by A. N. Latro
She can feel the surprise ripple through the car, feel the tension that fills him like a living thing. There is another curse, softer this time. She looks away, addresses her driver. “Go smoke.”
His eyes are heavy on her as she waits for Dom to exit the car. She hits the locks and swings her gaze to him. The interior lights provide a dim view, but she can see what she expected—desire, caution, guilt.
“Did you?” she asks, softly, challenging.
He eyes her. In the weeks since he has last seen her, she has changed. There is a hardness he had not seen before in her—she has grown up, too quickly. What price, he wonders, did betraying Seth carry? What has he forced her to endure, to prove her loyalty? For a moment he is irrationally angry, furious with Seth. He hates him, for forcing Emma to grow up too quickly. And yet…
She is every inch the Morgan daughter, feisty and hard and remote. Icy city royalty. She will do well, in the dangerous syndicate to which she was born. And her fear is falling away—it has to be, if she is here.
“Yes,” he answers, holding her gaze in the darkness. “He was impossible not to love, mali.”
She breathes a laugh, almost bitter. “I know.”
“You love Seth,” he says, inhaling on the cigarette. He reaches forward, close to her, and rolls the window down enough to flick the butt into the darkness. He sees the shadows that are Kai and Dom, and is absurdly pleased she has begun finding those loyal to her.
“Yes.” The word soft and simple.
It hurts, somewhat, to hear it. And yet, there is honesty that is refreshing. “He will be furious, when he realizes you came here.”
A wrinkle of her nose amuses him, but her eyes are worried. “Yes.”
He touches her knee, softly. “Go, mali.”
She hesitates, and he can almost feel the longing pulling her toward her cousin. Then she leans forward, and her lips are hot and demanding on him, softer than he remembered, impossibly soft. He groans and jerks her forward. Her weight is so slight it is almost unnoticeable, delicious friction against his cool, wet pants.
She pulls away and gives him a shaky smile as he reaches for the door. He slips into the darkness and turns. “I’ll have Kai bring you the reports this week.”
Emma nods and forces a smile as Dom slides into the car and heat floods the backseat. The rain has slowed, almost to a stop. The chatter of those waiting in line reaches her, and she see him half turn toward them. “It would have changed things,” she says
He nods, dropping down for a moment to offer her his lopsided smile. “Maybe that’s why neither of us were honest.”
Pondering that, she calls to Dom to drive, and they vanish into the wet, waiting night.
Morgan’s Commerce Building, New York. July 30th.
At 2:13 p.m., the temperature inside the indoor exotic garden at the very top of the Morgan Commerce Building has reached eighty-seven degrees. Sun pours through glass walls and ceiling, filters through ambient green leaves onto the faces of the eight board members who are sitting at a long, sleek table made of bamboo. There isn't a pleasant expression among those faces, only thin grimaces of discomfort and damp collars. The women have pulled up their hair, and several fan themselves with papers or folders. The men, even Mikie, have removed their coats. Tempers are rising, and guns are starting to show.
They are waiting on Seth—and Emma, whose shares in the company only recently became liquid, and who has started attending board meetings with Seth. The present members are incensed, for the day for them has been riddled with inconvenience. Everyone has been walking on eggshells since the news that Seth had wrecked the executive office, news that spread like wild fire. It’s been a tense month. This is the first board meeting since, and the second consecutive time he has changed the meeting time—a meeting that always happens at eight in the morning. . The tension was again compounded after each of these members had managed to rearrange their schedules; Seth one-upped himself by changing the meeting location, as well, and thus changed their respective ideas of “last minute.” With roughly an hour to travel across Manhattan, every single one of them had made it to the meeting on time.
Now, as only Seth can add such insult to such injury, he is late.
Glasses of water that had ice in them thirteen minutes ago now sweat onto bamboo coasters in varying degrees of emptiness. Mikie looks down at his phone to check the time as he reaches for his water. Just when his fingers curl around the still-cool-to-touch surface, the screen on the phone lights up with a text message from his assistant. The door opens some ten feet behind him as he taps open the message. He’s here, it says, and anticipation makes a bid for Mikie's nerves.
He hears footsteps behind him, two sets, and anger crushes all other emotion, which makes his body go rigid and deceivingly still. He does not turn to see the approach—he knows who is coming, and he has no patience for the art of the entrance now.
He does, however, see the art of the entrance's reflection on the face of his first cousin, Vincent, who sits directly across from Mikie. The expression there is wide-eyed surprise, and it is accompanied by a small shake of the head. Then Vincent realizes he is being watched, and his slightly chubby frame freezes. Mikie only looks away, back to his cell phone. He stares at it, even though the screen has gone black, as Emma slips into the chair to his left. The one that used to be Seth's. Mikie can feel rather than see Seth take a place behind a sleek, bamboo podium at the head of the mutely stylish table.
“Hello, Uncle,” Emma says in neutral tone, calmly breaking the dead silence. Mikie's surprise nearly takes him off guard, almost makes his body betray his control of it, for he wants to see what she looks like dressed in confidence. Instead of looking at her when his vision lifts, his gaze gravitates to the empty chair across from Emma—Caleb's place that Seth has arduously demanded remain empty since his brother's demise.
Mikie says, “Good afternoon, niece.”
Never before would he have suspected her to be so brave as to break the silence of the Board. He also could not have prepared himself for the dramatic effect of the empty chair at the head of the table. He can't know it, but Emma is staring at the same thing. And she can't know it, but Mikie feels the shift in dynamic among his peers like the slug that never hit him in favor of his own brother. He feels that the reverence, the fear, that others once held for only him is now divided—in two. He says, “Your tardiness is far from fashionable,” and lands a dark-storm stare on Seth.
Seth's cool gaze is already on him, so flat and indifferent. Mikie reminds himself not to give away any emotion in his expression, regardless of the rage that's tempted by the visage of his nephew.
Seth is watching him from behind lightly-tinted shades that cast brown shadows on his cheeks. He wears a mocha-colored, short-sleeve, linen button-up over relaxed fit, gray jeans, and he looks like he belongs to some far away beach. He takes a slow drink from a highball glass bearing clear, fizzy liquid and fresh ice cubes. A cocktail for disaster, thinks Mikie.
Seth does not answer. No, he looks away, down the line of board members that follow Mikie. Then his vision trails to Vincent and down that side of the table, as well. He does not look to the empty chair. It is a small echo of the empty apartment that set this chain of events into action. The severe set on his face never cracks, and if any of them expected to catch a glimpse of the cocky Brat Prince, nobody expects to see such an appearance now. The man with the balls to destroy central command is still a ghost to them. The man who would make a scene like that, then show up now for business as usual—well, that man stands before them, yet he is so surreal that the board members can hardly believe that he walks among them. He cannot be the same Seth Morgan they have watched since childhood. All of them, save Emma, are older than he.
The tension is nearly visible in the artificial humidity as six people try to figure out in what direction to avert their eyes. Seth's gaze is fixed on Remi Oliver, and Remi's on Seth. They are locked in a deadpan glare. Seth's is one of open dis
taste, for he has made it well-known that he does not approve of Remi's addition to the Board.
It was an addition that was made while Seth was in Cuba, and one that required more shares to be created, even while the company's margin of growth, and philanthropy ventures, had gradually declined in the last two years. Remi's expression is one of calculation and anticipation. He cannot read Seth at all. His gaze is angry, and for a heartbeat, Nicolette’s absence weighs on him.
Seth looks to Emma, who is wearing a white sundress that must belong to some designer's unreleased summer line. It is made of linen and gives her the air of innocence—an air he is willing to take advantage of. She sips her own fizzy drink.
He glances and says, “Don't worry, this meeting will be short,” with an obviously fake and demure smile. “Only two issues to address.” He allows time for tempers to rise and brew, and manages to seem completely at ease while doing so. He adjusts his shades and says, “Would anyone like their drinks refreshed?”
Not a peep answers him, so he takes another drink. He knows their throats must be dry in this muggy, green garden. He makes the drink last lifetimes. Emma hides her smile at his antics, waiting. Finally, he says, “First order of business: I have, as of opening market today, liquidated and taken control of Caleb's portion of the stocks in our family's corporation. That, subsequently, makes me the majority owner, and your new President of the Board. My actions are completely legal and rightful by the codes laid down in our contracts, and by the guidelines stated in Caleb's last will and testament. Essentially, there is no defense you can take against me.” He smiles, coolly, staring.
Joint rage rises and refracts like sunlight through rain, ticking ever higher as each beat of silence marches after his words. Seth can feel it so easily, but most of the reactions don't matter to him. Most of the people present are family by blood and not by spirit. He knows this because he did not miss them in his absence. Only Emma matters, and he knows she stands with him.
For sheer amusement, he looks to Bethania. Her face has turned a precarious shade of red. Seth is surprised she hasn't screamed at him, because her heated, hateful expression proves that she wants to. He knows that she has always despised him, and her life, for she has always been confined to the bottom rungs of Morgan greatness. She had a golden chance at something of which to be proud. But Isaac was killed, and everything crashed down, and the same way of life that had lent her flight had taken it away.
Seth says, “Now,” in a tone that outsiders would deem a call of attention to the bright side. “That doesn't mean you guys will be losing money, because I know that must be a worry that's running through your minds. I won't cut off your connections. It just means that I've found your business practices during the past two years both dishonorable and irresponsible, and that if we are to continue to exist comfortably and untouched, shit needs to change.”
He smiles as if he has let them down easily, when he knows he has spoken a blunt and dangerous truth. He realizes now that even the most devout believers must have the strength of a leader. He was supposed to learn from his uncle, but he was sent away from his people and his strength, so he learned that which he needed from someone else. It is because of his education that he is not afraid to stand before them and speak suppositions that the others would not have the guts to support, even if they agreed.
He smiles like they are his loyal followers, when in fact he's certain they hate him at the moment. Then he checks his phone, purely for show, so that they must wonder if he's really doing it, or if it's just a figment of a Hollywood image. He lifts an eyebrow just a shade and looks to Mikie, as if he can feel his uncle's mounting rebuttal.
“Those are rather assuming words from someone who has been gone from such business practices, who may not know the context of said practices,” says Mikie, right on cue.
Under protocol, Seth is completely in line, and he aims to flaunt it. He says, “Actually, I think an outside opinion might do you well.” One could take his statement as ambiguous, yet they all know it is directed toward Mikie at this point. Always, Seth is barely safe. Nobody speaks on either's account. Seth pauses for only long enough to take a sip, then he says, “ I think the outside might be the best position from which to view this situation.”
Mikie's eyes narrow, but, just as quickly, he makes a small smile that tells of an on-coming realization. “I didn't say outside,” he says, “as if anyone could call you an outsider. A view like yours could be considered unfairly skewed and biased.”
Seth scoffs, has such nerve, and says, “That's any opinion. However, anyone who is not in this room could see that the recent decisions were done with selfish gain in mind. And since you were the one who put me out of the picture, the one who made no arrangements in the business plans for my return, I'd call my opinion perfectly legitimate.” He swirls the ice cubes in the glass. The sound of ice clinking is huge and resounding, amplified by Mikie's strained self-control. Seth says, “Ultimately, there are no other opinions that matter but mine, and in that vein, I'm not interested in hearing anyone's thoughts on the matter. I'm not asking any questions. I don't want arguments, or accusations, or excuses.”
Mikie visibly bristles. As if he would ever need to make excuses. He says, “And so you think you know what's best for this multi-million-dollar corporation? You, who postpones important meetings because he played too hard the night before? You, who can't stay sober long enough to hold your own head up? You will run this company back into the dregs from which it rose.”
Seth, too, stiffens. Most of them expect him to scream or throw something, because they all know he's not the kind to control his temper. But then, most of them cannot begin to fathom the forces behind his violence versus the source of his calm. He sets down his drink with an echoing thud, then pulls the sunglasses from his face. The emotion in his naked eyes is tightly controlled, almost glazed, but they give away that he is absolutely sober.
He looks exhausted, red-rimmed, and worn thin, but the determination that radiates from him obliterates any notion of incapability. He says, “There will never be a moment when I can't hold my own, even under the best-laid skepticism about me. It's funny that you would preemptively accuse me of destroying my own legacy when you have all nearly done that without me. All I've found from you are shady business decisions that hardly benefit the company, which might explain the addition of a board member who isn't even family.”
“Perhaps you all thought I would leave Caleb's assets frozen forever. Or maybe you thought I would split them among us. Maybe everyone believed that I was some stupid, spoiled playboy who couldn't handle any type of responsibility, who would instead shrug it off. Well, whatever you thought, you obviously did not account for a change of power upon my return, which is my birthright. The truth is that my responsibility is and always has been greater than all of yours, save the leader.” He makes sure everyone has adequate chance to notice that his eyes are drilling into those of his uncle before he says, “As it turns out, he is the one who has been found unable to handle his post.”
Several board members gasp, Emma among them. Mikie's face has turned a shade of crimson that none of them have ever seen upon him. Silence skids down the table. None of them have seen anyone dare to speak to the king that way, and Mikie himself can't remember the last time anyone so much as raised a voice in his direction. The police commissioner, the mayor, and the governor are among the people who are afraid of his quiet wrath. The residing king stands surprisingly slowly, hands straight at his sides. “How dare you?”
The others are shifting uncomfortably, a captive audience in the stifling humidity. Even Emma, in her summer dress and chic up-do, is burning to the core.
“How dare I what?” asks Seth, lazily. “How dare I take the place that is rightfully mine? How could I present my case in the forum for which it was meant? Or how dare I speak the truth you've kept so well hidden?”
For what seems like an eternity, Mikie only stares, anger and—yes—cold hatred in hi
s eyes. In this moment, Seth knows for certain that if they had this stand-off alone, his uncle would not hesitate to dispose of him the same exact way he did to Caleb. Seth has divulged just enough information to prove that he can back his words. He has given them enough to drive home the fact that they don't know exactly what he knows, and he has said only the right words to tell Mikie that the only remaining prince has garnered a dangerous arsenal of information.
Seth then surprises them by looking to Bethania. Her expression is one of horror and good, old-fashioned fear. It is all the affirmation he needs to know that she's in on the grand scheme of the king—her king, and brother. Then Mikie snatches up his portfolio from the table and says, “We're finished.”
He scoops his briefcase from the floor and turns to walk away. Seth allows him three steps before answering. “Actually,” he says with a near-untraceable smirk, “I do have one more thing to address.”
His voice drags Mikie's feet to an abrupt halt, like a giant, iron anchor. The king turns with murder in his furious glare. If he's still breathing, they can't tell, for he stands so still. Then Seth looks away, again, to give the rest of the Board a sweeping and serious look. As he does, he almost believes that Mikie will pull his gun despite the setting. If he did, Seth knows that Tinney is watching from a concealed post within the garden. Even if Mikie made a play for Seth's life, he would fail, and he has no idea.
Seth pauses to put his glasses back in place, and to take a refreshing sip of straight sprite, on the now-melted rocks. Finally, he says, “If any of you are experiencing a change-of-heart about your position within this Board, I won't take it personally. In fact, I extend this offer to you: I will buy your portions of Morgan Estates for double what they are worth, which for any of you would be more than plenty to live comfortably outside of this mean and unforgiving way of life, and I will do this without a single hard feeling for you.”
