Black Collar Empire

by A. N. Latro

  Tinney's massive hand on her little one makes her hesitate, and she has a heartbeat to stare at it, consider the differences, before he finishes, "Caleb is dead."

  Everything stops. Wild hope and crushing grief, twined around each other. Impossible to separate or even understand, blinding in their intensity, so unexpected and potent she leans forward, her head on her bare knees, and keens. A low, anguished noise. It isn't true. Can't be. She was in his apartment three days ago, chattering about school and Quinn and Mother. He had been moody and distracted, had snapped at her. She didn't know why—even when he relented enough to apologize, ordering spicy Thai food and watching a bad horror, he didn't explain the edgy way he sat there, waiting for something.

  Or someone.

  "What happened?" She forces the question out and can hear the soft rustle of satin as Tinney shifts.

  "There was a disagreement between the princes," he says carefully.

  Her gaze, furious, swings up, but he isn't answering anything else. She reaches for her phone as they cruise the streets of the city. No one answers-—she tries everyone she can think of in Caleb’s division, anyone her cousin might trust. Nothing. Finally, she drops the phone, lead settling in her stomach.

  When Tinney escorts her into her uncle's living room, all her emotion is locked away. Her head has that familiar tilt, her lips turned in a sardonic smile that fits Caleb so well. She sees the king stare for a heartbeat, sees her mother, a pale shadow behind him. And then Mikie is moving closer to her, and she lets him fold her into his warmth.

  It does nothing to thaw the angry cold in her chest.

  "You heard?"

  "Where are they?" she says.

  "Sweetheart, you don't need to see such ugliness right now," Mikie says, and she eyes him, her facade faltering.

  "They are my cousins. The closest thing I have to brothers," she says, and Beth flinches. "I want to see them."

  Mikie nods, and she goes to the closed library door.

  The room looks like Seth at his very worst. It reeks of scotch and rum. A coke mirror glitters in delicate shards from the ground. The books have been largely ignored, but one small table has been smashed to nothing but splinters. The brat prince was furious when he did this.

  She sees it all, but her gaze is drawn, irresistibly, to the prone form on the ground. Her breath catches—two years and nothing changes. He still has the ability to leave her absolutely wrecked. She takes it all in—the long hair; the skin a deeper gold then she remembers; the long, almost skinny body that fits his dress shirt and pants perfectly. Bruises and a split lip mar his face, his fingers twitching in his sleep.

  Even passed out drunk, Seth is the best looking man she's ever seen.

  Slowly, she pulls the door closed. She needs to go. To find Caleb's allies and answer the burning question of why. Before he wakes up—he would hate her seeing him like this.

  "I need to go," she murmurs.

  Mikie stops her with a soft noise in his throat. She swings a questioning look at the king, and he smiles. "Sweetheart, it would be best for you to stay here. Until we know just how deeply Caleb's betrayals ran."

  The room spins, and she almost falls. No. That can't be right. Caleb would never—"What happened?"

  Mikie shrugs. "Caleb and his boys attacked Seth. They had been trailing him since he got home a few weeks ago—without reporting it. He threatened to shoot Seth."

  She makes a low noise of distress and blinks hard. It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.

  "You'll stay here," the king says again, "until we have finished cleaning house."

  Her stomach turns, but she nods quietly. It's a benign term for a bloodbath. How many in Caleb's division will die today? How many of the men who have taught her will be forgotten, erased from the syndicate?

  "I'll be in my room, if you need me," she says.

  She can feel her uncle and mother watching her, assessing who she will celebrate or mourn. So she climbs the stairs regally and locks her emotions away until they are safe. Until they can't be used against her.

  This wasn't supposed to be his homecoming.

  St. Patrick’s Cathedral, New York City. January 24.

  It's raining the day of the funeral. He sits on a low loveseat, staring miserably out the window of his fifteenth-floor suite, his black suit spread across the bed behind him. Gentleman Jack leers at him from the coffee table. The ice in his glass clinks as it collapses on itself, and the cold storm beats steadily outside. He hasn't showered. He hasn't shaved. Part of him wants to never move from the couch ever again.

  He’s been in seclusion, avoiding family members for days, swimming in his bitterness and confusion, and leaving Uncle Mikie to turn them away for whatever reason he wants to give. Several key players are outraged, screaming because they were not consulted or involved in Caleb's disposal, and several other members of the syndicate have also been purged. Caleb’s division is all but gone. He knows that Emma is safe, but beyond that—doesn’t care.

  Everyone gets antsy when the housecleaning begins. Where does it end, they all want to know? It doesn't, is Mikie's answer. He will not be questioned when he assures them that the family was in great danger. Seth knows there are whispers, though; he can feel them. The timing of everything screams of a reverse coup, an ousting of Caleb, a darker plan.

  Everything happened so fast that Seth cannot pick the sense from the bullshit. He swipes up his rocks glass and takes a burning swig. He can barely taste the alcohol any more. He should eat. He should call Nicolette back. He should find Emma, get a grip. Instead, he drinks. And he keeps drinking until his uncle comes to him.

  He needs to get ready, but instead he tries to drown the sound of Mikie's voice, who snatches away his glass and grabs him up by his dirty shirt to stand, however unsteadily. “You need to get your shit together, son,” Mikie says as he pushes his nephew toward the bathroom.

  “I'm not going,” Seth slurs, pushing a sharp elbow into Uncle Mikie's ribs. He propels himself away from the older man and onto the floor. The carpet burns his hands, and his vision pits in a sickening spin.

  Mikie pulls him to his feet again with the patience of an oak, and says, “Seth, it's your brother's funeral. Of course you're going.”

  “Why?” Seth cries belligerently, trying to free himself again, but failing. “You killed him! Why act like you care now?”

  “Because that's the way it works,” Mikie says, wrapping a large hand around Seth's skinny elbow and dragging him the rest of the way to the bathroom. He blocks his nephew in the room and says, “I will physically bathe you if you do not get in that shower. Stop acting like a child, and take your place.”

  “My place!” Seth yells indignantly. “Fuck it.”

  For such a large man, Mikie moves surprisingly quick. He grabs Seth and, despite the struggling, spindly opposition, man-handles him out of his shirt. Mikie flops him, chest heaving, head spinning, onto the tile floor. Seth’s bruises light bright purple against the white room. “Do you really want to do it this way?” his uncle asks.

  Seth stares up blearily. “No,” he whispers. “I don't want to do it at all.”

  “Please, Seth,” Mikie says softly, but steadily, heart breaking all over his face, which Seth could see if his vision would still. He knows that Mikie must remember that pain, the loss of a brother. But then, the old man has lost so many people after all this time, and he knows that betrayal is most bitter from someone close. Seth sniffs, nods, giant eyes seeking meaning from something: sink, toilet, his uncle's feet. Mikie leaves him to compose himself.

  Seth finds, in the back of the limo heading across town, that he doesn't remember showering, or getting dressed. He bathed, but he can smell the liquor on himself. And when he looks down, he is dressed, black tie knotted in a slim half Windsor. Already, he has unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt, and the knot is slightly askew. Dark brown hair is messy, and his stubble is two days old. Wire-framed sunglasses hang on the end of his nose des
pite the dreary weather. His heavy wool coat is making him hot. Or maybe it's the Jack Daniels.

  He begins to rummage with the carelessness of the booze, and finds that the mini bar in this limousine seems to have been previously cleared out. He lets out a sharp, sloppy, “Bullshit!” and slams the cabinet closed. His uncle only releases a long sigh and watches the gray city scenery inch by. It's inevitable,—somebody will make a scene before the day is through. With any luck, it will not be Seth.

  At length, the limo slows to a stop in front of St. Patrick's.

  “Tell me you can keep your head,” Mikie says as they wait for the driver to open the door. Black-clad mourners are taking notice outside. Everyone knows the classy cars of the Morgan family. Seth looks at him over his shiny glasses, pupils slightly unsteady. This is his first sustained eye contact since he was reduced to a drunken fool on his bathroom floor.

  Mikie pensively looks him over. The bruises and cuts on his face are healing by now, turning ugly shades of purple and yellow. Huge dark circles weigh down his eyes, only mostly hidden by the glasses. This is the face he must present to his people after two years of absence. It will only add to the drama of his return.

  The car door opens. Without a word, Seth turns away and unfolds himself into the cold. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders slouching just a little, limbs long and lanky. The rain has died back to a drizzle, so he waves away the driver and the umbrella. Mikie climbs out beside him, black fedora pulled low over his eyes, scarf braced against the chill. His bulk commands the space around him. They are like celebrities, attracting attention of acquaintances and strangers alike. They take just a moment to collect, to prepare, then together they make their way inside like it is their own funeral.

  There is a large group obstructing their path between the sidewalk and the door, a mass of cigarette smoke hanging under black umbrellas. None of them want to deal with the weight of the funeral yet. All of them quiet when the king appears, followed closely by the long-lost Seth, heir to the syndicate. Mikie nods solemnly through condolences and pats of the shoulder. This is the way of these events,—everyone goes through the motions regardless of the ugly truths they know. Seth ignores them all like they are pesky paparazzi, and keeps his head down to avoid eye contact and hands and voices. The attention is hot on him. No one knows what to expect.

  Inside the door, someone takes their coats. He tries not to focus on the spinning chapel with its high ceilings and many candles. He can see black forms in his liquor vision, through the shades, but he is drunk enough that, with effort, he pretends they are not there. The din of murmurs in the place is almost enough to turn him back out the door. Beside him, Uncle Mikie dips his fingers into the Holy water, crossing himself respectfully. Seth scoffs and pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, then turns away from the scene. He's not in the mood to play religion.

  It takes him a moment too long to realize that he has averted his eyes squarely into the face of his only aunt. She has approached on his right, his unguarded side, and now stands staring expectantly as he swivels into her grim visage. He just barely avoids spitting a string of profanity directly at her perfect make up and chestnut dye job. “Aunt Bethania,” he says instead, tone driving away any thought of civility. He reluctantly pulls the shades from his eyes and pushes his lips into a hard, short line.

  Her eyes are swollen and moist. Somehow, she manages to look mournful and disapproving. Behind her is Emma, looking slightly frightened. For a heartbeat, he wants to smile, because he’s missed her. He notices that she keeps staring at him, then looking away quickly, distraught. They were close once, in another life.

  Does he seem strange to her now? Who protected her, in his absence?

  Bethania looks him over, eying each injury without shame. Finally, she holds her arms out in some parody of a hug, like he would go willingly into those arms. Her expression twists, and he leans in, finding the resolve to pat her back a few times with one hand. Her arms squeeze him just a little too hard, setting the pain alight in his ribs. He stiffens as she holds onto him. “Don't show your ass,” she whispers sharply into his ear, expression plastered with grief for everyone else's benefit.

  “Nice to see you, too,” he answers, wrenching out of her painful grasp, ignoring her shocked expression. She sniffs at him for a moment then narrows her eyes.

  “Are you drunk?” she hisses, leaning closer to him.

  “I'm over this,” he answers, bellicosely raising an eyebrow then slipping past her. He gives Emma a dry ghost of a smile, tweaking her cheek gently as he passes. He can feel her stare after him, just like everyone else’s.

  “Beth,” Mikie says, giving his younger sister a slow hug, forcing her to wipe her disgust off her face. She yields, as if she has a choice, the resentment for the way he always steps in for Gabe's child slipping across her face. If he had his own son it would be different. Mikie leaves her in his shadow to follow Seth farther inside.

  Pews are packed with groups of people, most of whom Seth would recognize if he bothered to look. They certainly recognize him as he makes his way to the front row. He feels their eyes, their judgments. He wants to scream, “It was all for you! All of you!” but he just sits on the hard pew wishing they had picked some other denomination, one with softer benches.

  There is no casket at this funeral, no viewing. The only remnants of Caleb in the building are a picture on a large stand and his remaining blood relatives. Such a cocky smile shines from the photo. Seth won't look at that either.

  The dynamic of the room shifts. Murmurs break and regroup with the arrival of more high-profile characters. Seth feels it, but he pretends to be oblivious.

  Remi Oliver has arrived—the family banker with his classically beautiful Spanish wife on his arm and Nicolette beside her mother. They move as a slow processional unto themselves, decked in expensive layers of black and elegance. Remi is a gray-haired, trim man with crow’s feet and a piercing black stare. He is extremely clean cut, manicured, yet everyone knows the ruthless, fierce creature beneath. He is the neighbor king, an uneasy ally.

  Alejandra Oliver walks gracefully, making ladylike steps in her black stilettos. Rich, dark hair is pulled up and pinned beneath a vintage funeral hat. Black lace hangs into her face. Huge pearls adorn her smooth neck and dangle from her ears. Brown eyes are crinkled tragically, mirroring the loss of so many young ones, a trend that seems to be growing exponentially these days. She weaves her arm around Nicolette's, so used to being in the spotlight that she knows how to look appropriate at all times.

  Nicolette follows suit, cutting easily through the thick atmosphere of tragic death. She defiantly stares forward and tries her damnedest to keep the hard look from her eyes. This type of death is not tragic; it's expected, and she has to wonder why it always must come to this end. She will not tolerate the commoners today, for she will only wonder, are you a traitor?

  Uncle Mikie rises to meet them. The kings shake hands, hug, then Mikie kisses the ladies on the cheek. Remi's dark eyes fall on Seth, who is staring forward in a daze, wishing that belief were enough to turn him invisible.

  “Seth,” Uncle Mikie says, deep and stern, soft and clear. It is a tone that used to immobilize the boys with fear when they were younger. His name doesn't make it past the first row, but Seth's eyes instinctively snap to his uncle, and memories flit across his blank stare. He focuses on one of several images of the same face jumping in his vision, then realizes at whom he is staring. He stands quickly, stumbling just a little. There are some people not even Seth Morgan can ignore.

  “Seth, I'm sorry it had to be this way,” says Remi, extending a hand. He is the ideal of measured movement and sharp calculation. Seth's clammy fingers respond, and he nods. The older man pulls him, too, into a masculine sort of hug. He does not quite recoil, but only with effort. Remi Oliver is a terrifying man. He has always been terrifying. “Good to have you back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Oliver,” he mumbles, trying his best to aim his
whiskey breath away. He longs for his mirror shades, for a mirrored mask to cover his bruises, his scars. Remi pulls back so as to make a firm eye contact that asserts his status in order to bring Seth's gaze to him.

  “Call me Remi, son. You've earned it,” the man says, serious eyes softening by fractions. He claps Seth's shoulder gently, squeezing it once before he turns away to speak with Mikie.

  Seth sinks back onto the pew and fleetingly hopes that he will not puke before the service is over. He pitches his weight onto his elbows to rest them on his knees. The world is swaying, so he runs one cold hand over his unshaven face. When he looks up, it is at a designer pair of heels on slender feet. Those delicate feet are attached to perfect legs, which he follows to a slim, familiar body. With a streak of courage, he raises his eyes to hers. She is staring at him with a mixture of disgust, pity, and sadness. He cannot withstand that look, so he finds the carpet again. Yes, he's a mess. He should be stronger, should have dealt with this better. His stomach turns a little.

  She sits primly on the pew beside him, tired of facing the stares. She crosses her ankles gracefully and stares at the church, its Saints. She can smell liquor. She wouldn't mind some herself right now.

  “We'll rule this city, someday,” she says softly, her words seizing his attention and reclaiming his gaze. She didn't expect him to break like this. But then, maybe she doesn't know him anymore. Maybe two years were too many. “You said that once.” She gathers her nerves, looks him in the eye. “Are you sure that's what you want?”

  “You're what I want. It's always been you.”

  She looks away. Two years have changed her, but he can still say just the right thing to make her feel. He has always known the words of her soul, but she has always wondered if he really means them.

  “There is no other life for us, is there?” she says, eyes dropping to her hands.

  “No,” he says, face scrunching a little at his angry stomach. “We're far too deep for that.”