by An Latro
She stops reading, her shocked gaze darting up to Oleander. He’s waiting, his gaze steady on her. How can he be so steady when she’s falling apart?
They had an affair, Emma. Years ago—before I was born. The syndicate killed them for
it.
“No.” she says, softly, “No. I don’t believe this. It’s not true.”
“Finish, Emma,” Oleander says softly. She can’t look up, but she hears him moving, pouring another splash of scotch.
I did the DNA test. On both of us. It makes sense. Why Dad gave the family to Seth instead of me. Why we look alike. Why Beth hated my mother so much. All of it.
Family matters, Em. It’s all that matters. And we are more family than they ever told us. Emilio was my father—I’m your half-brother.
-C
Her hands shake as she flips through the papers. Its there: DNA reports, graphs that don’t make any fucking sense, and the neat, scientific explanation. Partial match.
Siblings.
Blood roars in her ears, and she can’t breathe. Oleander sets the drink next to her and she downs it without thinking. The burn of the alcohol makes her eyes go wide and shocks some of the numbness out of her.
“Sit down, Bradford,” she says, softly.
The lawyer retreats to his side of the desk and it gives her enough time to scrap together a semblance of dignity. Not much. Not enough.
But all she has. “He was my brother.”
Saying the words out loud makes it real, and the crushing grief of loss swamps her again. God, she misses the hard-eyed golden prince.
“Half, ma’am. But yes.”
“Does Seth know?”
Oleander shakes his head, quickly. No. He wouldn’t. He would never keep that from Emma.
“Thank you.”
“If you need anything, I’m at your service.”
She smiles, a tiny tilt of her lips in acknowledgment.
After the lawyer leaves, she sits in silence, the door closed. It’s a request for privacy, something she is surprised Seth grants. The sun is setting over the city when he finally comes to her, a light tap on the door announcing him before he enters the dark office. She watches his eyes flick over the open decanter of vodka, the empty desk and slightly askew chair. And her, curled in a corner on the couch, a blanket pulled over her.
He knows instantly that something is very wrong, and for a few heartbeats, she sees violence in Seth’s dark eyes.
Then he forces it down and comes to sit next to her. She’s holding a framed picture in her lap, and he stares at it for a long, quiet moment as she leans into his shoulder.
Caleb smirks out of the picture, all lazy, lion-like grace and self-assurance.
“Oleander upset you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He weighs her words. “Is it nothing, or are you asking for privacy?”
She meets his gaze. “Privacy.”
Seth releases a sigh, and pulls her to her feet. “For now,” he allows.
She gives him a small smile. “Thank you.”
She can see how hard this is for him, not to push. And she will share—it’s too much not to tell him—but she needs time and answers first. “I miss him,” she says.
Seth sighs, and gives her a one-armed hug. “I do too, Em.”
For a few seconds, she rests there in his protective embrace. Then she pulls away and he summons a smirk for her, just to see the shadows ease in her gaze. “Come on, sweetheart. We’re meeting Rama for drinks.”
Butterflies flutter in her belly, nerves and anticipation. Picking up her purse and sliding a few papers into it, she follows Seth from the office.
Tomorrow, she will start looking for answers. She'll read the rest of the damning reports.
But for now, she follows Seth out of their office, into the night.
Chapter 12. Lower Manhattan. October 25th
Seth Leans Back On The Door of his Bentley as he waits for Vera to emerge from her townhouse. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his tux pants, and—as is always true when he's wearing a tux—he wants to rip off the bowtie more than anything. Still, all in all, he has amused himself with the current situation.
It's the night of the annual police gala, the one where the city's wealthy gather and make contributions to New York's fine law enforcement. It's an event his family has been attending for years. He’s attended with Nicolette, in the past. This year, he's taking a new date. This year, he's taking Vera.
Emma threw a fit when he told her he was taking Vera to the Gala, haughtily informed him that should would not be seen with a reporter, and refused to be budged on the issue. Even Tinney had frowned disapprovingly. And Vera had been thoroughly convinced for the first ten minutes after he asked to her to go that he was being mean, that he was fucking with her. He grins, reading the text messages again.
Vera: Who do you need dirt on now?
Seth: No dirt, just a question for you.
Vera: Just a question. That’s rich, coming from you. Glad to see you're back on this continent.
Seth: What are you doing Saturday night?
Vera: …...Oh I don't know, I think I have an appointment to fuck my editor for frontpage space.
Seth: Come to the Gala with me.
Vera: …...
Seth: I know you want to say yes.
Vera: …..
Seth: I'll pick you up at seven.
Vera: Seth Morgan, I do not have time for you to fuck with me. This is not a very funny joke. How dare you, after I helped you out.
Seth: It's not a joke.
Vera: You're such an asshole.
Seth: Seven sharp.
It's 7:05, and his grin widens when her door finally opens. She's stunning—as expected— in a long, fitting gown, a dark green, one-shouldered designer thing that accentuates the lines of her collarbone. Her fiery hair is pinned up on one side, and falls over her bare shoulder in a cascade of big curls. She pauses for just a moment when she sees him, waiting there to open her door.
Not his driver, but the king of New York himself.
Her eyes flit over him, no doubt catching his grin and his easy sexiness. He knows what he does to her.
He opens the car door when she approaches, and she leans in to feather a kiss on his cheek before she climbs in. He smells her perfume, Cashmere, always, and his gut stirs at the memories that follow her. When he gets in the other door and the car rolls away from the curb, she says, “You really were serious.”
Her surprise is genuine, and she's not shy about watching him. She’s never been scared of him or felt outclassed by him, a fact that has kept her in a very unique position in his life. She has never been one to veil her interest in him, interest that lies mostly in the firecracker way they fuck. His amusement remains firm in his grin, and he says, “I see you got dressed in case.”
A sarcastic smile takes her as well. She says, “Oh, you know, I figured if you didn't show, I could just con my way in anyway. What security guard doesn't love a good blow job?”
“For one of yours, the commissioner himself would let you in.”
She pauses again, glances at him. She's not used to his light-hearted teasing, or such honesty. He fields her attention, reaches over and pinches her upper arm.
“What the hell?” she blurts, pulling away from the tiny pain as though it's significant.
“You looked like you don't believe this is real. This is not a dream,” he says, his smile all too knowing against her continued surprise.
He flips open the minibar, and retrieves a couple splits of champagne. As he makes work of opening them and filling two glasses, she can only stare. When she finally finds her voice, just as he hands her a flute, she says, “Seriously, why me? At a public event? Have you lost your mind?”
This is the first time they've seen each other since Seth's return to the states, and though she knew he would eventually come to her, she never dreamed it would be like this. She knows the darker days he's lived through late
ly, knows without having ever asked that he was there when his girlfriend died. She knows that all the stories surrounding the untimely demise of Michael Morgan and Nicolette Oliver are bullshit. She knows because after years of digging up dirt on the Morgans from the outside, she has finally been ushered into that deadly world by the one who tried to protect her from it.
He holds the eye contact and says, “Maybe I thought it was about time I finally took you on a proper date.”
Her eyes fly wide. She knows that this is a completely different world than it was just a few months ago. Now, the whole empire is Seth's—well, his and his uptight cousin’s. In this world, Seth can take whomever he likes to whatever event he likes, and there's not a damn word anyone can say about it.
He adds, “Or maybe it's about time you know what it feels like to be on the cover of your beloved gossip rags.”
Her gaze narrows. There's that prick. She can handle him better. So she says, “Then I guess it's too early to fuck like animals in the backseat of this Bentley, huh?”
His smile fades the tiniest bit, and he answers, “Yeah, maybe a bit early.” But his words don't have the vive they had moments earlier. He takes a slow drink, and adds, “You look great.”
A blush threatens her cheeks, so she looks away, at the city creeping by, and says, “So do you. But you know that.”
For the rest of the ride, they're silent, and Vera is content to wrap an arm through his and leave her hand resting on his forearm. If the intimacy is too much for him, he doesn't show it, and he doesn't stop her.
As always, there's a throng of reporters and photographers surrounding the red carpet that leads into the gala. The driver lets Seth out first, and that's enough to garner the attention of the horde. There never was a camera that didn't love Seth Morgan.
Excitement ripples through the crowd, and all the lenses turn toward the obscenely wealthy real estate heir. His smile stays firmly in place as he makes a show of ambling around the car to open Vera's door. He takes her hand to help her out into the night, and the murmurs of the crowd get louder. The flashing bulbs double, and Seth rests a hand on Vera's lower back as he leads her through the madness—so comfortably, as though they've been on a thousand dates to a thousand galas.
Vera does her damnedest to play it cool, to keep a smile like her nerves are not a riot in her gut. She's only ever been on the other side of this coin, a reporter trying to get the scoop. And, damn him, he’s right. They're going to be the biggest news in tomorrow's gossip pages; she can tell by the rabid frenzy of the press. Some of them know her, have probably worked with her, but she can't make out their faces for all the lights. One of them gets brave, yells, “Who's your date, Seth?”
Seth flashes that million dollar smile, that suave, sure curve that could disarm the sovereign Queen of England. All he says is, “Isn't she lovely?” And he passes them by.
By the time they make it inside, Vera can only see spots. Seth stays close by her side, hand on her back as he smiles into the many greetings that plague their progress. Even the mayor stops to shake the Morgan son's hand, and the old man manages to maintain his smile as he recognizes Vera. He's not a fan of her work.
Her smile comes easier after that, and her nerves calm. She reminds herself that though she is on the arm of someone who far outreaches her socially, he is also the same man who fucked her in a service hallway at this very same event some five years previous.
How different it all is now—she's here as a date. She's not working. She doesn't even want to work, which is a rare thing for her. And the greatly coveted Seth Morgan is leading her with his arm around her by choice. Not because he wants anything from her, not because he is rebelling against anyone.
He snags two glasses of champagne from a passing server, and hands one to her as he exchanges small talk with a member of the city government. She marvels at his social facade, his cool demeanor as countless policemen and women surround them, proudly wearing their uniforms for the masses who have come to support them. This, she thinks, this is how the Morgans stay out of the heat. It really is as simple as buying the enemy.
The journalist in her squirms to take notes, to start forming her generation's great exposé on the corruption of New York's upper crust. But the woman in her balks at that thought. She can never write that story, and not only because it would get her killed, but because that would be the highest betrayal of Seth that she could possibly contrive. For once, the woman beats the reporter, and she forces down her muscle memory of fact-collecting and prioritizing her lede. The whole world be damned. Tonight, Seth Morgan is hers.
“Mr. Morgan! And – eh – Miss Rohan.”
It's the commissioner, parting the crowd on his way to his new arrivals. Seth pulls away from Vera to shake the older man's hand. The surprise at Seth’s date choice is quite obvious on the commissioner’s face, and he leans in for a polite kiss on her cheek. Again, he’s certainly no stranger to Vera Rohan’s tenacious reporting.
“Good to see you, sir,” says Seth.
Sir? Vera is sure she's never heard him use that word before. Spare nothing to impress a man who could bring the Morgan Syndicate crumbling down.
“I wasn’t sure if we’d see you tonight, I had heard you were out of the country,” says the commissioner.
“I was, briefly. It's been a . . . rough couple months,” Seth answers, his tone leaking raw grief that he hasn’t shown her tonight. His honesty is heart-wrenching.
Vera only just barely doesn't wince at the conviction in his tone, and now more than ever she wonders where this realness comes from, when he has always only shown her a stone facade, and acted like he couldn't feel anything but the touch of her skin. But then, maybe watching your whole family and the love of your life get murdered will destroy any facade.
“It was a damn shame to hear of all that,” says the commissioner. “You have my sincerest condolences. It was bad enough when your dad went. He was a good man.”
Seth's brow creases, and the pain that flashes in his expression is very real. But the commissioner’s’ words are true. Everyone loved Gabriel Morgan—except the Marzetti family, and they're all long dead by now.
“Thanks,” he manages to say without letting his voice crack. He takes a sip of champagne as a tension break, and continues, “My family has always been a big supporter of the efforts of your department. I wanted to assure you that our support will continue.”
The commissioner smiles at this, the big fat pig that he is, and says, “I did notice that your enterprise's donation was sizable this year. We are most appreciative, and that makes you a gold star donor.”
Vera covers her shocked gasp with a fake sneeze. She mumbles an apology and tries to keep her eyes from widening. Gold star membership is achieved when a contribution has at least six zeroes behind the front number. She must remember to play dumb, but as she watches the scene before her unfold. Seth is securing his empire, keeping the peace with key players, fortifying his defenses.
If that is true, though, what the hell is she doing here with him? How does she fall into his deadly little chess game?
“As I said, it was always important to Dad, and I aim to honor that wish of his. My uncle
. . . strayed from some of the important responsibilities while I was studying abroad.”
Studying abroad? Vera almost laughs. She knows enough about him to know that the only reason he has a high school diploma is because he had a private tutor. Seth doesn't study. But the story sounds pretty enough for a socialite.
“Well, that's all a rather unfortunate part of the story, but you know that if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call my office. You kids enjoy the party.”
And just like that, the commissioner pats Seth on the shoulder, and makes his way on through the crowd. Seth watches him go for a tense minute, then Vera watches him banish that tension as he turns to her with a reserved smile. She lifts a sculpted eyebrow, and says, “What was your area of study, Seth? Ass or tits?”
He flashes a wolfish smile, but his eyes don't leave hers when he says, “I'm a scholar of beauty as a total package.”
She's about to return a comment about his package when they're interrupted by some old bag of a rich bitch. Vera recognizes the woman as the heiress of a military weapons contractor, a completely stuck up cunt with more diamonds on than she has friends in her life. Vera knows her, but the old woman doesn't know Vera, and so she smiles at the Seth and then his pretty date.
“Seth, you look ravishing, and who is this? She's a pretty thing.”
She lets Seth kiss her cheeks in the socially acceptable way, and doesn't wait for an answer. “I was wondering though, you charming little devil, if you've talked to Bethania lately?
I've left so many messages and she won't return my calls. I'm starting to worry about her.”
Seth bristles visibly and Vera feels the edge that takes him. She can see the flash of anger in his eyes at the mention of his aunt. Vera doesn't know the details of the catastrophic event that left Mikie and Nicolette dead and prompted Seth and Emma to leave to the country, but she can damn well bet from his reaction that Bethania Morgan had something to do with it.
“I've been extremely busy, Mrs. Akers, but I'm sure she's fine,” he manages to say without sounding murderous, but only barely.
“Well if you talk to her, tell her to call me,” says the old woman, and Vera wants to punch her in the mouth for Seth's sake. She lets a nasty twist play on her lips as Mrs. Akers meanders away into her delusion.
“What a bitch,” Vera says.
Seth freezes, throws her a glance. He hasn't told her any details about his internal family conflict, but her tone tells him she has some ideas about what happened. She's seen this look from him before, like he's searching her for something.
A few glasses and a whole lot more shmoozing later, Seth's phone dings with a text. It's Emma; he knows it. She's the only one with that sound. Part of him wants to ignore it, to pretend he is just a rich playboy on a high-profile date with . . . with a New York Times reporter.
