Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter 8.
Pish Posh. East Village. September 29
^th
.

Pish
Posh Is A High-End
lunch establishment nestled into a bank of town-houses-turned -businesses,
on a nondescript block of the East Village. The place caters to wealthy, busy
metro types – CEOs, top lawyers, the mayor on rare occasion. More importantly,
the place operates below the radar of most of the media, and has even installed
a back alley entrance for the more high-profile guests. It's never been Seth's
choice of settings, but the staff here is silent unless addressed, and it's
neutral.

His nerves stir as an
attendant slides a key card to open the private rear entrance. Tinney flanks
him to the left, a quiet menace, and a comfort. For a skidding moment, Seth
thinks of watching his dad, followed closely by Tinney, the somber and
gut-turning presence that surrounded them. As they move forward into the
restaurant, Seth reminds himself of something else; Remi will also remember the
presence of the Morgan head gun.

A brisk wind follows
them inside, and a chill runs down the back of Seth's neck, ruffling his hair.
Tinney insisted on more security, but Seth had fervently stood against it. For
just a flash, the time it takes to transition from daylight to the ambient and
modern lighting, he doubts himself. Maybe Tinney was right.

It takes Seth longer
than normal to slip his still healing arm out of his coat. He has chosen again
to leave the sling behind, and the free movement wracks him with hot pain.
Tinney and the host are silently patient. Seth fights off a wince.

The attendant takes
their overcoats, and Seth calls upon the same calm as he had when he strolled
into Remi's bank unannounced. The number of guns won't matter here. This will
be a matter of the kind of confidence that has total backing. Sure, Remi's
operation has the benefit of extended and intelligent rule, but Seth has an
impressive amount of firepower at his disposal, and the temper of a lesser god.
He also has a newfound respect for strategy.

They are a quiet
procession, even the host, as they travel down a sleek, sparsely decorated
hallway full of closed doors. Smells drift around from the kitchen area;
garlic, ginger, fish on a grill. The aroma does nothing to bait Seth's hunger.
His stomach is far too knotted to desire food. Outwardly, he is the haughty,
sexy heir of Morgan Estates, as elusive as all the papers would have one believe.
He tucks his sunglasses into the inside pocket of his suit coat as they stop in
front of a bright red door.

The host rings a button,
a bell to indicate that someone is about to enter – a courtesy to the guests,
who may not want their servers to overhear any conversation. The host waits a
beat, politely, then pushes open the door and holds it. Seth forces a slow,
steady breath as he crosses the threshold.

The private dining room
is done in deep reds and gold, hard wood and chic designs. The round table
could easily seat six, but there's only one seat currently occupied. Remi sits
with a straight back and blank expression, looking every bit the dignified –
and so seasoned – banker. A glass of dark red wine sits in front of him, and
standing behind him close to the wall, his security silently wait. There's one
on either side——twins, Remi's nephews.

Seth's anger twists in
his gut as his gaze slides over the two. Their dark hair and eyes are so
familiar it hurts, and their grim expressions are telling him that though they
are here to back their uncle, they don't agree with Remi's decision. They've
never wanted shit to do with the Morgans, and always reacted to Seth and
Nicolette's relationship as they might to a homeless man begging them for
change.

An
interesting move,
thinks Seth, as Remi stands and they extend hands across the wide
tabletop. Perhaps this is Remi's way of representing Seth's generation, just as
bringing Tinney will give Seth a link to his father's empire. Or perhaps it's
because it is quite obvious that these two would hardly think twice about
disposing of the Morgan king. Whatever Remi's intentions, Seth's one balancing
thought is that the nephews have never been quite bright enough for the banking
side of things. They fit in much better with the thugs.

The host disappears, and
the door clicks shut. Remi's gaze is an answering calculation, slipping to make
solid contact with Tinney. Seth will never know what sentiments pass between
the two older men, and it may be the first time ever that he'd rather not know.
That the neighbor king would show such attention to security is telling that
there's something, but Seth would rather leave it alone, along with the fact
that the neighbor king also has two security guards to Seth's one. He'd take Tinney's
experience any day.

The bell rings as they
take their seats. Tinney steps back, again flanking Seth's left shoulder at a
respectable distance. The server enters, a serious man in his forties. Seth
lets his eyes skate over the menu with proper disinterest. He orders an oaked
chardonnay and sushi—— the King Dragon roll. Remi orders a filet mignon, rare.

Seth thanks the man.
Remi does not.

When the door closes
again, the kings lock eyes. The setting has eased Seth's nerves, all the pomp
and to-do that he's used to, reminding him of who he is; a brat-born-king. With
an army of dead behind him, it's easy to ignore the thug twins, and it's easy
to hold a blank mask.

“Thank you for meeting
me. I know your schedule is demanding,” Seth says, finally breaking the thick
silence with formality.

Remi makes a
close-lipped smile, tiny and without humor. He says, “When you're the boss,
it's not as hard as one might think to rearrange your schedule. Something with
which you're familiar, as I recall.”

A back-handed blow, a
minor jab at Seth's antics with the board meeting that derailed Mikie's
best-laid plans. Is it a jab, or a nod in the same direction?

Seth smiles either way,
a modest smirk, but one tinged with mischief—a flash of the brat. The bell
rings, and Seth relaxes against the back of his chair. The waiter sets down his
wine and a glass of water, and leaves without a word.

Seth grabs his glass by
the stem, lifts it, and says, “Cheers to that.”

Remi does not answer the
toast, but Seth takes a sip anyway; it's bright and bitter. The smile is gone
when he pulls the glass from his lips. He sets the glass down, and holds eye
contact.

He says, “I really do
appreciate it. I think both of our families would benefit from a reprieve, a
break from all the bullets flying.”

Remi watches him with
that level, shrewd look for an extended moment. This is the way Remi commands a
situation. He won't be rushed, won't be intimidated by setting or person. He
too takes a sip of his wine, a slow, thorough appreciation of the red. Then he
cocks his head slightly to the side, and his dark eyes narrow.

He says, “It was your
family's bullets that started this mess.”

Seth's fingers twitch
against the arm of his chair. Anger wants to rise, like the memory of
Nicolette, all dressed up for a dinner party, pointing a gun at him. The brat
wants to return. But the point is a valid one, one with an obvious flaw.

His tone is not quite as
relaxed when he says, “Your daughter chose to ally herself against me.”

Remi goes still, so Seth
does too. Tension stitches between them, then out to security.

Everyone's frozen,
waiting for someone to move.

“You're right,” says
Remi.

Seth is too shocked to
respond, and so he still doesn't move. His breath is stuck beneath something
heavy on his chest, and his shoulder chooses now to begin a dull ache. He waits
in a special breed of agony.

Remi continues. “She was
supposed to marry you. You two were supposed to bring our houses together.”

Flashes of Caleb's
funeral, of Remi's hand on Seth's back. Seth's brow furrows, his calm slipping,
and he leans forward.

“Together in a way that
benefited the kings, not the children,” he says tightly.

Remi doesn't flinch when
he says, “As it goes.”

Rage swells in Seth's
chest, forcing out his breath long and strained, but he sits back. Remi is
taunting him, testing to see if he will be the child Remi knows, or the man who
walked with head high into Remi's bank.

Seth's features reset,
level as his temper dissipates a little. The child feels the rage of
helplessness against the truth, but the man recognizes that it is truth. He and
Nicolette were practically bred for that alliance.

The bell rings, shrill
against the tension in the small space. The waiter enters with a tray
containing their lunches. He serves Remi, then Seth, perhaps rushing his
presentation a bit. Anyone with a moderate IQ would not want to be in this room
any longer than they had to.

Remi takes the time to
cut a chunk of bloody filet, and enjoy it. He eyes Seth as he chews, watches
Seth stare down at the sushi without moving to take a bite. Finally, the Morgan
son's eyes lift again to meet his. Remi swallows.

He says, “It was her
choice to come back after Cuba. She had some impressive demands from your
family. Michael agreed.”

“He agreed on behalf of
a throne that wasn't his,” Seth says, somehow steadying his hand as he picks up
his chopsticks.

A predatory smile tugs
Remi's mouth into something resembling pity. He takes another bite. He dabs his
mouth with his cloth napkin, and says, “Yes, unfortunately Mikie wasn't smart
enough to handle the throne. He was never cut out for it like Gabe.”

Seth pauses, his
chopsticks poised over his King Dragon roll, and he glances at Remi. It's a
forward thing to say in this formal setting, but it rings truer than Seth would
like. So maybe Mikie thought Seth was the dumb little brother, too, the one who
would be easier to control. All at a point when Caleb had already outsmarted
him.

He sets down the
chopsticks, still without eating, and favors, instead, his wine. There's a
familiar warmth in his cheeks associated with the alcohol, and it fights off
the icy hatred that wants to encase his emotions.

He says, “And yet you
chose to work with Mikie anyway.”

Remi is ever at ease,
slicing a piece of asparagus in half with his steak knife. He eats as though
the whole world will wait, chewing with the same precision as he had the raw
meat.

He doesn't look back to
Seth when he says, “Would you expect me to put my business on hold until your
triumphant return? Your brother did.”

Again, Seth's insides
wrap around themselves, so that the thought of eating nearly makes him gag.
This is the difference in age. Remi's fortitude is iron; Seth's is as brittle
as tin.
 

“Of course not,” Seth
says, so quietly.

“You are quick to call
me a villain for preserving what I have built. Yet here you are, begging for
the sake of what's left of your empire,” says Remi, gesturing across the table
as though he, too, can see Seth's ghosts.

Seth's fingers tighten
on the stem of his glass. He says through a tight jaw, “Did you call it begging
when you sat down with my father?”

Remi lifts an eyebrow,
almost lazily. Almost. That coldly amused smirk returns. He says,

“It never was with him.”

Seth finds himself
leaning forward again, but it's not violence that wants to rise. No, this time
he wants to be heard; he wants his presence to be felt. And so it's not anger
that hardens his features, it's the determination to maintain his shit. An
offhand thought of the Buddha in Rama's office strings an unexpected calm
through his thoughts.

His voice is steady when
he says, “Then give me a chance to be like him. Don't write me off as Mikie's
pawn, because you damn well know better. You knew it at Caleb's funeral. That's
why you tried to put me in line.”

Remi has nearly finished
his steak. Seth hasn't touched his sushi. The Oliver king pins the younger with
a heavy stare. He drops his napkin into his lap, sets down his fork, and also
leans forward.

He says, “That's exactly
why I'm here, Seth. I want to see what you've got. I want to know if you have
learned anything at all from your father. My wife's call for retribution is the
madness of a woman who has lost a child, but I won't act so brashly. So I'm
here to see. Can you handle the weight of your crown, as your uncle could not?”

Seth's eyes widen,
despite himself. In some strange, off-putting way, the words feel like a
lecture from Gabriel Morgan himself. Seth suddenly feels the urge to turn to
Tinney, to seek guidance from the generation that adored his dad. But a king
can't show doubt, can't look to an elder in the presence of a neighboring
court.

“I know that Dad would
do what's best for the family, and that what's best is to make peace that we
can both benefit from,” Seth says, his expression holding stoically. Let there
be no doubt in his sincerity.

Remi has taken to his
last bite of filet, and he holds eye contact as he eviscerates it. He plays the
moment with expertise, and ease, and he washes down his bite with a long drink
of wine. The air in the room is so thick it's hard to breathe. Remi wipes his
mouth, and leaves the napkin on the plate.