by A. N. Latro
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 he 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.
You don't get it, Seth. You never did. Caleb's words, haunting him still and always. Maybe that's exactly why their father had always been harder on Caleb. Maybe it wasn't faith that Gabriel had in Seth, maybe it was hope—hope that the corruption wouldn't rot Seth's heart. Well, I get it now, he thinks as he pivots and launches the chair across the room with surprising and impressive strength. It sails in silence for a dramatic moment before it slams into the desk on the right.
The impact slows the chair's velocity slightly and knocks it off course. The chair rolls awkwardly and, again, glass bursts in all directions, this time accompanied by various office supplies and the Macintosh computer that once sat atop the desk. That's when he hears the door behind him click, then open quietly. He whirls around to meet his guest. Adrenaline mixes with the alcohol in his system, and his momentum gets the best of him. He stumbles, but doesn't fall. His vision blurs and doubles for only a moment, then comes to focus on Tinney, the Morgan family's number one gun. Seth's thoughts fall to chaos and confusion, center finally around the possibility that this man has been sent to kill him. His hands move without his mind's consent, and he's drawing both guns without making any conscious decision to do so.
The other man is solid and lean, in his late forties, and of some brown-skinned mixing pot descent. He wears slacks and a white button-up. He has dark hair done in a neat part on his right side, with delicate shots gray at the temples. His dark eyes sweep the destruction as his expression sets into a very serious yet somehow passive position, and he seems unperturbed that Seth has drawn his weapons. Tinney has seen the results of Seth's temper so many times over the years, and he knows this time is different simply due to the site of the tempest. These offices are near sacred. Never has the brat prince shown himself here, the holy of holies, and never has he pulled his guns on one so close to the inside.
“What are you doing?” asks Tinney in a calm, unassuming tone. He clasps his hands behind his back, baring the guns in his chest holster as if to signify that he has no intentions of reaching for them.
“Redecorating,” answers Seth, guns level and steady despite the slight slur that creeps into the word. “What are you doing?”
Tinney's mouth pulls into a tiny, close-lipped smile that's as cold as the city streets in winter. The look cools the suspicion in Seth's almond eyes, turns it to a tamer curiosity. “Your uncle is on his way,” says Tinney, still completely calm and with a tone that implies nothing.
“So fucking what?” Seth snaps, opening his arms in a wide shrug that's accentuated by the guns. He asks, “So what? He sent you to do damage control first? He sent you to scold me like a fucking child? Or did he send you to kill me?”
The smile has faded from Tinney's face. One eyebrow inches upward in surprise. Why would Seth suggest that Mikie would order his death? Why?
Because he did the same to his other nephew.
“He doesn't know I'm here. You think I work the graveyard shift watching cameras all night, Seth?”
The challenge drains from Seth's stature, and the older man must wonder if Seth even realizes it. His eyes run across the dark spaces under the Morgan's eyes, the tousled hair and softly crumpled clothes. He looks more like the boy Tinney remembers than he has in months. “No,” says Seth, glancing to where he knows the camera is hidden.
“It's off,” Tinney says. He is trained to miss nothing, just like Seth, whose eyes drop a little wider as his arms lower to his sides. “I tu
rned it off.”
“Why? And why are you here?” Seth asks.
“I came to tell you that I'm yours, first and above all others. I have been loyal to your father for more years than you have been alive, and I am still loyal to his vision. It seems you're on the verge of something here, so I thought you should know that.”
Seth nearly drops his guns onto the high grade, neutral colored carpet. He blinks several times even though he knows by now that the action will neither drive home the truth nor make it disappear. He must admit to himself that he knows little of the nature of the bond between this man and his dad. He says, “So what you're saying is that you are loyal to me above Mikie?”
Tinney looks directly into Seth's eyes and very solemnly says, “Yes.” That single word feels quite like the slug that will never come Seth's way from Tinney's guns, and Seth can't explain exactly why.
The urge to destroy everything around him has ebbed into a forlorn tide of morbid fascination with the life of a man who has lived in the shadows of subservience, a man who undoubtedly knows more about Seth's life than he knows himself. This man is the perfect person to field Seth's unanswered queries, and this is the only man who never entered Seth's mind. Again, he is perfectly blown away, utterly in awe at how ignorant and childish he has been, all while he believed he was playing the game so well. His emotion must play all over his face, because Tinney grants him a more genuine smile.
“Gabe was my best friend,” Tinney says as if he can sense the questions to which Seth cannot put a voice. “And I have protected his sons like the children I do not have. Michael should feel the same. Instead he betrayed Caleb by calling on so-called traditions. Seth, every single perceived absolute has an exception. Every tradition has a positive and a negative, and every reaction in turn creates its own unique reaction. You must realize and accept this.”
Seth's mouth opens, closes, then sets into a determined line. His brow is no longer hard from anger, but it's still furrowed. Tinney hardly ever speaks. He doesn't wage opinions or arguments, he carries out his duties with chilling precision, and sticks close to the shadows. Yet the words he just spoke sound so much like something Gabe would have said that Seth wonders if he did say it once upon a time, despite the fact that it contradicts what Gabe always taught. Seth's stomach turns when a thought occurs to him: maybe his father instilled in Seth the values he did in order to make them a reality, because they never really were. “Did Mikie play me?” he asks finally, and he's not entirely sure from where his words come.
“Yes.” Such a straightforward answer, all that Seth has wanted, and yet, now he wonders if he can handle that same answer. He takes a slow look around as the word sinks in. His world has changed once again in the wake of knowledge. The same man who has been witness to the family's secrets since before Seth could comprehend them, has confirmed a great suspicion that's been burning in Seth's gut and his nightmares. The Morgan who turned against the family had not been Caleb; it was Mikie, and now Seth must wonder if Caleb even knew, or if he had supported it in some measure. Every reaction creates reaction, and every answer leads to another question—the street's education.
“You're the only one who can save the honor that your father instilled in your family's name,” says Tinney. He tucks his hands into his pockets, a movement that whispers of Gabe's ghost, and he adds, “If you don't, your empire will fall, and hard. Greed and filth have infected the roots beneath it.” Seth's gaze snaps back to Tinney, his drunkenness seemingly muted, and the hired gun says, “Goodnight, Seth.”
His presence seems to melt from the room as if maybe he was never really there. Just how he's lived his entire life, thinks Seth. Suddenly, his solitude is resounding. He holsters his guns and slips his key card from his pocket. Instead of turning toward his own office as he originally intended, he goes to Mikie's door. His key is authorized to open any lock within the legal and off-the-books business establishments owned by his family. Until now, he has never used it to open this particular door.
He lets the barrier swing open. He mechanically flips the light switch and takes in the scene under the fluorescent glare. He's been here countless times, yet this time is so very new. This time, the office is the site of a major-scale rebellion, a warning aimed directly at his uncle. The space has always been a sort of hallowed ground, but tonight it feels corrupted. The city lights are a vague haze beyond the huge windows. From this high up, he can actually feel the night, and not some neon imitation of daytime.
He strolls to a tall, glass shelf to his left. It holds some books that belonged to his father and some plaques of recognition and appreciation from the City of New York. One shelf acts as a sort of shrine to Gabriel Morgan, Mikie's big brother by a few years. Seth wonders how his uncle could stomach it when he put the gun into Seth's hand and suggested that he blow out his own brother's brains. He must wonder if Mikie would or could have ever done the same thing. Until very recently, Seth would never have believed that the answer would be yes, but now, he can't say what he believes.
He plucks an award, a glass pyramid, from the shelf. It's an award of achievement from City Hall. He can remember attending the awards banquet with his dad. He tests the trophy's weight as his eyes scan a few family photos on the shelf, then a couple of just his dad, and some framed newspaper articles of good press about Morgan Estates' charity contributions. Then he takes in the rest of the office. The space is done in spotless glass shelving and stainless accents. It feels so cold. He eyes the metal chairs in front of the desk and remembers when the seats were made of cherry, and weren't nearly so ergonomic.
He restarts his leisurely pace around the desk to the executive chair. Even the luxury office chair has stainless features. The liquor spirits bid him throw up all over the sterility that perfectly represents what his family has become. His aggression has cooled, though, and instead, he takes a seat. The desk before him is sparsely populated in the way of desktops. The space is too neat, indicative of someone who wants to control everything around him. Gabe's desk had always been riddled with small-scale chaos, and in keeping his chaos controlled, everything else around him simply fell into order. When Seth left for his extended stay down south, this had still been Gabe's old desk. When he returned, the familiar office was gone and this is what greeted him.
He hears the door outside open, then softly close. There is a moment of stillness, during which Seth knows Mikie is surveying the wreckage. Seth wishes he could see the look on his uncle's face when he realizes his office is open. Mikie quickly moves into the doorframe. He is dressed in dark jeans and light-weight, cream-colored sweater. His hair is covered by a spring fedora of dark brown, and his eyes are sleep-swollen. His usually calm face is drawn in with rage. Rarely has Seth seen Mikie so outwardly angry. So many times, the younger has yielded because of some innate fear of Mikie. Now is not one of them. Seth smiles, settles back into the posh chair, which is ridiculously too large for him.
It takes Mikie only seconds to realize that this is not some outlandish tantrum. He knows by the clarity of Seth's gaze that every move has been contrived. His nephew looks exhausted, crumpled, and perhaps a little pale. Still, the boy is smiling, and Mikie can feel his blood pressure rising.
“Did you come to talk me down?” Seth asks in an amused tone. His head tilts to the side, and he tosses the glass pyramid into the air. Mikie's eyes never leave Seth's as the thing sails straight up, then back into Seth's hand. “Did you come to get control of me?”
Mikie says, “It's nearly four in the morning. You realize there's a board meeting in about four hours, right?”
Seth holds up the pyramid so that the light refracts inside it. The letters etched into the side of it seem to glow. They read, “Morgan Estates: Recognition of Philanthropy, Awarded by the New York City Council.” He sets it before him on the barren desk and says, “There was a meeting at eight, but I'm postponing it until the afternoon.”
Mikie's eyes grow wide, his composure obviously not at its best when he ha
s been blindsided out of a deep sleep. His voice shakes when he snaps, “What! Why? Because you partied too hard? How childish and irresponsible.”
Seth takes a sweeping look around, deliberately treating his uncle as if he is some low-wrung grunt by denying eye contact. He shrugs and says, “Because I can.” He stands slowly, running a finger across the desktop and watching it leave a smudge. He trails his hand along the surface as he sashays around the desk. All the sweat and grime of his journey to this point leave a testament that consequence has penetrated this holy of holies. “Why did I demolish the reception area?” he asks as he comes to a stop in front of the desk and sits back on the edge of it. Now, he grants Mikie a look. “Why did I make my presence so blatantly known? Why did I stroll up in here like I own the place?” The amusement drains from his features, and his expression falls into a deadpan glare.
“Because I can. And because I do.”
Mikie looks like he wants to be the next to break things, or like he wants to put a bullet in someone. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his coat, but Seth can tell they are balled into fists. Seth is ever still, finding calm in the wake of his storm. He stares expectantly, but he is ever aware that his hands are close enough to his guns for a quick draw. “What are you really saying, Seth?” asks Mikie, his words eking from a clenched jaw.
Seth pushes away from the desk with a languor that he knows will only stoke the flames he has kindled in his uncle. He walks between the chairs, and in any other situation, his movements could be considered seduction. He does not relent until his face is only inches from Mikie's. He considers the hollow space in his chest where he used to feel something, and he answers, “I'm saying that you're finished treating me like a child and a subordinate. I may have been a pawn at some point, but I have made my trek across the board. I have earned my place.”
