Seth's heated gaze falls abruptly back to the other man. He bears its intensity alone, as he realizes that Rama's eyes have drifted to v of his collarbone, which is so brazenly bared. He realizes, also, that Rama has not taken his shot yet, that instead he waits until he knows he is being observed to drag his gaze away and throw back the sake.
Seth's actions mirror Rama's, letting his attention creep down the smooth, hard throat that is suddenly bared, to the pale green against dark skin. He thinks of the chess set in Nicolette's apartment. The rook—the steady warrior with a long range of destruction, the clever protector. “You said that Remi was also invested in this change of direction for us?” he asks, veering the conversation back to business. It's yet another tactic to control the rising emotion in their interaction. He lets his eyes linger long enough for Rama to notice, then finds his way back to the ebony regard.
“Yes.”
“They have wronged your family by washing their hands of their involvement,” Seth says. Always, diplomacy is most important, a fact he has come to accept and even appreciate.
Rama can't quite keep his eyes from going wide, or his lips from hesitating to speak for a long pause. “That is the way of a king, I suppose,” he says.
“That is the way of cowards,” Seth answers sharply. “They have broken faith in order to protect themselves, when they preach tradition to their subordinates. If you will, I'd like to discuss Caleb's business plan further in a meeting at a later date.”
Rama's expression fires with something that looks like excitement and arousal. He has always wondered what Seth is really like. Caleb made him seem like a junkie for good times, like a partier and playboy, and childish. Yet the stories he would tell gave away more of his true feelings than he had apparently realized. Once, in a flash of drunken honesty, he had told of how Seth took a bullet for their dad and then killed the culprit with one shot. In a different instance, Caleb had divulged a boyhood memory of he and his brother laying waste to a private school's swim team, who had ganged up on Caleb after practice one day. Seth talked them out of trouble with their father, who then “talked” Caleb out of trouble at school.
“But you will be dealing with me, not them,” says Seth.
The stories create an interesting overlay for Seth's words, which take a moment to sink into the tangent on which Rama's brain has traveled. “Of course.”
Silence stretches into several long moments in which they only stare. The soft lighting glints off of Rama's sleek hair. He seems curious to see how Morgan will proceed, as he has inclined his chin toward his guest.
Seth says, his voice cold and deadly, “And you're courting me. Not Emma.”
Rama's eyes flash again with the pain he showed earlier. It gives away his affection, something Seth will not accept at this moment. Rama is not yet worthy of that sentiment toward Emma.
“Of course,” whispers Rama. He understands the subtleties of business, and how even in the business of pleasure, those at the top must often abstain from their own. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes lower to the sake set before him and he releases a sigh of his own. “I have a question as well,” he says to the table.
Seth's fingers tap the chair arm several times as he watches the cat-like creature move. He steadies his resolve with that tiny cadence, a reaction to the change in proximity. Just a few inches seem so substantial. Seth can now smell Rama's cologne. He can't name it. “A fair request.”
Rama's brow furrows, and he twines his fingers together. “How did he die?”
The question is something like a hot slug to the flesh, another reminder of Caleb's twisted and lonely years. Seth also looks away. The sake makes him feel high, but it helps him harden his features back into passivity, his false calm. His voice comes like rain on a funeral when he says, “He died because he put a gun to my head.”
Rama gasps. Seth can see him wince in his peripheral. He faces him, searching for some clue in Rama's distress. He finds nothing but sadness and loss—an echo of his own feelings. “I don't believe he would have pulled the trigger,” Rama says in a tone that drops the coy softness. It's Seth's turn to wince. He shifts in his seat so that his guns are no longer biting into his back. “For what it's worth,” Rama says, the edges of his tone softening, “I am sorry for your loss. He became a close friend to me.”
Seth frowns warily. Why does he feel an inherent trust in the man before him, barely a man, some twenty-one years old. Is it because Caleb did, or because he seems like such a kindred spirit? “I couldn't pull the trigger, either,” he says.
Rama reacts like a hawk, looking up quickly. His hands shake as he makes for another cigarette, and his hair falls into his face a little. “Your uncle,” he chokes and looks away.
Seth's eyes widen, and he wonders what other similar conclusions Rama's fast mind has made. Go with his gut, his father always stressed. “A rook is a heavy sacrifice,” he says.
Rama hesitates for only a moment, then says, “Often a deadly one for the king.” He holds the cigarette, staring at the surface of the table. His voice has fallen flat and empty. Seth recognizes the anger he is trying to contain.
What happens when there is division within the same army, Seth wants to ask, but he merely leans forward into the space from which Rama has retreated. As an afterthought, he boldly pours the last of the wine into their cups. Rama tries to remain distant, but he can't help but notice the action. “A stupid and useless one,” says Seth. Then he adds, “To Caleb,” with a nod toward the cups.
Rama picks up his sake, but he shakes his head. “To you,” he says. “You are far greater than your reputation.” Seth seems on the verge of arguing, so Rama adds, “Please,” and Seth nods despite his reluctant expression.
They take the shots at the same time. The expression that possesses Seth is unadulterated pain, as plain and glaring as the sparse décor of the office. He seems like he wants to say more, but can't quite find the right words to use, because he only grinds his jaw. Rama finds himself wanting to ease the pain of this high-profile character whom he hardly knows, a remnant tendency of the life in which he grew up.
“I blamed him,” Seth says as if he has forgotten himself. Rama knows better.
Horror manifests within the young Morgan at the realizations that just keep coming. Fear is not something he faces often or kindly, yet he feels it now as he wonders how the scene would have played if he had never presumed that it was Caleb who had turned. What if it had been his own brash reaction that prompted his brother to pull a gun on him? So much of that last conversation is proving to be true. Rama waits on a pinhead, stunned into place by the unexpected honesty. Seth continues, “I accused him of turning on our way of life, but he really was trying to save it.”
A snake in their uncle's ear, that's what Seth had called his brother. But it had always been the other way around. And Caleb was right, the old customs were destroying their world. No wonder Mikie has been so tense; he has no idea what Caleb said, what he may have given away. And now, Seth must wonder why Caleb didn't just tell him what was happening.
“I'm sorry,” Rama whispers.
The evidence of upset smooths from Seth's face. The light in his eyes dies back a little, and Rama can all but feel the weight that descends on the other. He feels it because it is also his—he can truly mourn his friend now that he knows the painful truths that fill in the holes he has been pondering for months. He can begin to rebuild the path to glory upon which Caleb had set him.
“Me too,” answers Seth.
Finally, Rama lights the cigarette that has been lingering within his grasp. He takes a long draw and catches Seth's sidelong glance through the smoke he exhales. He has been presented with an unparalleled opportunity; to fuck it up now would be enough to bring him the eternal shame of his ancestors. The space between them is like swirling mystery, and he realizes they have both retreated behind their silent defenses, and that their first official meeting should be drawing to a close. Seth's voi
ce denies all that should be when he next speaks.
“One more question. The tattoo, the flower, that is your family's mark, isn't it?”
And just like that, the memories that have been dancing at the edges of Rama's thoughts come crashing down on him. He stands swiftly and turns away. His eyes light on the Buddha, a familiarity that gives him the distant comfort of his home. He shouldn't cling to the past, but he cannot help the longing that haunts him during dark, lonely hours. Alcohol makes his vision spin, so he squeezes his eyes closed, which makes him feel like he's riding some warped sort of roller coaster. How fitting, he thinks. “He took it by choice,” is his answer.
A lengthy pause follows, then Rama hears Seth stand, can hear him slide his hands over his suit to straighten it. Seth says, “My office will be in touch.”
Rama answers, “My guy will drive you home.”
“Thank you.”
Rama does not, cannot turn back to his guest. The nod he does manage feels like it tears at his organs via his spinal cord. The door opens and closes quietly, and he is alone.
Chapter 27
Morgan Estates, New York City. June 16th.
Seth watches the city slide by behind a booze lens as Rama's Mercedes crawls back uptown. Sake and rum battle in his empty gut. The car is too hot, and the driver is listening to talk radio in Thai, occasionally and warily glancing at the Morgan through the rear view mirror.
Seth's cheeks feel like they're on fire, much like his insides, so he peels off his coat despite the gun holster. The temper that's been pitching and cresting within him for days is like a slow hell that is destroying him from his core outward. He wouldn't dare show his emotion to a stranger from a foreign syndicate, so he suffers in silence, forcing himself to focus on steady breathing to still his woozy vision. He preoccupies his thoughts with wondering why he is suddenly so drunk. Then he remembers that he hasn't eaten since very early morning. He has had no room for food in his day, has had no desire for nourishment and no regard for his health. He needs only truth, for he has subsisted on lies for so long, and now he is on the verge of uncovering a farce much more intricate than he could ever have imagined.
Again, his brother's hard words come back to him. “I am more like our family than you could hope to be.” There's his truth—he just couldn't believe it until now. And why? Because Caleb was naturally lacking the optimism that Seth had, the same that has been painfully dying since Seth's return home. And what comes of a wronged soul with no optimism? Hatred. Maybe Caleb did die hating everything, and once the last shred of optimism withers in Seth, will he not be on the same exact path?
He can taste sake in the back of his throat as it tries to make a reappearance, and he makes a tiny groan. He can't help the noise, and though it is so quiet, it still gets the driver's attention. Seth fights down the acidic assault and pointedly ignores the only other human in the car, the one who glides the Benz through the city traffic with the patience of a monk. Still, the attention is heavy. Yes, Seth thinks, he is already well on his way to being emotionally dead, for his hatred is like a solid mass in his stomach that no amount of physical violence can alleviate.
He slips his phone from his pocket to check the time. His screen notifies him of a barrage of new text messages from Emma. A refreshed wave of anger rushes to the surface, and he dismisses them without reading them; the tide rolls back to high. The numbers 2:38 dance before his eyes. Where is he going? He vaguely remembers telling the driver the address to his suites in the family's main residential building, his empty and neglected home. Again, he feels like an echo of his big brother with a shell of a living space in which he hardly has time to sleep. No, he doesn't want to go there.
“Take me to the Morgan Trust Building,” he snaps, finally acknowledging the other man, whose eyes grow wide as if Seth were brandishing both of his guns and screaming. “I know you understand me!” he adds when the man doesn't answer.
“Yes, yes!” says the driver and takes a sharp, sudden turn that pits Seth against the car door. The motion creates havoc in his stomach, and the impact takes his mind to bad memories like a trauma trigger. He makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and the driver mutters, “Yes, Mr. Morgan,” without any idea of the stress point that he has affected. He has no way to know of the ghosts that claw at Seth's composure, and so the driver must believe the young Morgan to be insane and dangerous.
Seth can practically feel the burning slug that tore into the flesh of his shoulder more than three years previous. He can almost feel the hot metal ripping muscle and tendon despite the fact that the family surgeons removed the bullet the same night. He runs a shaky hand over his face. His skin is damp from the booze and heat. He knows it's sweat, but it feels like blood.
The image of the car interior warps, feels so unfamiliar, but when he closes his eyes, he can only see his father, dying. He hasn't relived that night in so long, but the pressure of his dealing with his brother's death proves too much upon his exhaustion. The truths he has rent from his kingdom are finally wreaking their revenge and suffocating him. This, he realizes, is the nature of sake's store of spirits, very potent sake. It seems the more familiar loss of his dad is even more appealing than anymore thoughts of Caleb, whom he misses fiercely. With every familial comfort dead to him, be it literally or figuratively, his thoughts retreat to Nicolette. She is a rock for him, somewhere for him to run.
He can't face her, though; he cannot run. Kings cannot run.
He spills out of the car as soon as it comes to a complete stop in the alley, and well before the driver can come open the door for him. He mutters something that could and should be, “Thanks,” as he stumbles to an inconspicuous doorway with an electronic lock system. He knows he's not being quite civil, but he's so far past the point of salvation that he can't leave the path that his drunkenness has laid for him. The driver, who must be in his late fifties, leaves the car in park until Seth has safely entered the building.
Seth pauses inside. He knows that two cameras are pointing directly at him, capturing his image in a million technological ways, and he knows that security has been alerted to his arrival. Good, he thinks. He wants them to know he's here. Yes, the spotlight is his, so perfect.
He moves through the hallway labyrinth like a slightly wounded and delirious animal. Muscle memory carries him, pure reaction guides him. The scenery changes suddenly from gray and nondescript to opulence in the elevator lobby. The room opens to white walls with trim lighting done in frosted fixtures. The floor is white marble with gray accents and the “up” buttons are made of crystal. Seth hardly notices any of it as he once again swipes his key card to activate the elevator.
He will not collapse under this weight as he did in the past, when he was bloody and injured. This he must endure alone, and it might be the first time ever that he would rather turn everyone away and handle the moment. Every ounce of stifled emotion that he imagined he had banished is suddenly roaring to the surface. He strides forward and smashes the button that will lead him to the executive offices of his family’s legacy.
He feels like a caged animal, unsure of his own purpose for coming here. The hiss of hydraulics makes him want to punch something. He hasn't felt this violent in a long time. His tantrums have increasingly become pieces of his history, but helplessness has always been a failsafe way to piss him off. The door swishes open on the twenty-eighth floor into a posh reception area. It's a large space, though there are only three leather chairs for waiting parties. Two chic, glass desks are positioned catty corner in front of floor to ceiling windows. The lamps on each desk are always left on at night, and they illuminate the sterile, stainless steel décor and the meticulously kept office contents. The theme is so very different from the warm earth tones his father had chosen. It's all just another piece of soullessness that replaced his world while he was away from it. Just now, he can't stomach any of it.
He knows that his humanity is drowning, knows the booze is inciting the demons that h
e can usually keep subdued. He knows, but he doesn't care. It's all in his head, not at all in his walk, as he explodes into the room. To his right is his office, the one that used to belong to Mikie Morgan, that of the second-in-command. Emma’s is next to his, at his insistence. To his left is Mikie's current office, the one that used to be Gabe's. Both doors are heavy, highly glossed cherry bearing silver nameplates and elegant lettering, the only remnants of his dad's style.
“It's all fucking fake!” he says to the empty room, to security watching the live feed. Maybe he's talking to the ghosts of his past. “It doesn't matter,” he adds in answer to himself. His voice is a hard edge, a steep drop. He puts a foot to the edge of the glass coffee table that rests in front of the chairs. He watches the move like a dream as he gives the thing a hard shove. It skids a little then tips toward the chair. The table that had matched the secretaries' desks splinters when it crashes into the leather and wood chairs. Glass showers the seats and the floor. Some of it bounces off the wall and creates a radius of debris. The chairs shift, and a black and white photo of 1930s New York crashes to the floor. “It doesn't matter,” says Seth, “because it's all mine.”
By now, the security team is in disarray, he knows because security is also his. He knows because there is one camera in the reception area and the night crew has surely been following his movements since he entered the building. Now they must make some decision as to how to deal with their crazed, drunk, and dangerous boss. He gives the wreckage a cruel smirk. They'll probably call Mikie.
He disregards the broken glass beneath shoes whose price tag could feed several less-spoiled families for several months. He disregards the ringing silence as the sound of shattering fades from the air. And he yet again ignores his phone when it notifies him of a new message. There's no one there to stop him, yet, but he moves as if there were anyway, swiftly lunging forward to grapple one of the solid, expensive waiting chairs by its arms.
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