Black Collar Empire

by A. N. Latro

  Emma takes her line after Rama, one last shot of courage and fortitude with which to face the task at hand. Seth looks deceivingly comfortable with his arm slung over the chair's arm, and his drink lingering close to his lips as he watches his protege do coke like she was born doing it—such a far cry from that night in the library, when she had made such a ballsy play for his attention. He waits while she recovers from the hit, watching with an almost amused look. He waits until she meets his eyes with hers. Then he says, “I need to be absolutely sure that you will both follow my lead and that you not act out of line, for any reason. Emma, I especially want to hear it from you.”

  Her eyes momentarily grow wide at being called out. Part of her wants to protest that she wouldn't dream of acting out of line, but then she glances at Rama, and she remembers her former offense. She says, “I understand. But what are you going to do about . . . Nicolette?”

  She nearly chokes on the name, as if just uttering might break her dear cousin into tiny pieces. His expression doesn't change, and she wonders how much devastation one must endure to perfect such a straight poker face. Still, a stab of pain flashes in his eyes right before he answers.

  “I don't know yet, Em. Just leave that to me, please.”

  She sighs, but she won't dare put a voice to her protest, or her suggestion of what she would like to do to that dirty bitch. “Fine.”

  He watches her for a moment longer, as if by doing so he can gauge what she's really thinking. He opens his mouth, almost says something more, but decides against it—there is nothing left to say. He nods decisively, drains his drink, and stands. “Go time,” he says.

  Bethania’s country estate, New York. August 10th.

  Her mother’s estate north of the city is decked in spring finery, with lights strung through the flawless landscaping and a violin trio playing on the patio. Security doesn't think twice about letting her through when Emma pulls up in a silver Mercedes with Rama in her passenger seat her other two occupants hidden safely behind darkly tinted windows.

  They assume she is a guest at her mother's fancy dinner party as they wave her though the gate. She gives them her demure smile as she passes. Once out of sight, she skirts the area where the staff is parking the guests' cars and pulls around to the private lot out back.

  If Emma knows her mother, she has made an art of alternating between gossiping with her guests and terrorizing the catering staff to ensure that everything is going perfectly. Bethania's grating OCD for detail will keep her busy enough that she won't even notice her daughter's untimely arrival.

  It’s odd, being here. Where she spent so many summers, but now is so blatantly unwanted. It would sting, if she cared what her mother thinks anymore. As it is, it’s faintly amusing.

  Emma leads the deadly party to one of several back entrances, Seth close behind her, followed by Rama, and then Tinney. She punches the security code into the door, and they enter without a sound.

  As they walk, Seth lets the recorded conversation flood his thoughts, lets himself feel the anger and devastation of hearing the love of his life talk so casually about carving out his heart for money and power. She had been lying to him this whole time, and though he won't go so far as to say she wants him dead, hindsight—like a motherfucker—says she had to realize that night at her apartment that calling Mikie would be the signature on Caleb's death note. She had to have known, and she did it anyway. Never mind any differences she and Seth ever had, now her hands are just as bloody as Mikie's with the responsibility of Caleb's death.

  He can hardly stomach the thought. There's nothing he could have done to hurt her badly enough to justify this. And just as quickly as he has dredged up those thoughts, he slips his focus to Mikie, and his vision flashes red. For every minute of sleep he lost the night before, for every heart-wrenched, lonely tear that has fallen, he feels his rage solidify—heavy on his liquor-laden stomach.

  They move like agents of the reaper, each well-armed and thoroughly furious. It is just as Seth said, they are here to avenge a soul they all loved in their own way. They can hear the chatter of the party in the huge dining area, under-toned by the soft string trio. They pause outside the dining room, and Seth nails Emma with a heavy look, very quietly says, “If bullets start flying, you get the fuck out of here. I mean it.”

  There is steel in his voice that defies argument.

  The hard set on her face says she wants to argue, but she just nods and lets loose a tiny but tempestuous huff. He takes one more steadying breath and smooths his jacket. If ever the family believed they had seen the most outrageous of his theatrics, they are nowhere near prepared for what he is about to do. He gives Emma a cock-sure wink, just before he turns and strolls into the dining room with all the confidence of the king he is.

  All the conversation and clinking of silverware dies as the party patrons begin to realize who has joined them, as he sidles right up to the head of the huge, solid oak table. Mikie is seated at the other end, and he's holding a fork-full of filet mignon halfway to his mouth. He stares at Seth with a comical level of disbelief. His eyes flick to the party that has accompanied his nephew, and it's all he can do to bite back his shock at seeing the Thai and the man who has protected the Morgan kings for so many years flanking the unassuming daughter everyone forgets.

  Seth's gaze clocks over to Nicolette, who is sitting in the first seat next to Mikie. She's staring back at him in mute shock, silently scrambling for some legitimate reason as to why she would be dining with the enemy. She says, “Seth—”

  But he cuts her off. “I don't want to hear you.”

  The surprise widens her features further. In all the fights they have ever had, he has never used such a frigid tone with her, never eyed her so emotionlessly, . Then, just in case she has somehow missed the disdain, he dismisses her by looking away without another word.

  “What are you doing here?” Bethania demands shrilly, pushing away from the table and standing in her shock and anger.

  Seth dons an infuriating smile, as cool as a drink of ice water, and says, “I heard there was a party. My invitation must have gotten lost, because I'm sure the Board would never rally behind my back . . . again.”

  “You are not welcome here!” Bethania snaps, all but screaming already. “Get out of my house!”

  Seth's smirk deepens, and he says, “I'm not going anywhere. Where else can I find all my conspirators together at once? Tell me, how are you guys planning to oust me this time—since the Cubans didn't kill me like you had hoped, and since your lawyers can't figure out how to take my brother's shares away from me? What are you going to do now?”

  The room seems to still and tense, and he shrugs. “If you kill me, will you kill your favorite, as well, Uncle? Emma will inherit everything.”

  No one, not even the cousin he has just shocked, has an answer for that. It even shakes Bethania for a moment.

  Her face has colored to match the wine she has forgotten. “I will not tolerate you showing your ass here,” she hisses, skirting the table and rushing toward her nephew . “Get out now, or I will have you removed, you little piece of shit.”

  In a movement so liquid the party goers hardly register it, Seth's guns are drawn, and one of them is pointing directly at Bethania's forehead. She gasps, freezes, mouth agape. He says, cool and calm, “Get out of my fucking face.”

  His other gun is trained on his uncle.

  Around the table, a few enforcers reach for their weapons. Emma has her guns drawn before she is conscious of the action, vaguely aware that at either side, the men have drawn as well. Rama takes a half step forward, protectively. She shoots him an icy glare, and he stills.

  Emma dismisses him, focusing on her mother. The king and Nic haven’t drawn, but what worries her is Beth. Beth, who hasn’t been unarmed since Isaac was killed, and who hates Seth.

  Bethania takes several steps backward, her hands rising in front of her, the universal gesture of surrender. She nearly stutters when she says, “
Seth, what are you doing?”

  “First, I'm getting you out of my face, you traitorous bitch.”

  Cocaine and adrenaline are railroading through his veins. All the rage and solitude of his time in Cuba is like hot lead to his nerves. He vaults onto the table, guns still leveled at his aunt and uncle, and Bethania is stranded between the table and Seth's allies. Seth kicks plates and glasses out of his way as he makes progress toward the other end. He says, “Then, I'm crashing your dinner party.” He toes over a wine glass.

  The delicate sound of breaking glass punctuates the deafening tension, the suffocation of real fear as they all wonder if they are about to die by the hand of the rightful king. The red liquid seeps across the expensive table setting portentously.

  Unaware of the turn of mood, the violinists in the garden continue their lilting soundtrack for the moment. Seth's attention has narrowed as if his uncle is the only one in the room, and the world, ignoring the woman who could have had that world, the woman who had almost snaked into the heart of his empire. He makes it clear that that life is dead to him by the way he ignores her completely. To devastate his heart is one matter, but to fuck with his throne is something altogether more damning.

  He crouches before his uncle, the gun in his right hand trained steadily, the barrel inches from Mikie's pursed lips. The light in Seth's eyes is near-maniacal, and a bitter smile that twists his lips is, too. Without breaking eye contact, he uses his other gun to scoot Mikie's steak and seared asparagus toward the edge of the table until it tips over into his uncle's lap, all over his tailored pants and jacket. Mikie's rage is apparent in his clenched jaw and balled fists, but his hands have been rendered still—by some chance of fate—above the table and faraway from his weapons.

  “You know,” says Seth in a deceivingly ponderous tone, “after everything you have endured at the hands of this life, I suppose it's poetic that you would rot from the inside, that you would piss on the memory of your own brother and rob me of mine. I guess we've become just another classic tale of lies and betrayal.” Very slowly, and without a twitch to his expression, Seth lifts his other gun to join the one in Mikie's face. He says, “But you know what else? Dad was right. If you find that you can no longer feel the remorse of your actions, if the suffering you cause stops bothering you, you're no longer fit to rule. And now—now I understand why he said it to me. He warned me about Caleb, but Caleb was never dead inside.”

  Seth leans forward, takes one knee so that he is maybe six inches from Mikie, guns shining between them, and he continues, “Dad didn't want his sons to be like you. It was always you. I have failed my father. I couldn't save my brother. But my failure, that falls on you. You set me up to fall hard, sent me to die by the hands of strangers like a fucking coward. You thought I could never be a man, and so you never gave me a chance. But you forgot one thing—I'm still a Morgan. You know why you forgot that? Because you were never worthy of that name.”

  His other knee hits the table, so that he's kneeling in prayer to the street, twin gun barrels poised, waiting to call down vengeance for his brother's martyrdom. He says, “And now, by the power vested in me by the blood of the street, by the sacrifice of my father and the murder of my brother, I strip you of the crown you stole, I charge you with treason of the highest degree, and I take from you the name of Morgan. Tonight, you die as nobody.”

  In the moments of anticipation, they can all but hear Seth's muscles pull against one another. They can feel his trigger fingers moving. And just when Mikie's eyes grow wide in the assurance that is about to die—

  “Seth.”

  A single word, just one name spoken calmly and assertively, that stops his blood in his veins and freezes his muscles in place. It's Nicolette, and he realizes that she has drawn her gun despite all the steel and gunpowder aimed throughout the room, and she has made her target the side of his face. With dangerous grace, slow motion devastation, she stands.

  “Do not forget your own blame here,” she says. He won't look at her, can't bear to do it, and he still won't point a gun at her. So he must watch the smug and cruel delight on Mikie's face as he watches the storm that Nicolette creates in his nephew. She continues, “Do not forget that you turned your back on this empire that you claim to hate so you could play the hero, the prodigal son who takes it all for granted and still gets the world on a platter upon his return. You abandoned everything, and you were more than happy to do it. Caleb was right, you're too weak to be a king.”

  Seth bites down on the heartbreak that tries to push aside the anger that drives him. His face doesn't move, but he knows Mikie can see the pain in his eyes.

  “This compassion you so highly praise makes you soft,” says Nicolette. “You see, Seth, you live in a fairy tale, and you're blinded by your ideals. But you fucked up. You thought I would wait for you forever. You presumed that my only dream in life was to be yours. I don't need to have you to rule the world.”

  “In the end,” Seth answers, his tone so strained, and so far from the confidence moments before, “the only knife in my back that made it to my heart is the one buried by your hand. I've always loved you. I have never loved anyone but you. And you're right, my love for you has always been a hole in my armor. I don't regret it. But I will never have that weakness again”

  She scoffs, like a slap in his face, a sound that is full of her bitterness. She answers, “I loved you once, but you left me. You made me realize that love is just a burden. So thank you, Seth Morgan. I hate you now—and that is a much hotter fuel to burn.”

  He winces. He can't stop it. She was there when Caleb died. She heard him tell Seth the same three words. Surely, she knows now the impact on Seth of echoing his beloved brother's last words. Yes, he knows she means to use the play, like the cunning queen she is—just as he knows she truly means it. He knows she's baiting him, but he can't stop himself from meeting her eyes. They are so cold, the exact opposite of the heat and devastation in his gaze. It's not only hatred he finds there. She has her own revenge in mind, that of the woman scorned.

  Just as he means to kill his uncle, Nicolette wants him dead.

  There's a rustle of movement in his periphery, most likely Mikie reaching for the gun he has been denied, but in this moment, Seth no longer cares if he dies. But then, a gun explodes behind him.

  The sound tears through the room, and for a moment, nobody moves, as if the concussion has also stunned them. But then a fountain of scarlet erupts from the v of Nicolette's throat. Her eyes bulge, and she makes a noise, a gurgle. Her lips work themselves, but her voice has been destroyed. She stumbles backward, and the gun slips from her hands as she grasps at the gushing wound. All the while, her wide, panicked eyes stay on Seth.

  Emma stares at the fallen princess, her blue eyes icy, expression remorseless. Her gun is still pointed, smoke curling slightly. Around the room, there is a wave of whispers, a few screams as Nicolette twitches and writhes in agony. She should feel something—remorse, guilt, shock. She’s never killed before, has been sheltered from that even now that she is fully vested in the family. But she feels nothing. Not even satisfaction, seeing the woman who broke him dead. She feels nothing. All is emptiness, with the tiniest whisper of relief that the gun is no longer pointing at Seth.

  She closes her eyes, waits for the inevitable.

  “No!” Seth screams—just like he did when his father was pumped full of lead, just like he did when Caleb's head snapped backward. Tears blur his vision. But before he can react, another shot rips through the room. This time, it is Seth's blood that tastes the air, as a bullet slams into him behind—as it burns through the flesh and bone of his left shoulder blade, almost exactly in the same spot as his existing scar.

  Behind him, he hears the outraged scream from Emma.

  The force of the blow propels Seth forward, a mass of rage and agony, into Mikie. The weight of Seth's body prevents Mikie from wielding the gun he has finally managed to draw. Seth's blood pours hot onto Mikie, but the wail that
comes from him is more disabling than the way his body pins Mikie's gun between them. The sound is a haunting echo of the night Gabe died, a reminder of a time less shrouded in shadow.

  Mikie knows from the anguish in his cry that Seth has somehow learned the truth, all of it. That's the thing about this way of life: you can't outrun it forever, and you can't always outsmart it. Mikie grabs Seth's throat, like some black oracle, to keep the skinny form in front of him as a shield.

  Hell opens on Earth, and the room erupts into a cacophony of gunfire, breaking glass, and splintering wood.

  She loses sight of him as the bullet slams into him and screams in fear and outrage. All of the feelings she didn’t feel when she shot Nic, she feels now. She takes a half step forward, and Rama grabs her, jerking her backward and down. “He said to leave,” he hisses in her ear.

  “Fuck what he said,” she spits. Ducks as a bullet rips through the back of the chair. “I’m not leaving him. Tinney!”

  The bodyguard looks down at her, cool and collected despite the dead and the gunfire. “Wait, little princess.”

  He stands, squeezes the trigger on his Glock twice. There’s a muffled shriek as a body hits the floor, and then he nods. “It’s safe.”

  She almost laughs. Nothing is safe. Not here. But Seth is hurt, and that thought propels her from the shelter of Rama’s arms, to her feet.

  She glances around quickly—three enforcers are laying facedown on the table. Many of the guests have fled—her mother, the cowardly bitch, has vanished.

  Seth still hasn’t moved.

  The deafening noise conspires with the horrific explosion of pain in Seth's shoulder and chest to obliterate his sense. His mind flashes red—glimpses of his dying father, the same pain. Then, he sees the calm and lust-filled expression of the Cuban druglord just before he pressed a glowing metal brand to the flesh of Seth's hip. He releases a strangled cry of fury. His left side is a useless, burning mess of white pain, but the gun is still in his right hand, so he buries it in his uncle's ribs, and pulls the trigger three times.