by An Latro
He takes a sip of scotch, and his eyes glaze with that familiar distance. His voice is quiet but steady when he says, “Who made the call to murder my mother?”
The temperature has remained a steady seventy-three, but the warmth drains from the room in one fell rush. The childlike fear has dissolved, and the scotch teases his empty stomach. He doesn't look at Tinney, doesn't want to see any of the emotion that passes there, if any does at all. He doesn't want to know what it's like to relive it from any other perspective than his own— —so young and oblivious. Yet, isn't that what he's asking? What was it like to know that three children were about to lose so much?
Tinney takes a thick drink and his gaze drifts from Gabe's favorite child and spitting image to the mesmerizing dance of nature outside. Their world, like a snow globe, perfect and untouched, protected by a glass case; a lie.
He says, “Gabe was overridden by his siblings.”
Seth's eyes slip closed. He doesn't care just now that his reaction shows. He has no mask against this man. Some part of him breathes a righteous sigh of relief. This one small detail is a monumental truth, that his dad really was the man Seth always believed—that his dad would never sign a death warrant that would deprive his sons of their mother. Son. Gabe only had one son by blood. Yet he always gave Caleb every privilege Seth had. All but one, the crown—the empire he gave to Seth.
“But he was the king. How could they move against him?” Seth asks. His voice cracks, but his eyes are dry.
Gabe wouldn't make that heartless move, but Mikie and Bethania did.
Tinney's scotch is in his hand, but he leaves it anchored to the table. Seth doesn't have to look at the other man, the weight of the subject crouches on them both. At length, Tinney says,
“When marriage is involved, the rules get a little sticky. Gabe wasn't the only one invested, and so a majority rule was needed.”
Seth's fingers tighten around his highball. Mikie, that rat bastard piece of fucking scum.
Disgrace to the name Morgan. A curse on his grave. Otherwise, he is motionless. Until he says, “How did they do it?”
Tinney's pause is palpable, too thick to breathe, and finally Seth's gaze swivels from the near-peaceful scene outside to the now. As he might expect, Tinney is a fine portrait of collectivity, a straight face and guarded eyes. Seth's anger rises to his cheeks with unabashed ferocity, and his brow sets in a hard line.
He adds, “Did you pull the trigger?”
Tinney holds the connection, poker face unerring, and he kills his scotch. This time there's no grimace, and this time, the glass doesn't make a sound when he sets it down. Seth can almost feel the fire in Tinney's breath when he says, “It's the only order I ever refused.”
Seth's resolve is nothing in comparison, and his expression withers to something bitter and angry. “Then tell me how.”
Tinney's brow furrows and the lines around his eyes deepen. Maybe for the first time ever, Seth can see the pain his words cause in the older man. The occasion in itself is nearly enough to reduce him to a raging, blubbering waste of space. He bites down on his bottom lip, and he waits.
He's not sure how much time passes in silence, the hush of falling snow kissing them, even inside. For once, the quiet doesn't taunt him, doesn't make him want to demolish it like he's done to so many other settings. No, this is an anguish of truth, a deep-rending misery with a light at the end of it, for in truth there is an unfamiliar freedom.
Now, it's Tinney whose eyes close. He says, “They did it just like what was done to Caleb. Beth and Mikie sent some thugs to collect Miriam and Emilio, put them on their knees beside each other, and they died together.”
“Jesus,” Seth hisses.
He has to look away, anywhere but at Tinney's creased and broken expression. Seth pits himself forward so that his elbows jam into his knees. The pain that spreads through his nervous system by chain reaction is almost enough to distract him. The active throb in his shoulder is almost enough to bring back the vision of his uncle's last moments, but it’s overshadowed by the image of his mother and Emma’s father, and Caleb—so many dead bodies. His head falls into his hands.
Tinney's voice remains the same steady tone that it's been Seth's whole life. He says,
“Your dad loved your mother more than the game, and the fame, or money. And though she betrayed him by cheating on him—Emilio betrayed their friendship—he never imagined a world without her.”
Seth's voice wells from within him, resonates from his throat as a half-choked sob. He knows that exact fucking feeling. Somehow he never expected to relate to his dad so perfectly. He couldn't pull the trigger against the love of his life, either. Just as he couldn't kill his brother. He has walked in his father's shoes. It was all he ever wanted, and now, now that he knows what that means, he would give it all back to have his family close to him. This is the conclusion his dad came to, the reason he pressed his ideal above any other: family is the most important thing.
His tears are hot, brutal, and fast. They slip through his fingers, run down his tired hands, drip into the false warmth around him. Despite all the history stacked up against him, other people’s whys hold no meaning for him. He's at the end of a long chain of motivations that have shaped his life with no regard to him. All he can do from here is try to make it better, try to honor what his father taught him. He chokes on his heaving breath and the snot that threatens to run down his face.
A large, hard hand falls on his shoulder, squeezes just the slightest bit. He sucks in a breath through his nose, tries his damnedest to slow his heart. He limbs have begun to buzz. If he continues, he'll lose to the panic attack that presses close to him. Tinney squeezes again, harder this time, and keeps the pressure steady. The point of contact pierces Seth's shattered thoughts, calls him back to stable ground, and the sobs recede.
The torrent of memories and answers calms like a low tide, ever more quietly retreating. He slumps forward, his soul suddenly exhausted. His head just hangs. A weight that he's carried since birth flows from him in messy rivulets. Tinney supports his weight easily, willingly, just lets him feel without the fear of image. And at length, the sniffs slow as well.
Seth swipes his face against his opposite shoulder, and then follows up with the back of his hand across his eyes. He looks up at Tinney, looking all the world like his adolescent self, and his dad in his prime.
Tinney says, “It never gets easier. But you'll be a bigger man for this.” His eyes are wet.
“Your dad would be proud of you.”
Chapter 29. Midtown. New York City. November 27th
Seth holds the umbrella steady above Emma and himself until they are beneath the green metal awning. The rain sounds angry as it pounds against the metal. Seth lowers the umbrella, shakes it, and pauses, staring out at the city beneath the deluge. The winter thus far has been like this, constantly walking the line between cold enough to snow and warm enough for frigid rain. He can see his breath. It rained the day of Caleb's funeral. And the day of his dad's funeral. Fine; it's fitting enough.
“Seth,” Emma says, gently squeezing his arm. Her nose is pink and her blue eyes are so big.
He breaks the eye contact, and collapses the umbrella. He knows she doesn't need to ask to know all the things that weigh on him. He knows she won't ask. He puts an arm around her shoulders, comfort for them both, and ushers her into the tattoo shop.
A cowbell knocks against the door as it moves, and they are greeted by the smell of green soap and sterility. The lobby is a welcoming affair full of leather couches and tables scattered with portfolio and ink magazines. Some low and dirty stoner rock drifts from hidden speakers. A young girl, probably not much older than Emma, comes to life from behind a glass counter as though someone kicked her in the ass. Her dark hair is streaked with blue, and she has a full sleeve. Seth understands in the time it takes to approach the counter why Caleb liked this place.
The girl stutters, her darkly lined eyes doing their damnedest n
ot to crawl over the total package that is Seth Morgan dressed down. Before she can manage to speak, he smiles and her mouth snaps shut. A blush fires in her cheeks, and Emma shifts impatiently beside Seth. He says,
“I have an appointment.”
He called several days ago, spoke personally to the artist who did Caleb's work. Not surprisingly, he was able to organize a private, after-hours appointment—no cameras, no other customers, just cash exchanged for a special job.
The girl says, “Of course! Follow me, Mr. Morgan.”
She leads them deeper into the shop, and Emma rolls her eyes at the girl's back. Seth lets a smirk tug at one corner of his lips. Will she ever not be jealous of the attention he gets from women? Or perhaps it's because she wasn't the one getting the attention? It's so hard to tell these days.
The studio is open, stainless, well-lit. And the artist, Fitz, is waiting. He's a thin whip of a man, early thirties, full sleeves and a cobra on his throat. He has dark hair and bright hazel eyes that crinkle when he smiles at them. His eyes linger on Emma, and Seth spits a curse at karma as she almost preens under the attention. They all shake hangs through a round of introductions.
“Yeah, man, I'm real glad you called me for this piece,” says Fitz. “It was a bummer hearing about all that. Caleb was a cool dude.”
Seth nods his agreement. “It took me a few days to figure out where he got his work done. I was . . . gone on business for a while.”
Emma comes to life beside him, her eyes curious as she nudges his side, and says, “How did you figure that out?”
Seth smirks, but he doesn't make eye contact when he says, “Rama.”
He hears her quiet intake of breath, and she settles back into silence. Fitz watches long enough to see her cheeks color, then he looks back to Seth. His eyes are smiling again. He says,
“Yeah, I remember when Caleb got that first tat, on his chest. He wasn't close to old enough, but goddamn did he have a lot of cash.”
Seth laughs. He remembers when his father found out Caleb had gotten the family's mark. He was furious, but Seth always believed he was also proud that his eldest son was so dedicated. Now Seth wonders at the pain it caused, knowing Caleb wasn't even his son. Bribing the artist was so Caleb.
Seth says, “That is the same piece I want done on me. Except there's something that wasn't in his that I want in mine.”
“Right on,” Fitz says. “What is it?”
“A crown,” Seth says, softly.
Emma fidgets against his side. He hasn't told her about that detail. He doesn't look at her though, doesn't acknowledge her surprise and unease.
“No problem, boss. And for the lady?”
Emma holds out the inside of her wrist. “The snake, with a gun hanging from its tail. A
Glock.” Seth shifts and she slides a quick glance at him. His face is a blank mask and she reaches out, squeezes his hand once before refocusing on the tattoo artist.
Fitz cups the back of her hand in his, and runs a thumb across the skin of her wrist. She manages not to shudder at the whispering contact. He levels his hazel gaze on her, and says, “Is this your first tattoo?”
She nods, not shying away from his intent curiosity. His smile is easy, sexy with his stubble. He says, “That's a pretty sensitive spot. Are you sure you can handle it?”
She lifts her chin, all haughty indignation, and says, “I've been shot. I think I'll be fine.” Seth's head whips around to her, his expression a hard warning. But Fitz just lifts his eyebrows and laughs with a shrug. “Yes ma'am,” he drawls, and motions them over to his drawing table.
He makes meaningless small talk with them as he sketches out their stencils, mostly with Emma. Seth watches the drawings come to life, ignoring the light banter. She's used this technique to get to him before, in Cuba and here, but just now she seems to actually enjoy the distraction. She's nervous. Seth can see it and so can Fitz, who puts a needle to bodies daily. The artist has a soothing bedside manner, despite his hard exterior, and again Seth understands why Caleb liked him.
Emma giggles, and Seth realizes he has lost their conversation for his own thoughts. It's a good thing the drawing doesn't take long. He is beginning to think Emma likes the older man's attention a little too much.
Emma is first under the needle. Seth watches intently from his chair as she offers her pale, smooth wrist to the artist who did Caleb's first tattoo—soft virgin skin. This will be her second significant scar, proof that there's no returning to the protected world of her childhood.
It's poetic that this one will be dedicated to Caleb, her other brother.
Fitz is gentle with her, but his flirty demeanor disappears. He is all concentration and steady hands as he lines her stencil up with the natural curves of her arm.
Wide blue eyes find his, and he sees the nerves jangling there, wild and as unsteady as her knee bobbing slightly. He shifts and gives her a small smile. It’s all he can offer, but it’s enough. She lets out a breath and the uncertainty seems to flow out of her as she settles deeper into the chair.
The tattoo machine buzzes to life, and Fitz gives her a quick searching stare. She ignores him, staring into the space above Fitz’s head. The first bite of the needles makes her jump and Fitz pauses.
“I’m fine,” she says, and there is a hint of authority in her voice that stalls any questions from the artist. She gives him a quick smile and he refocuses on the tattoo. She doesn’t move again, her eyes focused on nothing as he outlines the snake.
She’s always known this life. Even when the family protected her, when she was sheltered and hidden, she’s known the truth of what they are. Criminals. Dangerous. Untouchable. She has never wanted anything but to be a Morgan, a princess in their deadly empire. The quiet counter to her volatile cousins. The needle stings her arm, a black ink chain that ties her to the only life she’s known.
Caleb would be proud of her. Even when he protected her, even when he arranged his men around her, he was teaching her. How to rule. How to live. How to survive their world with honor. The value of family. The needle bites down and she lets out her breath, so slow.
It feels right. It hurts, but it should. It should never be easy. If there is anything Caleb taught her, it’s that. She can feel Seth watching her, and the concern, warm as the sun on their beach, but she can’t handle that, not right now. This isn’t about him. It’s about Caleb. About how, even now, he is teaching her. He would laugh at her jealousy, her infatuation.
But he would be happy, she thinks, that she has found Rama.
The machine quiets, and she blinks, coming slowly out of her thoughts as Fitz wipes away the excess ink. The snake is familiar and so foreign against her own skin. A staple in her life, something she has seen on every person who has ever served the family.
Even her father wore their mark. But she never expected to. She has never been expected to.
Emma sits staring at her new ink as Fitz cleans his station and prepares for his next job. Seth is a stoic mask of himself, patiently waiting for his turn under the gun. He doesn't have much to say, and his silence doesn't seem to bother Fitz, who moves like art in motion through the break-down and set-up he has done a thousand times. Seth lets his vision blur on the myriad of images in Fitz's own tats. His memory sneaks back to the picture of Caleb and Rama handwrestling, to the flower Seth never saw in person. He blinks once, twice, and rips his mind back to the present. This is a celebration of Caleb, not that familiar mourning. He is so tired of mourning.
Fitz is just about ready for him so he stands and peels his gray t-shirt over his head. He moves a little slower than he might have before taking a second bullet to his left shoulder, but he has at least regained nearly his full range of movement. His jeans are low-slung, but the other mark he bears is hidden. He notices sidelong that Emma's gaze has shifted to him. Of course it would, but he ignores her. “Damn, dude, that's a righteous scar,” Fitz says with wide eyes. Righteous? That's one way to put it.
“Yeah,�
� Seth says with a wan smile. “Put the stencil right under it, right where Caleb's was.” Symbolically, over his heart. And the crown right under the bullet scar—both of them a testament to what he has suffered to take his place.
Again, Fitz falls to concentration, and he fits the stencil onto Seth's pectoral muscle. This is Seth's first tattoo as well, but the artist doesn't seem worried that he can handle it.
At last, when Seth is lying back and Fitz is leaning above him with the machine poised above his skin, he lets his eyes close. The machine kicks to life, a disconcerting buzz that feels exactly like Seth's internal struggle. Here's to you, Caleb.
The needles touch down and start to move, like bee stings that won't go away. The pain is negligible. But the meaning behind it is massive. He focuses on keeping his breath slow and steady, and he listens to the machine change pitch while it's traveling along its guide.
When Caleb took the family's mark, Seth had been derisive, a right haughty prick about it. They were royals, he had said. They were above it. Long before Caleb had any proof that he wasn't above it, he never believed he was. Yet he had given every goddamned thing he had to this family, and they took it. All of it. No amount of physical pain could ever stack up to that one gross truth.
Truth—it has driven him through this tragedy, like a drug he can't get enough of. Just when he thinks he understands the situation, there's always one more damn truth that changes everything. And there's one glaring him in the face, crouched on his chest and staring down with contempt. He failed. He failed his father and his brother. He failed Emma. He couldn't save his dad from a chestful of bullets. He couldn't save Caleb from the hatred. He didn't save Emma from dying by her uncle's hand. Another syndicate's royalty had to. The needles dig in again.
Never again. He won't ever think he's above it. What was it Havana said? People won't follow a cold king. He's lost enough. He knows what true loyalty is, and he knows that his uncle's bloodthirsty tactics almost decimated their family from within. In their underworld, they can't afford to have a shaky foundation, not with all the pressure from the outside. They have to be strong in the faces of their enemies.
