Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (28 page)

Chapter 38.
Midtown. New York City. December 15
^th
 

She
Steps Into The Coffee Shop
with a soft clatter of the bell chime. Her nose is bright red
from the cold as she shrugs out of her long black coat and hands it to Dom, who
stands quietly behind her. She's still dressed for the office, in
straight-legged charcoal pants, a pale blue shirt, and demure heels.

She likes this place,
it's familiar, which should put her at ease. The fact that Seth chose here to
meet does just the opposite. Seth is already here, lounging comfortably in a
booth, watching her. She stalks through the space, and slides into the seat
opposite him.
 

“Where were you
today?”
 

It's not quite a demand,
but it's closer than anyone else would dare, and it strings a smile across his
lips. She isn't happy about his continued absence from the office. She wouldn’t
be. It's good for her to stand alone. She'll need it, if he goes to Bangkok to
cement the alliance with the Thai prince. She still doesn’t know about the
impending trip—he hasn’t decided how to tell her that he will be leaving the
city and syndicate to her while he accompanies her sometimes lover to a foreign
court.
 

That thought spurs him
into speaking. “Rama is important to our plans, Emma.”

Because he’s watching,
he sees the tiny spasm of pain slip across her face, the regret in her blue
eyes.
 

Whatever she is saying,
whatever Rama believes, Emma cares about the foreign prince more that she wants
to admit.
 

“I won't jeopardize
that,” she says softly. A server comes by and refills his coffee, taking Emma's
order before retreating. She focuses on Seth. “I wouldn't put my personal shit
before the family.”

He nods and sips his
coffee. She lets the silence stretch between them and kicks her feet nervously.
When the barista returns with Emma’s coffee and then slips away, she leans
forward, her brow furrowed in demand. “You called me here to talk about Rama?”
 

Seth swallows the
irrational urge to smirk at her imperious attitude and instead picks up a file
from where it’s resting on the bench next to him. Slides it across the cheap
table to her. Emma gives him a frown and flips it open. It’s a set of numbers
and projections, familiar to her on the Morgan letterhead. One entry is
different from the ones she gave him and her gaze comes up, furiously. “What
the hell?”

“We need him,” Seth says
quietly. His calm stills her anger, and she leans away from him, and reexamines
the projections.
 

“We could do this
without the Olivers,” Emma says, not looking at him.
 

Seth doesn’t respond,
just watches quietly as she looks over the proposal. He feels a twinge of
regret for blindsiding her with this. But it’s a solid plan. And from the slump
of her shoulders, she knows it. “This is the best move for us, Em.”
 

“Working with a traitor
is never a good move,” she says, but her voice has no heat. She’s thinking,
past the initial anger. When he was that young, did he ever do that? Who taught
her that lesson? “He will never agree to this. There is too much between our
families.”
 

“And if we withdraw our
business, Remi loses as much as we do. He’s a businessman.

He won’t sacrifice his
business.”
 

“He’s a grieving
father,” she snaps, and the specter of a dead princess is suddenly there, heavy
between them. Seth grits his teeth, forcing away thoughts of Nicolette, and
Emma stares, watching him. Finally, she says, grudgingly, “Even if it’s a good
idea, Remi will never agree to work with me.”
 

Seth leans forward.
“We’re meeting him tomorrow.”
 

Her eyes are wide and
terrified, all scared little girl and furious queen mixed in the gaze that will
always remind him of the brother he lost. “Are you fucking serious?” she asks,
her voice weak and scared and scathingly angry. “He wants me
dead
, Seth.”
 

He gives her a dark
look, and lets his gaze travel the room quickly. It comes back to her heavy
with warning. “We have a truce. He’ll hear us—and you will attend.”

“Why?” she snaps, “Why
would you force this if you know how much he wants my head?”

“Because Oliver needs to
know you are my equal. That if he works with our family that includes
you.”
 

She opens her mouth, and
then closes it. There is nothing to say to that. Seth reaches across the table
and snaps his fingers in front of her, jerking her scared eyes back to him. “I
wouldn’t do this if I thought you would be hurt, Em. Trust me.”
 

Her expression slips,
more annoyed than scared as she frowns at him. “I do trust you. It’s him that’s
the problem.”
 
He rewards that statement
with a rare smile, and she shakes her head.

“This is a bad idea,
Seth.”

“It’s the only one I
have to make the ceasefire permanent,” he admits and she stills, studying him.
He waits a moment, then pins her with a dark stare, all serious and deadly. She
shivers. “When we sit down with him, you are to say nothing. Do nothing. Do you
understand?”
 
Her lips twist into a
grimace. Of course she does. To play the role of the silent princess is one
she’s intimately accustomed to. Seth has never asked that of her though—he
wouldn’t. She is his equal, taken from the depths of the family to rule at his
side. That he asks it now is telling.

She stares a moment
longer, at the worry he’s trying to hide, and the tension in his shoulders.

Finally nods. “Whatever
you need, Seth.”

His breath comes free on
a sigh that is more relieved that he wants to admit, and Emma gives him a dry
stare. With a quick nod, Seth retrieves the file and slides it away, and Emma,
recognizing her cousin’s cues, gathers her purse. He moves behind her as they
walk toward the door, flanked by their security and watched by the quiet
patrons.
 

Always
watched
, she thinks ruefully.
 

“Where will it be?” she
asks, as he opens the door to the coffee shop and they step into the cold
twilight.
 

Seth stares into the
city and answers quietly, “Somewhere neutral.”

Chapter 39.
Manhattan Dry. New York City. December 16
^th
 

Manhattan
Dry Is A Posh Period Speakeasy
hidden behind a false storefront in Uptown.
Though completely legal, the place has managed to keep a low profile reputation
that caters to more private matters of the city's elite. It's a place that the
Morgans used to frequent, often with business partners or potentials. Caleb,
especially, loved it. Seth hasn't been here since well before he left for Cuba,
and the memories are heavy.

The lighting is low, and
the gilded décor teases his thoughts to the first time he came here, with Caleb
of course, and the purpose of laying waste to some kids who had jumped Caleb
after swim practice. Seth was sixteen, and completely awed by his brother, who
had paid off the bartender to let them waltz in and beat the shit out of five
kids who were too young to even drink yet. He sips on a Manhattan, another
painful memory, and ignores Emma's fidgeting beside him.
 

For the most part, she's
handling herself well, keeping a watchful eye on the handful of patrons across
the room, holding her hands in her lap, and ignoring her Cape Cod as it sweats
onto a coaster. But Seth can feel the vibration of her foot as it taps
incessantly on the floor, and he can't help but notice how Rama and Emma avoid
each other's eyes.
 

Aleja is settled on
Emma's other side, closer than is probably appropriate, enough that their arms
are touching, and the Cuban princess possesses a chilling comfort. Of course
she wouldn't be nervous. How many important meetings has she sat through? How
many of her father's problems has she “dealt with”? She scans the room like a
bored cat, systematically stirring her Bloody Mary. Seth would bet a hundred
dollars that the drink is spicy enough to kill an ox.

Rama is on Seth's left,
utterly still and silent. His expression is carefully passive, and the
hostility is gone from his dark gaze, but Seth can feel the hum of quiet rage
coming from the Thai. Rama is drinking scotch.
 

There's so much tension
among the four of them that Seth momentarily doubts the wisdom of this meeting.
Word came from Remi's people two days ago, an agreement that they would all
meet in a neutral location, with no heat and proper security details. Thus far,
the truce with Remi has held, but it's just a ceasefire. The future of their
endeavors lies in this meeting— the first time Rama will meet one of the main
players who has been invested in him from the start,, and the first time Emma
will be face-to-face with Remi after shooting his daughter in the throat.

Seth hears the phone
ring behind the bar, a shrill harbinger of a moment of truth. The other three
don't seem to notice the sound, don't consider that it means someone is
standing in the false storefront awaiting entry. Seth smooths his coat as the
bartender answers, then the door buzzes. Anticipation radiates from Seth so
that the others automatically follow his eyes to the opening door.

Remi enters like the
king he is, shoulders square, chin up, swathed in royal grace and an expensive
suit. As any of their criminal instincts would insist, he quickly surveys the
scene. It takes mere moments for him to lock eyes with Emma, and he stills for
a split-second. Seth pushes himself out of the booth to stand, a show of
respect and a play for the attention. It works.

Remi refocuses on Seth,
and a collective sigh of relief whooshes through the room.

Remi cuts across the
floor, his security taking up positions that would seem nonchalant if there
were more people. A couple patrons have taken interest in the little party of
extremely high profile characters, but the magnitude of the meeting is obvious,
and nobody stares for too long.

The others are also
standing as Remi reaches the table, and Seth is the first to reach out a hand
in greeting. The banker king has banished his emotion from his face, and his
movements are far from mechanical when he accepts the gesture. The two kings
lock in a hardy handshake and somber eye contact.

Seth says, “Thanks for
coming, Remi. These are my associates, Aleja and Rama.” Nobody misses that he
doesn't mention Emma.

 
Remi kisses Aleja's hand, says, “
Encantado de concocerle
.”

She draws one of her
sly, sexy smiles, and says, “
De nada
.”
 

Remi looks from her
directly to Rama, shakes his hand as well. Again, they are all quite aware that
Emma is excluded from the greeting, yet if it burns her ego, she doesn't make a
sound. “Please, have a seat,” says Seth, motioning to the curve of the booth
next to Aleja.

Remi accepts, but he
leaves enough space between them to fit another person. The large booth
positions them in a wide half-circle that leaves Remi facing Seth and Rama, and
for a moment, they are all silent. A cocktail waitress sidles up to their table,
eyes nervously scanning them as though she expects to get shot just for
approaching. Remi orders a cognac without looking at the girl, and she flits
away.

Even here on neutral
ground and in the presence of so many syndicate royals, Remi is nonplussed. He
folds his hands on the tabletop with inherent ease. His face is a painted mask,
perfect and emotionless, and though the spaces beneath his eyes are dark, he
doesn't give away an ounce of his inner state. What would he have to fear from
these . . . children, on whom he has a lifetime of experience? He is the last
remnant of Seth's father’s kingdom, one who also dealt with Mikie. Moments
later, the girl brings the cognac.

When she's gone, Seth
says, “My associates and I are poised to begin a new chapter for Morgan
Estates, one that stands to make a lot of money—for us, and for you ––should
you choose to accept our offer. By the code, reparations for past . . .
grievances can be made in monetary form. Our plan will more than cover that
cost, as well as bring impressive dividends in the future.” He taps the file on
the table. “Our projections, and with adequate numbers showing what you stand
to gain.”

He slides the bland,
brown folder across the table. For a long stretch, Remi just stares at Seth as
he sips his drink. His expression doesn't crack as the hot liquor rolls down
his throat. He doesn't touch the folder. He says, “I think it's fair to point
out that my wife is completely against this alliance and still calls for more
traditional means of compensation.”

For the first time, his
hard eyes slide to Emma. She freezes and the blood drains from her face. He
lets her squirm, before dismissing her and looking back to Seth, who must
remind himself that his temper has no place here. He swallows the anger that
wants to rise. Remi's right; it is fair to say that. Even if the veiled threat
does make him furious.

“However,” says Remi,
“it has been a long time since anyone has invoked the peaceful clauses of the
code, not since I called your father a partner. And though I very much enjoy
the thought of wiping you Morgans from my city, and I certainly could do so,
it's too late in the game to risk everything I've built to do it. I'm an old
man in a new generation, and our two families are too intertwined. An all-out
war now would not only decimate you, but both of our families, and I will not
risk exposure. Destroying you is not worth the price. It is for this reason
that I have chosen to hear you.”

Seth takes a measured
drink, intensely aware that Rama is frozen with his hand on his drink, his dark
eyes boring into the Oliver patriarch.
 

The long sleeve of the
Thai's pale dress shirt hides his mark of loyalty to the Morgans, but the
fabric does nothing to shield him against the veiled bitterness directed toward
his allies. He was there. He too watched Nicolette meet her end, and he has
been the shield that has kept the heat off of Emma—he, and Seth.
 

And as Seth expected,
Rama chooses now to shed the shadows.

Casually, Rama says, “In
that case, it's also fair to point out the disgrace to my family that I had to
endure when you and Michael Morgan strung us along only to disappear without a
word. As your code might suggest, you owe us this meeting, because it wasn't
Seth that allied our three families; it was you.”

Remi's black gaze locks
onto Rama's. The tension rolls over them like high tide, everyone waiting for
someone to lose their shit. The air is thick to breathe. Seth glances at Rama,
a coiled spring of aggression, sitting so very still and fearless. It anyone
loses it, it won't be the Buddhist prince.
 

Aleja watches the
exchange with open interest. Experience lends her deadly grace, and she is not
cowed by the open belligerence of the men. Emma is as still as a statue next to
her, making no indication that she plans to interject.
 

Remi holds the eye
contact, as if he needs to prove that he is not intimidated, and he says, “That
is perhaps a fair assumption on your part, Ratchaphure, but I'm afraid your
facts are not quite right. Michael Morgan and I were ready to act as soon as
Caleb returned from your country, but he quite effectively stalled the deal.
Mikie refused to see it for a long time, but he eventually admitted that I was
right. It was not we who shamed you; it was Caleb.”

Rama's hand tenses around
his glass, and the violence is contagious. A rash of offended anger rises into
Seth's cheeks, and he literally bites his own tongue just so he doesn't chuck
his drink across the room.

“How
dare
you?”

The words are low,
hoarse, and so full of hatred that for a moment, no one realizes it was Emma
who said them. When they do, even Aleja lifts her eyebrows, and glances
sidelong to see how Remi will react.

“How dare you speak of
him that way,” Emma continues. All the blood that had blanched from her expression
earlier is now apparent in her cheeks. “You know damn well you played Caleb.”

For the first time,
Remi's expression breaks into a glare, the only thing belying his calm facade.
He doesn't move, but his presence swells, and the room is suddenly too hot. He
looks like he'd just as happily put his hands around her throat as address her.
But his voice is quiet, steady, when he says, “I have a hard time believing you
have any idea what you're talking about it, since this business was conducted
while you were still prancing the halls of your prep school, and worrying over
what dress to wear. If you want this meeting to continue, I'd advise you to
keep your fucking mouth shut, child.”

Emma's eyes go wide and
her mouth opens to respond, but Seth says, “Emma,” as a hard warning, and her
mouth snaps closed, and she sits back stiffly. She's furious. They're all
furious—except perhaps for Aleja, who touches Emma’s leg in a quiet gesture of
solidarity—but the Oliver king is right; she's a child. She huffs, sits back
against the booth, not quite able to hide her brooding from her
expression.
 

Remi dismisses her yet
again with a chilling ease, and he looks back to Rama. He says,

“Caleb wasn't a fool. He
knew that if he gave up all the details, he would lose control of the
operation. We were quite surprised when we received word that your family was
threatening to back out of the whole deal. We couldn't figure out why until we
realized what game Caleb was playing.”

It takes every ounce of
resolve for Seth not to wince.

 
It makes sense, all of it. Caleb stalled the
elders to wait until Seth was home. Did he know, even then, that Mikie was a
traitor? Had he figured out that their uncle has no intentions of ever
relinquishing the throne? Again, Remi is right. Caleb wasn't a fool. He had
craftily manipulated the business venture, so that when he died, Mikie and Remi
were left in the dark, and so they left the whole thing to rot.

“None of that matters
now.” Seth can't believe the words come out of his mouth. Of course it still
matters, but this subject is too volatile to work in their favor. He continues.
“We have to put it behind us if we are to succeed. The shame of the Ratchaphure
can be righted, and now you have the chance to cash in on a deal you thought
you lost.”

Remi's eyes narrow, and
he picks up the folder. He doesn't make a sound as he opens it and lets his
eyes dart over the figures inside. At length, he closes it. He looks to Aleja.

“Your people are
prepared to make this sort of contribution?”

She smiles in the
predatory way she has, and says, “I have my father's full permission to handle
this as I see fit. The Morgans are very trusted allies to us, and Seth enjoys
Father's favor.”

And just like that, her
only input thus far is to affirm the only victory Seth has earned on his own.
Her words create a thrill in Seth's gut that he doesn't care to explain.

Remi takes her words as
he has taken the rest of them, with quiet calculation. He takes a slow sip of
cognac as his eyes sweep the booth until they land back on Seth. Then, finally,
he says, “For thirty percent, I will continue to launder Morgan money, just as
I have since before any of you were born.”