug. And he’s done very
little to drag information from the man.
 

Seth would have shot him
by now. He would have shot him there in the glass and broken restaurant. Seth
is, even now, driven by his fury when roused, and nothing infuriates him quite
like a threat to Emma.
 

Rama isn’t impulsive.
He’s quiet and methodical and deliberate. And that deliberation has stayed his
hand for the past four days. But that’s over now.
 

“Has he told you
anything useful?” Kai asks, glancing at his boss.
 

Rama shrugs, a careless
movement that is too stiff with tension. “He’s been very talkative. But nothing
useful.”

Kai makes a soft noise
of displeasure, but Rama filters it out, settling deeper into himself.
 

Here, there is rarely a
need to display this side of himself. Here, he is the exiled king and his
people adore him.
 

But he grew up in the
streets of Bangkok, and that is a world completely apart from this.

Savage and gentle and
strange—a city that demands all of that and more from her king.
 

He wants to show Emma
that—the beauty of his home. The brutality it breeds in him.
 

Rama releases the breath
in his lungs, and—absurdly—wishes for drugs. Anything to distill the thrumming
anger and anticipation in his veins.
 

The car slows, and he’s
moving, exploding out of it before it comes to a full stop. Kai curses and
fumbles to follow the younger man. Rama ignores him completely as he strides
into the building.
 

Two Thais are sitting in
chairs at a small table, eating noodles. Their eyes go wide at the sight of
Rama and they scramble to their feet, shouting for their compatriots.
 

“Where is it?” Rama
asks, ignoring the panic.

“Sao is finishing
setting it up.”
 

Rama nods and pushes
into the holding room.
 

It’s dark and dirty,
blood on the floor. It smells of shit and sweat and fear. And something else
that makes Rama smile.
 

If Emma saw him, in this
moment, she would not recognize her quiet lover.
 

The thug is twitching
and moaning on the bed. One of the crew speaks up. “It’s been a little over
twenty hours since his last dose.”
 

Rama smiles. “Then he’s
in withdrawal.”
 

The thug is barely
recognizable as the man wielding a gun from four days ago. His face is a mess
of bruises and shattered bones, his eyes so swollen one won’t open. His hands
are bloody, slivers of bamboo still embedded under his nails. He’s naked and
covered in bruises, old and new.
 
“Are
you ready to talk?” Rama asks softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
 

“Fuck you, man,” the
assassin lisps. Rama’s lips curve into a smile.
 

“Do you know, in my
country, we have an apex predator? There are no threats to this creature. In
Australia, they have sharks and in Africa, there are the lions and hyenas. And
people sometimes laugh. Because we? We have a giant hornet.” The thug barks a
laugh, through mangled teeth. Rama smiles with him, a genial smirk that accepts
the humor poked at his country. “It’s harmless, yes? Sao?”
 

The thin man pops out of
the adjoining room. “All set.”
 

Rama shifts. “Let me
tell you about this hornet. It’s territorial. And fierce. It has eight
different properties to its venom, but what it really does is liquefies the
muscle. Hornets can’t bite, so this allows them to eat their prey. And unlike
bees, there is no barb—which means that a single hornet can sting as often as
it wants.”
 
He pauses, and the thug’s eye
is wide and worried, panic beginning to seep in.

“A handful of the giant
hornets can kill an entire hive—thirty thousand bees—in less than a day. Do you
begin to understand this predator?”

“I got no beef with you,
Ratchaphure. This is about the girl,” the thug babbles.
 

Rama smiles, coming
closer. He leans down, until his lips are close to the thug’s ear and he
murmurs, “The girl was wearing my mark. She is under my protection. And I love
her. You shot the woman I love, you fucker. Do you think I’ll ignore
that?”
 

The thug shudders.
Everything Rama says is delivered in a soft croon—cool and calm. And disturbing
because of it.

 
“Here’s what will happen. I will leave the
room. My man will release the hornets.

They’re pissed and
hungry, and you are all that’s here. You talk—tell us who sent you and why.

And maybe we kill you
before your muscles melt and organs fail. Maybe.”
 
Rama straightens as the thug gasps.
 

He starts talking before
the door closes behind Rama, as the sound of wings buzzing together fill the
room.
 

Later, Rama stubs out
his cigarette and pulls out his phone. Inside the holding room, what remains of
the thug is dripping to the floor. Hornets are still hovering on his body,
lazily buzzing now. It’s a good hive—pity that it will need to be destroyed
now. He glances at Sao and the others. “Give them another hour. Then destroy
the hive. And the body.”
 
They nod and he
turns away, dialing quickly.

When Tinney answers, he
says quietly. “It’s done. The hit came from Bethania.”
 

“Did he know where she
is?”
 

“No. He didn't actually
see her; she used a go-between. There was no mention of Oliver at all. This guy
didn't even know that name.”
 

Rama sighs and rubs his
eyes. “Tell Seth it’s over.”

“What did you do to
him?” Tinney asks, his voice curious.

Rama pauses. Shrugs. “We
fed him to a hive of giant hornets.”
 

There is a shocked
silence on the other end of the line and Rama smiles grimly. Hangs up.

No one ever expects the
quiet Buddhist to resort to violence. It never fails to surprise them.

It never surprised
Caleb.

Chapter 26.
Havana's Villa. November 20
^th
 

Seth
Wakes With A Jolt To The Sound Of A Buzzer
. He's reaching for his
guns in their usual place when the torrent of sunshine takes him off guard. His
hand feels around on a marbletopped table, as the scent of salt air registers
to his senses. No, no guns, not here.
 

Several more realizations
dawn on him in quick succession; this is his guest suite, he did not go to
sleep alone, it's very hot, and he's naked. He jerks a sheet over his sprawled
out body just as the door to his room opens. It's a house girl, sent to wake
him. His eyes flash to the other side of the bed, but somehow he is not
surprised to find that there's no body beside him. Was she a dream? He glances
down at the red marks on his chest from her fingernails. Not a chance.

“Lunch is in an hour,
señor
,”
says the house girl, politely keeping her eyes down.
 

“Thanks,” he grunts, his
voice hoarse and his throat incredibly dry. He can see the girl moving in his
not-yet-cleared vision, but he mostly focuses on the instant railroad of energy
in his veins, those shaky, high-tension jitters that signal the come-down. How
did he sleep through a moment of this stuff?
 

The house girl draws
near, extends a glass of water toward him, which fails to register in his
cocaine haze, and he grabs her wrist before he realizes what he's doing. She
gasps, and the contact spills a bit of the water onto the sheet that barely
protects the valuables between his legs.

The iced liquid is a
shock, and he recoils as if he's been hit.
 

Maybe it's the glide
from the previous night—no, it must have been morning when they had finally
relented. Or maybe it's the strung out result of the island's cash crop, but
his eyes crawl hungrily over the girl, so young, and he considers tearing the
uniform dress from her, and holding her down on the bed while he pounds her so
hard she screams. Her gaze is heavy on his as the heat in his eyes rages, and
he can almost feel her assent, her hot interest. She glances down at the
now-wet sheet, a tiny smile on her lips. He blinks, releases her.

“Forgive me,” he says,
accepting the water, and she abruptly pulls back.
 

Disappointment turns
down the corners of her lips, and she slips her gaze back to the floor. “Buzz
if you need anything, Mr. Morgan.”

She turns toward the
door. Good thing, too, because her accent tugs again at his sexual appetite. He
hears the door closed and he throws the now-wet sheet off of him. It's hot.
He's hard, and he glares at his dick. He just fucked himself into oblivion. But
here he is – alone on this island, again. His thoughts flit to Emma, how she
probably didn't wake up alone. Fucking Miguel. His anger rises and his arousal
depletes, so he shoves himself off the bed to wander to a huge, open window.

As always, the ocean
does her coy dance upon the shore, ever teasing, whispering to join her in the
forbidden secrets of the deep. The tide is high and the sun is blazing. The
humidity is also a cruel lady, coaxing sweat and hormones to their limits. Part
of him would stay forever in this fevered paradise, but just as much as Cuba is
in his bones, New York is in his blood, and that part of him recognizes the
relief that soon he must return home. Cuba would be the death of him, and not
by any other hand but his own.
 

He shakes his head at
himself. None of these thoughts will help him prepare for the serious subject
of the pending lunch—the reason he is here at all. On his way to a cold shower,
a sure way to douse his rioting nerves, he notices a spread has been set up on
a breakfast table. An iced pitcher of water sweats beside a glass; a decanter of
orange juice and a chilled bottle of champagne beckon to him. Right in the
middle of the setting sits a mirror and a pile of coke. The sight stops him in
his tracks. He's been doing well, hasn't had a taste for the stuff, but in this
moment, there's no one but himself to admonish him, and if he's good at
anything, it's dealing with his consequences later. What was it he had said?
When in Rome.

He pours himself a
champagne-heavy mimosa, and sips it as he chops out a line. There's something
opulent about doing so naked, and he grins. Again, his thoughts roam to Emma.
Has she realized yet that not all plays are made with an audience?
 

He takes the rail and
feels his fortitude slide into place as the blow oozes down the back of his
throat. His stomach clenches and he's glad that it's empty. For a long stretch,
all he can do is lean back and close his eyes. Now that his sexual rage has
been sated—somewhat—the rest of his anger just melts into something cold and
hard around his emotions. Yes, this is the old confidence that comes with this
demon, but only when this is the only demon at the gate.

He drains the mimosa and
shoves himself to his feet. And as he turns on the water, as it slides over his
coiled muscles, his spinning thoughts land inexplicably on Vera. He was still
drunk when he woke. He realizes that now as the mimosa kicks back in the
previous night's inebriation, and the blow has his body raging once again. Last
night's drunken indignation is nowhere to be found, and his shame is
nonexistent as he makes use of some ridiculously expensive soap and grabs his
dick like a teenager. He leans a forearm against the shower wall, stroking
himself in a hard rhythm, his hot breaths spreading against the tile.

His misery makes a
potent cocktail with his pleasure. Why Vera? Because she is infuriating. She is
successful, and brilliant, and because she fucks like a goddess would. Just as
he is danger to her, she is the same for him. His thoughts crawl back to that
tiny park on the outskirts of Chinatown, her brazen act of indecent exposure,
and the way she called him out on his insecurities.
 

His back teeth grind
together, and he makes a frustrated growl. Why her? Because he hasn't actually
fucked her since his triumphant return from “studying abroad.” The play she made
after the gala, coming to the office unannounced, was so ballsy he has almost
called her several times. Her cunning is maddening.
 

His breaths are fast,
short, and his pleasure is coiled impossibly close to release. His thoughts
come in rapid fire abandon—green devil eyes, the time she found his gun then
fucked him harder, the way she made Emma so mad—
  

Emma
. His eyes fly wide and
the climb to orgasm halts, as painful as plugging a hole in a dam. He jerks his
hand away from his cock and releases a long, pointed string of profanity at the
shower wall, and he only just stops himself from breaking his knuckles against
the tile. His breath seethes through his clenched teeth, and he turns the
shower to nothing but cold water.
  

By the time Seth ambles out
to the patio, he has locked away his personal issues for some other moment
alone. He is also wide awake, and his jitters have been quelled by most of the
bottle of champagne. For all the reserve Havana found in Seth last night, he
will certainly see the raw side of the Morgan son today.
 
Emma is alone at the large round table when
Seth approaches. He quickly takes in her hair pulled back, her simple sundress,
and the huge sunglasses that darken her eyes. She sips at something clear and
fizzy with a grimace. He's seen that look before. She's hung over.

She doesn't speak as he
takes the seat beside her, but she turns her solemn attention in his direction.
He has opted to let his hair do its wild mess of a dance, and there's a dusting
of stubble on his jaw. His mirror shades hide his mood, and his linen shirt is
open. He is aware of her hot interest, the desire she’s been hiding since the
night everything changed. She’s not hiding it now.

He catches the tiny
downward movement of her face, her eyes tracing the claw marks on his chest,
then she looks away, her expression tightening.
 

He smirks, then turns
his attention to a waiting glass of water. The tension lingers with the silence
for several long minutes before Seth spots Havana approaching. The kingpin is
not alone, Seth also realizes. He and Emma stand as their host reaches the
table, and Seth whips his shirt closed as he stands. He works the buttons
closed with a nearly imperceptible swiftness, as his firm grip on his nerves
snaps and drops into his gut.
  

“Seth, Emma,” says
Havana, “I'd like you to meet my daughter, Aleja.”

Seth swallows the dry
lump in his throat, and thanks god for his mirror shades as he takes the hand
of the exotic beauty he bedded last night. A smile claims those nude lips, lips
that almost make him hard again, and he kisses the backs of her knuckles. His
voice almost cracks when he says, “A pleasure.”

Emma's scowl turns into
a nearly-smile that momentarily reminds Seth of Bethania. If he weren't so
close to losing his own composure, he would be amused that Emma is certainly
not
amused by this new development. The
women shake hands, a very formal affair, as his cousin eyes the older woman
with barely checked hostility.
  

“Please, sit,” says
Havana.

Seth clears his throat.
Damn that premium coke. He says, “What a shame that I never met you during my
time here before.”

Emma's fingers twitch
against her beverage. Seth sips at his water. Aleja smiles and Seth is glad
that her dark eyes are also hidden behind sunglasses. She says, “Father keeps
me busy. You might know me by the name Riza.”

Seth's breath catches
and he inhales his drink of water. He
has
heard the name Riza—the merciless right hand of Havana who is nearly as elusive
as the kingpin himself. Seth always presumed it was a man. He coughs his way
through his body's rebellion, which causes his sinuses to drain, and the taste
of cocaine slides down to his stomach.
 

Through his distress, he
sees Emma glaring at him—at least he's pretty sure it's a glare based on the
thin line of her lips. Just the same, he sees a contrasting smirk on Aleja's
lips.

Finally, he says,
“Somehow I never imagined that the Reaper was so beautiful.”

“Of course she is
beautiful; she is my child,” Havana says with a proud smile. Yet there is that
calculated warning in his eyes as he watches Seth.
  

“Respectfully, of
course,” Seth answers.

The first course of
their lunch arrives, dark green salad with fruit and vinaigrette. They take a
few moments to savor the food, and Seth glances at Emma to catch the slight
grimace she makes as she forces herself to eat. Havana takes a few bites, then
dabs his napkin against his lips.

His gaze volleys from
Seth to Emma, then back. Then he says, “I have reviewed your plans. You say
this idea was your brother's?”

Seth forces his food
down as well, which proves more difficult than expected when coupled with the
unexpected mention of Caleb. He nods just for the extra seconds of composure,
but before Seth can answer, Emma says, “Mostly. I had to tweak some details regarding
the movement of certain assets, and the involvement of some deceased parties,
but the foundation of the plan was Caleb’s.”

Seth's attention flashes
toward his cousin. The court training in him rages that she would interrupt a
question so obviously directed toward him, but a much more subtle shade of him
wonders why the word ‘brother’ alone didn't stop her voice. His suspicion is so
hot in his cheeks that the words are on his lips to call her out on it when
Havana says, “So you are the one who wrote this financial plan?”

The question surprises
both Morgans into momentary silence. Seth could interject, could pick up her
slack, but he won't. No, if she wants to step up into the spotlight, she will
handle the consequences. She doesn't fumble for long, and if she's terrified of
the implications of Havana's question, she does a damn good job of hiding
it.
 

She recovers with the
old faithful shy smile, and says, “Yes, sir. Everything was done with both of
our approval, but the numbers are my job.”

Havana lifts an eyebrow,
and nods with a quiet ‘Hm.’ He retrieves his mimosa and lifts it in
cheers.
 

“Your plan is quite
brilliant, Miss Morgan. Well done.” He looks to Seth and adds, “What an asset
you have in this one. And if your brother was anything like the two of you, I
do wish I could have met him.”

Another string of
profanity steamrolls through Seth's brain. Neither Havana nor Emma could know
the blow Seth has already taken by the very serious and possibly dangerous fact
that he has fucked this kingdom's beloved princess. So neither Havana nor Emma
can guess at the gutted sensation that accompanies the simultaneous praise of
his protégé and his dead brother. He struggles to breathe steadily through the
toast.
 
At length, he says, “We are
honored.”

He's managed to eat half
his salad, but he hopes that's enough to be polite. His appetite is still
somewhere between here and home. He looks instead to the fresh mimosa at his
right hand. He only sips at it though. No amount of booze or weed or any other
substance on earth could calm the tempest of nerves in his gut.
Dad would be ashamed of the wreck I have
become
.