by An Latro
The phone rings three times before a cool female voice answers. The voice is vaguely familiar, and sharply impatient. It tickles at her memory, but she hangs up without saying anything and stares into empty space. Where the fuck is she hiding?
“What is it?” Rama asks, quietly.
Emma lets out a hysterical laugh. There is so much to say, and she needs to talk to Seth— but what comes out of her mouth is a broken noise. “She hates me.”
“She hates Seth. You are merely a casualty in that war,” Rama says, soft and soothing.
“You’re wrong. Mother loved Isaac. She didn’t have time to love anyone else—not me, and not Daddy. She hated me, for not being Isaac. For living when he died. For being something other than a Morgan. She would see me dead before she saw me working with Seth. And now…” She laughs again, and there is a bitter edge to it that makes Rama flinch. “She’s gone, and we have no fucking clue where she is or what she’ll do. She could expose us, Rama. And until we find her, we can’t stop that.”
Rama stares at her, at the panic in her eyes. She’s shaking and pulling away from him. “I need to go see Seth,” she murmurs.
“I’m here, Emma. Talk to me.”
She stares at him, and he’s stunned to see tears standing in her eyes.
“She hated me,” Emma says again, so softly he almost doesn’t hear it.
He reaches for her, but Emma pulls back and kneels down, fumbling at the floor to reveal a hidden cubby. She pulls out the small safe hidden there and unlocks it. She can feel his surprise and she offers a bitter smile. “Mother could never bother to keep her combinations and passwords safe from me. I wasn’t a threat in her eyes, even when she actually bothered to see me.”
She flips open the lid, and lets out a little sigh. There are still papers with the Morgan letterhead, personal documents, Beth’s marriage license. Emma flips though it quickly, but it’s a cursory search. There is nothing in a few letters between Mikie and Beth that can hurt them now. A picture is paper clipped to Isaac’s birth certificate, and Emma pries it loose, looking at
it.
It’s old. A man holding a baby asleep on his shoulder. There is no note or label, just a worn edge that tells Emma how often Beth must have held this.
“Why does my mother have a picture of Remi holding Isaac as a baby?” she asks softly. Rama makes a soft noise, and she shoves the thought aside, flipping through the rest of it. There is nothing about her father. Nothing sentimental at all, aside from that one picture.
From the contents of this box, it would be easy to believe Beth had only one child. And that thought stabs at her, painfully. She blinks back the tears, and shoves everything in her purse, grabbing the keys Beth kept in the top drawer of the desk. Then she turns. “Let’s go,” she says abruptly.
Rama moves quickly, startling her as he cages Emma in his arms, her back to the wall of the office. She makes a startled noise, and then goes still. There’s something different about him as he stands over her. Almost predatory, but so gentle it makes her breath catch. His head comes down and he brushes his lips against her. Once. Twice. Again, until she’s dropped her bag and is clutching a handful of his sweater, pulling him closer.
“She was an idiot, mali,” he whispers into her ear, and she makes a noise, a sob that he ignores as he deepens the kiss. Wordlessly telling her that she is loved. Until she finally stops shaking and her breathing is short and choppy for an altogether different reason. Then he gentles the kiss and pulls back. Smiles at her. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here, huh?”
She laughs, a startled noise and rubs her nose quickly. He looks away as she grabs her bag and wipes her face, putting herself back together.
As they leave the brownstone, he has to wonder about the stupidity of a woman lucky enough to have Emma, and bitter enough to overlook that brilliant gift.
Chapter 15. Morgan Enterprises, New York City. November 5th
Vera Holds Her Head High as she cuts her way through the lobby of the Morgan headquarters. She can feel eyes all over her, but she doesn't make contact unless they come directly in her path. When they do, she just smiles and nods, so demure for the dark lips. She made sure to pick a dress that was conservative, but that wrapped her curves like it was made for only her. She lets her hips switch as she approaches the elevator. She's been here before, when it was still Gabriel Morgan behind that big redwood desk, so sexy in his suit. She lets those memories play for just a flash, until the doors open before her, and she steps inside.
The elevator is not crowded, and so the ride doesn't take long. Her nerves try to rise. Is she making an incredibly stupid move? Or is she making one that is on par with his flinging her into the public eye, all the while knowing she would never deny him? She takes a steadying breath, and runs her fingers through her long, dark red hair. Too late to matter now.
When the doors open she strolls into the office as though she comes here all the time, like they will recognize her face and usher her through. The receptionist looks startled when Vera approaches her. Vera smiles down at her as the receptionist stutters through a greeting.
“I need to see Seth.”
“I—I'm sorry, ma'am, do you have an appointment?”
“I don't.”
“Well, uh, Mr. Morgan only sees people by appointment. I . . . can schedule you one.”
The receptionist stares wide-eyed, fidgets, and rolls back a couple feet in her chair. Vera shifts her smile to one of pity. She says, “Why don't you just let him know I'm here.”
“He stepped out.”
This voice comes from over Vera's left shoulder. Vera turns to find Emma Morgan, with her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe of her office. Her expression is carefully blank as she watches Vera.
Vera's expression flatlines to match Emma's. She says, sweetly, “I can come back.”
Emma smiles, almost predatory. She straightens and beckons Vera to her office, completely at ease here. Not the forced confidence Vera’s clinging to—but smooth assurance that she is untouchable.
“Nonsense,” says Emma, all false warmth and smiles. “Anything Seth can do for you, I can, too.” She hesitates and lifts one eyebrow, a silent challenge.
Vera smirks, but she swallows the reply that wants to be said. This is her first confrontation alone with this Morgan, the youngest and protected daughter. Emma stares at her with cool confidence. The Morgan daughter is ten years younger than Vera is. And she's the seasoned reporter. But she still doesn’t want to tangle with the young queen. She says, “I appreciate that, but this isn't a business call. I'll just try some other time.”
Now Emma lets a smile play, but its dry amusement. Her tone is a little firmer when she says, “Please, join me for a moment; we haven't properly met. Unless, of course, you don't have time.”
A challenge, carefully placed. The recognition hits Vera too quickly for her to process, and so her eyebrows rise and her smile widens. Emma's balance of personality between Caleb and Seth is remarkable. She wants to remind the young queen that she knows the Morgans fairly well, but she doesn't.
“Of course,” she hears herself say. “Obviously, I have a few minutes.” Then she is walking to the office opposite of the one she had hoped to be in.
“Would you like a drink or anything?” Emma asks as she closes her door.
The “anything” is left hanging out in the open. As a reporter, Vera is not akin to accepting gifts from anyone, and the reporter is most useful to her presently, so she says, “No, thank you.”
Emma is forced to take the next move, so she sits in her chair, that of a co-chairman, with all the calm of protocol. She sips her vodka cranberry, and her expression reminds Vera of a poker player, without the sunglasses. Vera's smile is relaxed, practiced, and so the two of them balance the very professional air with which they have decided to regard each other.
Emma's gaze never wavers as she says, “I know what you are to my cousin, and that is none of my business, but I nee
d to make sure that you understand things. Every decision made is partially mine. You are under protection at his insistence, but you might respect the third-eye view in this situation. The business you have with him is also mine.”
Vera's lips spread like a humid night. She crosses her legs, dress shifting as it would have for Seth, and she leans forward. Her long lashes shadow the heat in her gaze. She says, “I don't work for Seth. I do not work for you. Anything that is between Seth and me has nothing to do with you.”
Emma tenses a fraction—one so small that if Vera had not known Caleb, Seth, and their father, she would have missed it. Emma forces the tension down, and says, “Loyalty is a rather more vague term in our world than you're used to, and I assure you everything is connected. Our business is not limited to this office. Just keep in mind that I am not wowed by your pussy.”
Vera laughs. She can't help it. In her years of reporting, she'd be hard-pressed to find any source who had ever put it so simply. And so simply, it puts her off guard. She leans forward so that her moderate cleavage begs someone to want more. She reaches across the desk with measured speed, but Emma doesn't move, doesn’t react aside from a flare of anger in her gaze when Vera brushes her knuckles softly against her cheek, and says, “Trust me, I've already thought about that.”
Then Vera lets her smirk melt into a one-sided beast, so reminiscent of Seth. She stands, taking her shoulder bag with her gracefully, and she says, “It was so nice to meet you,” as she lets herself out of the office.
For a long moment, after Vera closes the door, she just stares. She can feel the attention of the two receptionists, but she ignores them. On the list of fucks she gives, those two broads don't even register.
Squaring off with Emma may not have been the smartest thing she's ever done, but it sure was fun. Like the time she strolled her rookie ass into Gabriel Morgan's office for an interview, and ended up bent over his desk. She laughs to herself as she turns toward the elevator.
Chapter 16. Seth’s Apartment. New York City. November 7th
She Knows She Shouldn’t Be Here. Seth doesn't like people in his private space—not even her. But she can't quiet the questions swirling in her mind and he is the only one who might have answers.
Emma taps on the door and waits, fidgeting. Is he even home? The door swings open and she takes a half-second to take him in: shirtless, hair messy, sleep pants hanging low on his hips, feet bare, a Glock in one hand. She arches an eyebrow at the gun and Seth shrugs, a confused half-smile turning his lips. "What are you doing here, Em?"
She pushes past him, taking stock of the living room. The large flat screen is blank, a hidden speaker pumping classic jazz. The low glass table is covered in files and what she recognizes as her projections, a crystal ashtray bearing the remains of a joint. A glass of wine sits next to it.
This is a side of him that no one sees. The softer, relaxed man behind the throne. "Want a drink?" he asks, after eyeing for her a few seconds.
“Scotch, on the rocks.”
Seth pauses, and his gaze is searching and wild as it sweeps her again. Stupid—drinking Caleb’s favorite is a sure way to raise questions. He knows she reaches for scotch when she misses the golden prince.
Seth doesn’t push as he drops two cubes of ice into the glass and splashes scotch in. He nods at the corner of the couch and she curls there, rolling the highball glass between her fingers restlessly.
“Tell me,” he says, and there is a hint of command in his tone that stiffens her spine. She needs to tell him the truth about the letter and what it means. She still can’t wrap her mind around it. And it is still too private—something to be guarded and held close, even against Seth.
“Why do I never see my father’s family?”
Seth hesitates. “Your mother wanted you raised in our family.”
“But the Marzetti have a claim on me. They are my blood.”
Violence darkens his eyes and then he shakes his head. “You are a Morgan. You’ve never been anything less than that. Emilio knew when he married Beth that his children would be raised with us. His family needed ours more, so he went along with it.”
“What do you know about them?” she asks, sipping her drink.
Seth twists, staring at her. “Why are you asking, Emma?”
This isn’t a question from her favorite cousin. It’s a demand from the king, a hint of danger not quite hidden in his tone. Something has him on edge. “My father was a Marzetti. Is it so strange that I’d ask about his family? Mother never let me get to know them—its like she hated them.”
“She did. She resented that she was tied to them at all.”
“Then why did she marry Daddy?”
Seth blinks, startled. “Because Dad wanted her too. Emilio was his best friend and it forged an alliance. Beth knew that she would have to marry for power. She never forgave him though.”
A trickle of fear slips down her spine. “Then why? If they’re our allies, why don’t I see them? Why is there so little activity from them?”
“Because when they killed my father, we destroyed them. From the top down—every member of the Marzetti clan was killed. You know that,” he says, his tone brutal.
She knew Uncle Gabe died in a hit. She knew Seth had been hurt, and that there had been retribution. She didn’t know…“The Marzetti killed Uncle Gabe? Why?”
Seth shakes his head. “We don’t know. After Emilio’s death, they withdrew from the alliance—they seemed content with small time. The hit came from nowhere—we had no word or warning. Just, one day the world blew up.”
She’s shaking, fear and anger and unexpected grief coursing through her. Seth is watching her, and she swallows the last of her scotch before standing. Tears burn in her eyes, but she blinks them back.
No reason. None. Except that Gabe had ordered the death of his best friend. The Italians wouldn’t be pleased if that particular truth came to light. She wonders, inanely, if Caleb pieced it together.
Of course he had.
She would have, if the family bothered telling her anything. When Gabe was killed and Seth shot, she’d been in the throes of their protection—they spoon-fed her half-truths and soothing lies. With the brothers in mourning, there was no one to bring her the truth. They had always been the ones to strip away the lies, and level with her. She didn’t want to hear this truth. Not now.
“Emma?”
“You hate them, don’t you?” She hears his sharp breath and twists to look at him. “They killed your father. Of course you do. You killed the shooter.”
Seth doesn’t say anything, and she drops the glass to the bar. She can’t breathe. Not when he’s staring at her in shock, disgust on his features.
If he hates them, how can he stand to look at her? She takes two stumbling steps toward the door and Seth catches her arm, jerking her around. His eyes are furious, his hands almost bruising on her arms. If he were anyone else, she would be terrified. But not Seth. Never Seth.
“You are a Morgan,” he snarls, shaking her. “Never less than that. Do you understand? You are not them.” She stares at him and he sighs, the anger seeping from him. “Emma, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
It’s on the tip of her tongue, to tell him everything—Oleander’s visit and Caleb’s letter and the trip to Beth’s townhouse. But what she says is, “Would you ever do that to me?”
He steps back, looking disconcerted and off balance. She’s glad he understands. “No. Dad should never have forced Beth into a loveless marriage. She hated him for it—and me, because I am his son. You are my equal, Emma. My partner. I wouldn’t force you into another syndicate—it’s never proven a healthy avenue for our family.”
Neither mentions the Thai prince or the Cubans—neither needs to. Seth steps closer, brushing her hair back and tipping her chin up. “Besides—the idea of you married makes me violent. Killing our allies is probably a bad idea.”
Seth stares at her, standing too close, his gaze soft and full. It tugs at her,
at every emotion she’s fought so hard to ignore, and she stifles the shiver tracing down her spine. Summons the ghost of a smile. He raises an eyebrow, reluctantly amused, and she shrugs.
“Stay. Drink with me,” he says, his voice coaxing and firm enough that she doesn’t consider arguing.
Curled in her corner of the couch, a beer in hand, Emma watches as Seth sifts through reports and projections, listening while he talks. A few times, she offers input.
She needs to tell him. Everything. As she lets her eyes close, the music and alcohol taking hold of her, she promises herself that she will. Tomorrow.
Chapter 17. Upstate New York, November 8th
The Car Slows And For A Moment, she stares out the window, and it doesn’t look right.
It doesn’t look like the house she has spent so many summers in, where she learned to ride and swim. She was in the garden the first time she got high, with a second or third cousin.
Caleb caught them, and even though he didn’t yell, she didn’t see that cousin again, except for at the required family functions, and even then, Caleb was close by or the cousin kept his distance.
Whatever anger Caleb had over the princess sampling the family product, he had settled it squarely on the other boy’s shoulders.
“Emma?”
She blinks slowly, coming out of her memories to stare at Dom. He’s watching her with worried, alert eyes. “I haven’t been back here since last year. Before Caleb died, we came up here for a weekend,” she says, her voice rusty from the long, silent ride. “Beth hates this place.”
She falls quiet, and she can feel Dom as he watches her. He’s been quietly concerned about his boss, and she’s trying to reassure him. She puts on a good face when she’s with Rama or Seth. Smiles and acts the part when the board is around. But in her private moments—when there is just her and her thoughts, she falls quiet and troubled, and he is seeing that more than she would like.
