Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (31 page)

Chapter 44.
Upstate New York. December 19
^th
 

The
Paved Path Winds
through the heavily wooded estate. As Seth eases the car along,
his thoughts play over the last conversation he had with Vera, and how she
cried when he said he didn't know if he'd be back. The way she whispered, “I love
you, Seth.” The first time she's ever said it.
 

Hasn't he always known
that he would break her heart somehow?
 

He doesn't want to think
about the way she makes him feel emotions that he thought had died forever. He
doesn't want to admit that her touch comforts him, quells the tempest of
distrust that constantly rages at his center. He doesn't want to break her
heart. But as the hibernating trees pass silently by, he can think of nothing
else.

They have always played
against the safety that they could never be more than occasional fuck buddies.
They have been each other's danger, and fantasy, something forbidden. Then
everything changed, and the bonds that kept them at a distance were suddenly
gone. In the wake of Seth's devastation, she waited as the dust settled,
content to help him when he had nowhere else to turn. Now, on the eve of
another tragedy, he has no other choice but to admit that if he could have
given Vera up, he would have done it the first time it threatened his
relationship with Nic. The truth is that he has always wanted more of her.

Is it better to have
woken up beside her, the city sun dancing in her hair, or to have never known
the fire in her kiss, and the passion by which she lives? It may cease to
matter very soon.

He hasn't been to this
property since he was a boy, not since the original heir to the family died
here. After Isaac drowned, the family quit coming here, but of course
Bethania—the crazy bitch—insisted it be kept in good repair. It was a financial
loss for the family that Gabe, and then Mikie, had allowed her. And now, it has
become a family curse. He chokes back a string of aggravated profanities. Emma
won’t die here. He refuses to allow this place to claim another cousin.

He feels naked without
his guns, or the phone he so unceremoniously destroyed. He'll be damned before
that shrew gets her claws on his steel. His knuckles are white against the
steering wheel, and his heartbeat resounds in his ears. Before he dropped
Tinney, Rama, and Aleja off at the edge of the property, Tinney had reminded
him of a certain conversation.
 

“Well then I know he relied on his faith,
because right now, it's all I have to convince me that I'm not about to make
myself a martyr,”
Seth had said.

“You're just like him,”
was Tinney's answer.

Faith. It comes down to
that. He has to believe that his alliance will find a way to help him rescue
his favorite cousin, his best friend. He must cling to that glimmer of hope
that he can buy enough time for his cohorts to creep through the woods, and do
what they do best: rise to the occasion.
 

It seems like forever,
and perhaps not quite long enough, before the house looms into view. It grows
like a disoriented memory, until he follows a circle to the front door. He
takes a long, shaky breath.
 

He has to believe he's
not going to die either.

He steps out of the car.
The sky is cloudless, and the sunlight—like the air—is cold. He leaves his
jacket in the car and leaves his sunglasses in place. He's all slacks, and a
pale green button-down, the wrists fastened in place, and his tie is,
improbably, straight. And then he does something he has never done: he raises
his hands in the air, a surrender that crushes any pride that may have managed
to survive.
 

He leaves them that way
as he climbs the front stairs. The door opens as he approaches. The shades are
all drawn, and the switch from brightness to dark catches him off guard. A
stupid mistake, so simple, and missed in the mass of his rioting nerves.
 

A few steps inside, he
catches the slightest movement to his right, and then something solid smacks
into his back, across both shoulder blades. Pain explodes from the contact
point, and his breath leaves him in one rush. The force knocks him forward,
onto his hands and knees. The pain doubles in his left shoulder and he
collapses. As he struggles for a breath, the same shadowy figure kicks his
sunglasses off his face. The contact isn’t’ hard enough to break anything, but
it sends the glasses skidding across the floor and knocks heavy dust into his
eyes and mouth.
 

Seth chokes, tries to
spit out as much shit as he can, growling in pain. A feral instinct claws at
his composure. He could devastate any motherfucker in a fair fight. He could
most likely make a comeback and obliterate this bastard.
 

That would sign Emma's
death warrant. He can't fight back. He can't lose his temper.

This is beyond any trial
he had to endure in Cuba.

Someone grabs him by the
back of his collar and jerks him backward. A disembodied voice says, “Get up,”
in a gruff bass.
 

The man tugs again as
Seth puts his weight on his right arm to stand. Then, the thug pushes him
forward so hard he stumbles, nearly loses to the ground. Figures. He spits
bitterly.

Bethania
would
tell him to come alone, and not
face him the same way. Fucking cunt.
 

His eyes have begun to
itch and water, and he does his best to wipe them on his sleeve. He had thought
he could mentally prepare for this, that the zen he found on the beach in Santa
Lucia could somehow help him. But he never could have imagined this new kind of
hell, this raging storm of hatred. He wants nothing more than to whip around
with his signature speed, and disable the creep who dared lay his hands on the
king. His movements are less than graceful as he forces himself to walk through
the abandoned house. As punctuation, the dick pushes him again. His teeth grit.

They pass by sheets over
furniture, disused appliances and the musty smell of a forgotten place, all the
way to the back door. The tsunami of anger turns to cold dread. He remembers
well enough to know where they're going.
Where
Isaac died
, Bethania had said. Isaac drowned in the pool. He had been
drunk, slipped, cracked open his skull, which knocked him out as he bled into
the water. For a moment, Seth is sure he's going to vomit, though there's
nothing in his stomach. He grimaces at the taste that rises in the back of his
throat, and the goon shoves him out the door, into the cold and blinding light.

The sun beats down on
the scene, but rather than give warmth, it seems to chill his bones. Bethania
is waiting for him near the edge of the pool with the most self-satisfied smirk
she can manage. Two more goons lurk on either side of her, guns ready. Seth
recognizes them, ranks of the family who have apparently stayed loyal to Mikie
despite the clean slate Seth offered in the name of peace.
 

It's not surprising. Not
really. Just as so many had, they saw Seth's move as weak. Maybe they were
right.

“No.”

Seth hears her voice
choke the word before he sees her. His eyes fly to the pool. It's January, but
there's water in it. And there, standing on the diving board with a rope
wrapped around the entirety of her upper body, is Emma.
Fuck
.
 

Bethania, so twisted and
deranged, has positioned her only living child so that if she slips off the diving
board, Emma will drown just like her dead child. Never mind that it's damn
close to being cold enough to snow. The water is frigid.
 

Emma stares at him with
huge eyes, so blue, now spilling tears down her cheeks as she sways unsteadily.
There are ugly bruises on her face, a sight that incites him a hundreds time
more than the thug who has taken a cheap shot at him. The emotion that boils up
to the surface is guilt. After all his righteous words and attempts to keep her
safe, he has failed her. Again. Why shouldn't he be willing to take degradation
and physical pain if it means she will live?
 
“Seth, what have you done?” she demands, tears running unchecked down
her cheeks. “Shut up,” Beth drawls in an impressive mockery of Seth's
indolence, and she rolls her eyes. She lifts a chunky .45 from her side and
levels it on Seth.
 

“Mother, stop!” Emma
cries, her breath wheezing.
 

“I said
shut up
, goddammit,” Beth snaps. “If you
don't, I swear I’ll aim for his head.”

Emma's mouth snaps shut
and her tears double, making it harder to breathe. In the corner of his eye,
Seth can see her swaying on the diving board.

Beth holds her aim and
says, so bitterly, “You killed my brother.”

Seth swallows the rage
and fear, says, “And you killed my mother.”

Beth's eyes widen, but
just as quickly her expression sinks back into a bitter smirk. She walks toward
him, gun at chest level, and he lifts his hands back into the not-so-humble
surrender. He can read her movements, experiences the pain before she strikes
him across the cheek with the butt of the gun. Of course he can predict her,
the little sister who never got the street experience. The force knocks him
back a couple steps, and sends explosions of white light across his vision. He
tries to stay quiet, but a grunt of pain escapes him.
 

His head is reeling, but
he can still hear Beth loud and clear when she says, “Your mother was a whore.”

Seth's adrenaline takes
control and his vision tints red. He takes an angry step forward, but Beth hits
him again, in the very same spot and harder. This time his cry is audible, and
his head is a fireworks display of burning nerves. Gabe's and Mikie's baby
sister may not have a lot of experience, but she has damn good aim.
 

Beth says sweetly,
“Careful. I wouldn't want one of my boys to have to shoot my daughter
prematurely.”

Seth squints through the
blurs and lights in his eyes. He can make out the form of one of the thugs,
with his gun trained at the diving board. This time he can feel the sting of
parted flesh, of blood seeping down from his cheekbone. So slowly, he pushes
his hands back into the air.

Beth's mouth twists
again, a smile so ugly the devil could wear it. She flicks her chin at the thug
closest to the diving board, and Seth's vision doubles as he watches the man
take a place at the ladder. He puts one heavy boot onto the board, and waits.
Beth just holds that big gun on her nephew, content to watch the anguish bloom
on Seth's face. She waits long enough for the silence to breed madness, then
she says, “I've lost everything because of you. Now, it's time for you to lose
something.”

She flicks her chin
again, this time at the thug still behind Seth. Seth hears the rustle of
clothing, the scuffle of feet. He can anticipate another blow with whatever
that fucking object is—a baseball bat, he thinks. He doesn't quite expect it,
though, when the thing whacks him on the backs of the knees, again taking him
off his feet. The hit is followed quickly by the impact of his knees on the
concrete patio. He can't stop it; he groans. He falls forward, right arm taking
most of his weight.
 

He hasn't managed to
draw a breath through the agony before a boot connects with his left ribs, and
he's thrown onto his side. For just a moment, he considers staying there,
curled around the pain. He hears Emma scream, fury and fear shaping his
name.
 

Beth stalks to him, her
stilettos inches from his face. She stares down at him, pure malice in her
expression, and she hooks the toe of her shoe under his chin. Glee dances in
her eyes as she says, “You may want to watch this.”

Emma watches as Seth
struggles to lift his head away from her mother's foot, his eyes barely open,
movements shaky. She wheezes as pain spiders from her ribs to the rest of her
body. She follows her mother's eyes as they flick to the goon at the end of the
diving board. The fucker snarls, lifts that big foot, and brings it down once,
hard. The diving board wobbles with the aftershock of the strike. A wave of
light-headedness hits her as her knees threaten to give under the vibrations.

She hears Seth make an
unintelligible protest, but she has to shuffle and twist her weight so that she
doesn't fall. As she does, her vision sweeps the patio behind the goon, past
dirty chaise lounges and a huge flower pot, the plants long dead. And her eyes
widen. Can it be real?

Those feline eyes in the
darkness.

Rama shifts as their
gazes meet, and he lifts a finger to his lips. She looks away, to where Seth is
still lying on the pool deck. The board steadies slowly, as do her breaths. The
pain doesn't stop, doesn’t let up at all, but it's negligible next to the sight
of her cousin, getting himself killed for her sake. She throws her gaze to her
mother, who has again raised the gun. This time the barrel rests against Seth's
forehead. Fear unlike anything she’s ever felt squeezes her. “
Don’t.
Mom, please!”