Black Collar Empire Read online

  He wants to scream or break something, to smash the glass windows with the metal chair. He can only feel the sudden aloneness. It resounds much louder now. He feels like a machine as he moves to the table, picks up the tiny paper, and unfolds it. Ten digits, separated by periods. Vera's phone number. He almost can't believe that she had enough gall to walk into arms of the enemy to bring him her phone number. Almost.

  With another sigh, he slips the paper into his pocket and moves to follow Nicolette.

  X X X

  The air in the elevator is palpable. Seth watches the numbers climb, taking weary breaths. He is tired, mostly sober, and surprised that he managed to take Uncle Mikie's plea to heart and keep his head throughout the funeral and the reception. He is more surprised that of all the people to snap, it was Nicolette. He's thankful now that the decision was made by someone to have the reception in one of the family's company buildings, so he can retreat with her.

  Nicolette is seething beside him, tension building as they ascend. He fingers the knot of his tie, inching it down just a little more. He is suffocating.

  There was a time when he would have spoken, he would have gone to her to try to fix the situation.

  He won't speak now. He's not even sure why they sent him to calm her down, as if he did not start the day so very close to the brink of disaster. Yet, he is standing tensely beside her, buffering the rage that rose to the surface so quickly. He knows her well enough to know that the anger she showed had only partly to do with Vera Rohan, the reporter who has clawed her way to the Times, and who also happens to have quite the history with the Morgan enterprises. Seth met her some four years earlier, when she was still slinging mud for one of local gossip papers, when she waylaid his defenses and fucked his brains out. She has been a reoccurring force in his life since, no matter what twists his direction seems to take. She is also the biggest row that Seth and Nicolette have ever had, the only one who's ever made Nicolette nervous and jealous.

  The moving metal hums to a gentle stop. The doors swish open to reveal a large office with a huge desk and stylish decor. All their tension rolls out before them as they exit. They move as if making a hit, although neither has ever been ranked low enough in their families for that. Her heels make high clicks on the marble.

  “What the fuck was she thinking, coming here?” she snaps. “I should have shoved my gun barrel down her throat. Maybe that would be clear enough that she doesn't belong.” She turns on Seth, breaks into his thoughts. She is dark beauty, tough exterior, internal storm. Her regard is heavy, searching his face for a reaction. He can only return the stare. She is waiting for him to get angry, waiting for his resistance, but he won't show it to her. He won't crack; he's not that kid anymore.

  So she viciously continues, “And you defended her? You'd choose her over me after you begged for my love? That bitch reporter has been poking around for too long. Eventually she's going to write this story, our story.”

  The threat is silent—that writing that story will kill her—hanging in the air between them.

  Again, she seems to expect Seth to get pissed. Maybe she wants him to scream or break something, maybe it would make her feel better, but he only slips his hands into his pockets and watches her with an expectant expression. Nicolette's eyes narrow on him, and she pushes a few steps closer. She glares at him, suspicious. He is like a darker, calmer version of his former self. He is a man, she realizes, and her anger stills, gives way to fascination. She is reaching to touch his face before she realizes it.

  He catches her hand, fields her hot stare with a sigh. He wants to drag her into his arms. He never realized before how much he would need her when he was gone. Since the moment he left his city behind, he has ached for her.

  And now things are so different.

  “What is it really, that’s bothering you?” he asks, voice low, perfect against her distress.

  Her face animates, like she wants to fight or deny that he has seen inside her, but then her eyes drop and her brow furrows. “Your family tried to kill you!” she cries, ripping her arm out of his grasp. His touch can only make it worse. He winces, as if she has shoved a blade into him. “This has gotten too out of hand. I can't look them in the eye, and there is nothing I can do to keep you safe. I can see you, touch you, but it's like you're still far away.” Her voice is steady—anyone else would break. Not Nic.

  “Then don't look them in the eye. Just keep your eyes on me,” he says, voice some strange shade of his father for a moment, so assured and quietly strong. “My family is dead.”

  She cannot help but look at him, though she doesn’t understand him. He is so very serious when he says, “I don't care who tries or how hard, this is my world and nobody else is going to fuck it up.” It gives her chills the way he speaks so calmly, and the way his eyes are so dull as they stare back at her. Has he completely lost his soul? Apathy to the point of lifelessness is so often the fate of those at the top.

  “What has happened to you, Seth?” she asks, and she cannot know how she echoes her own father. She drops her anger in her sudden fear that she has truly and forever lost the love of her life. Even when he was gone, she held the perverse hope that he would keep his word and return to her. Somehow, it feels worse to have him back, yet so foreign.

  For a long, intense moment, he can only stare at her. She cannot know what she asks, and he cannot explain the ways in which his heart has died. But he needs her, so he turns away toward the rest of the room. It is too hot, in his opinion. It's way too soon to face her like this. He went to her, but he isn’t ready for this.

  “I know I've asked a lot from you,” he says, feeling much older and much younger at the same time. “But I can't do this right now. Please wait for me.”

  He has done and seen too much to be twenty-four years old, but he knows there is so much more to his life that he has not been allowed to understand. He has always been close to the innermost circle of power, yet he knows nothing of what they do behind closed doors. It's going to be a long and hellish journey to learn all of those intricacies, but there isn’t a choice. He needs to understand what drove the syndicate to this. What happened that resulted in the death of his brother.

  She surprises him with the gentle press of her body against his back, the soft support in her arms as they snake under his and around his chest. One hand curls around the half-Windsor while the other flattens against his chest. He feels strands of pampered hair fall against him as her lips press against the base of his neck. She breathes him in, breath like a ghost on his skin.

  Can this be real?

  Seth freezes, fighting her, fighting himself. The air slips from his lungs despite himself, collapsing his will a little at a time. His fists ball in his pockets as he tries so hard not to feel. If he could silence emotion now and forever, he would. Then she presses her forehead against his neck, smooth cheek brushing him, and he loses the battle. His muscles relax into her.

  He must remember that he is not the only one who has grown, and he has not suffered alone, even during all the time he was alone. He thinks of his brother. His eyes slip closed.

  Nicolette hopes that he cannot feel how much it hurts her to see how thin he is, how broken his spirit seems. She realizes, as she finally and truly feels him, that she does not care if they have to get to know each other again. He is all she has wanted for two long and empty years, and now he is here. He says, “I love you, Nicolette. It's the only truth I believe right now.”

  The whispered words strike her like a bullet, and they bring burning tears to the surface before she can stop them or pull away. He feels them. Her sharp sniff is the only sound in the world that could persuade him to pry her hands from him and turn to look at her.

  He shakes his head as he wipes away tears with his thumbs, then gently cups her face to meet his eyes. He looks like he wants to speak, but he won't. She wishes she could take away the bruises and cuts, the fading reminders that blood is not always the most important bond. More tears sl
ide over his hands.

  “I love you,” is all she can manage to say.

  The whispered answer brings his lips to hers, gentle yet ravenous. She answers in earnest, one hand again gripping his tie while the other grasps his hip, so sharp against her. His thoughts reel, teeter. This is the moment for which he has waited. She is the one who has had his heart this whole time. His search at sea had always been in vain. He groans against her kiss, then pushes her away by the arms. It's too early to take this back. She cannot know the mark on his skin she has brushed, unwittingly reminding him. She cannot know the layers of his fears. All he has wanted has been this, and yet her kiss terrifies him. His nerves are too shot, and, as memories of Latin nights ravage his thoughts, he realizes he is not as ready for intimate contact as he so desperately wants to be.

  “I can't,” he says thickly, shaking his head, catching her hands in his to pull them away from his body. She freezes, unable to speak under the weight of his rejection, unable to believe he has the resolve to do such a thing after touching her so softly. Her tears have stopped. She notices that his hands are trembling around hers. “Not now,” he says again. “I'm sorry.”

  He looks like he wants to say more, as if there are much more devastating words lingering on his tongue. He swallows hard, silencing them. “Don't worry about Vera,” he adds, releasing one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with shaking fingers. “She's not stupid. She's just a ghost.”

  His lips are numb as he turns away from her. He knows his reassurance will not comfort her, but his brain is numb, too. His heart would be if he had one. The elevator door opens immediately when he pushes the button. He steps inside like a zombie. He doesn't turn around until well after the doors close. He can only imagine her hurt expression.

  He cannot face it in reality.

  Irving Prep, New York City. January 30th

  It's been a week of seclusion and mourning. A week of waiting and wondering. Wondering if Seth will come to her. She isn't surprised that he has kept a low profile. But she wants to see him and know where she stands.

  Instead she is shuttled between her mother’s home and Mikie’s, refused any answers. Even her phone was taken away for a time—for her own good. Being constantly under Mikie’s guard has worn on her nerves. It took a screaming match with Bethania, and tears for her uncle, to be allowed to go back to school.

  She steps out of the classroom into the hall of people. They give her a wide berth, wary of the dark princess. Emma has heard the whispers floating around school about her family. She ignores them. The idiots at her school know nothing. Nothing. About her family, about her cousins.

  Quinn comes up and wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her along the hall. She would be lost without her friend. But she resents his company now. She wants her thoughts and her cousin.

  “Go ahead of me,” she says. He hesitates, so she puts a little steel in her eyes. A smile tickles the corner of his lips, but he turns and leaves her.

  She can feel the darting glances from her classmates, and she twitches her uniform skirt. There's a bathroom ahead. For a moment she considers retreating there. But that's weakness, and she refuses to show that right now. She adjusts her books and heads for the stairs.

  "Emma."

  It's a whisper of noise, almost blending with the rest of the people murmuring her name. Except that she's waited two years to hear this voice.

  She turns and sees him, half hidden in shadows. Her stomach turns, his attention on her like a hot brand.

  His eyes are tired, at odds with the smile he gives her as she slips across the hallway to stand at Seth's right hand.

  He's studying her, and she shifts, taking the moment to return the gesture. He’s thin, far past his normal slender build, almost emaciated. His skin is soft gold from months in the sun, his dark hair hanging unruly around his ears. His posture isn’t the arrogant disregard she’s used to from Seth—it’s hunched, almost defensive. A bruise is ugly and yellow on his jaw, from where Caleb hit him.

  She touches it, without thinking, and Seth flinches away.

  “Let’s get lunch,” she says, looping an arm through his. Quinn will wonder what happened to her, but that thought barely registers—Seth is here, and she’s pulling him along.

  They get greasy hot dogs from a vendor and a cup of Coke that makes her teeth chatter. It’s street fare, but delicious, and she revels in it—the prince of the city and his favorite cousin, sitting on the stoop of a shop like any commoner. She picks at her hot dog and watches him out of the corner of her eye. Seth eats pensively, staring at the traffic and people rushing past.

  “You missed it,” she says, picking an onion off the hot dog.

  Seth nods. “Yes. More than I thought possible.”

  She wants to ask why he was gone so long, why he never reached out to those he left behind, why he promised to protect and teach her, but left so soon with no word.

  Emma doesn’t say any of that—she doesn’t say anything. She crumples her hot dog up and sets it aside. Leans her head against his shoulder. For a few heartbeats, Seth is stiff, startled, all tension and steel. Then a sigh moves through him and she feels his arm come around her, one hand smoothing down her curls. She shivers, time seeming to slow as she leans into him, inhaling his scent.

  They sit like that for a few long minutes. Then he squeezes her gently and pulls away. He doesn’t look at her as she reaches for her Coke, wiping at her eyes. She’s so young, he thinks. So damn young and vulnerable.

  “What place have you been given in the family?” he asks.

  She shrugs. “None.”

  Seth jerks, looks at her with startled eyes. Emma hurries on. “Uncle Mikie wanted me to finish school before they brought me in. Besides, you know they always kept me in the dark.”

  “I know you never tolerated it,” Seth answers, an amused look brightening his eyes.

  She hesitates. Does she tell him now, about Caleb? He speaks before she can, taking her choice away. “Things are going to be a little different, now that I’m home.”

  And Caleb is dead.

  The words aren’t spoken, but they hang there. She nods and leans into him again. “Yes. It will.” She hesitates, and then adds, “Mother is furious, you know. The entire family is waiting to see what you’ll do—who Mikie will kill next. They don’t know how to anticipate your next move.”

  He looks down at her, her red-gold lashes dusting against her cheeks as she picks at the hem of her dress. She’s not a child anymore, not the little girl he left behind, and comments like this remind him of that. What has she done—who has she learned from, while he was gone? She darts a glance up at him, curious.

  “Are you still listening at doors, Emma?” he asks, teasing, remembering her childhood habit for gathering information.

  She nods. “I listen where you can’t. Always.”

  He doesn’t speak—his voice and breath are choked in his throat. He came home to death and threats, to a brother ready to kill him and an uncle who demanded death for that offense. He came home to a family he doesn’t recognize and cannot trust.

  But with a simple declaration, she’s reminded him that some things don’t change.

  Near Morgan Estates, New York City. February 21st.

  He notices the byline before the headline. Her name slaps him in the face, begs his eyes to linger there as it conjures images from his past. He makes a small 'hm' as he stuffs a five dollar bill into the barista's tip jar. She blushes as she thanks him, but Seth doesn't notice. He's too caught up in the thrill that the name on the front page produces in him.

  His eyes rove next to the picture, as if he expects her to be there with her sly smirk and keen green gaze. The coffee cup is hot against his fingers. He can smell the roast¸ a bold blend from South America that plays humid tricks with his memories. He would be lying if he said that he had not thought of Vera Rohan in his time away from home, of the scattered and sordid affair that she had become, and of the way Nicolette hat
ed her so completely. That Vera would show up now, when Seth is doing his damnedest to mend the relationship he sacrificed is just another way the universe has knocked his knees from beneath him. Or maybe it's some other sort of omen.

  He ducks his chin into his scarf as the sky spits dirty snow on his black-lensed sunglasses. It's a four-block walk from his favorite bistro to the Morgan headquarters, time he usually uses to check up on the news and have a quiet moment. His feet turn to anchors when he reads the headline. “Dirty Business at Docks,” it says. The same docks through which a large percentage of his family's assets move.

  Someone runs into him, jarring him back to reality and sloshing freshly brewed coffee onto his hand. “Fuck!” he snaps sharply, looking around into the startled face of an elderly woman. He adds quickly, “Sorry.”

  She tuts disapprovingly as she skirts around him, and he realizes that this is why he loves his city. It is full of people just like him, just trying to make their way as best they can while avoiding everyone else's problems.