Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (6 page)

His face is unreadable,
as is his tone, when he says, “I will grant you a truce, Seth. Because I
believe you. I want to see you prove it. Let it be understood that this is not
a deal done in blood. If you choose to move against me, no amount of money in
the world will save your family.”

Remi stands, so Seth
does the same. The twins shift, scowling at Seth, who makes no movements but to
reach an open hand across the table again. He says, “I have no reason to move
against you, save to keep anyone else from dying.”

Remi glances coldly at
Seth's hand, but he accepts. The grip is hard, and it strings familiar pain
through the barely healed break below his elbow. He doesn't show that it hurts.

“Good day then,” says
Remi, and he leaves the room, the twins trailing him and still shooting heated
glares at the modest Morgan entourage.

When the door closes,
Seth sinks back into his chair, his tension and apprehension leaking from him
in a sigh. He bumps his shoulder against the wood, and hisses his pain. His
nerves shudder from his center out, and he feels like the world's about to
shake apart.

Tinney steps up to the
chair, casting a concerned look at his king. He half expects to see the little
boy, staring up at him for guidance. But he doesn't, he sees his best friend so
many years ago, when the stress came out where no one could see. No one but
Tinney, or Emilio.

“Are you going to eat?”
Tinney asks.

Seth takes another shaky
breath, and sits up. He says, “No, do you want it?”

“I don't eat sushi,”
Tinney says flatly. “Are you ready?”

Seth stares down at the
brightly colored food for a forlorn moment. Then he nods. “Yeah.

Let's go.”

Chapter 9
.
Upstate
New York. October 10th.

Rama's
Dark Eyes Are Wide
as he watches the expansive forest pass by around them. Seth's
Bentley winds along the long road to the state's -best-kept secret. The resort
is called
Valhalla
, and it's nestled
at the base of a mountain, on the shore of a lake. He hears Seth chuckle beside
him, but he ignores it. There is something so peaceful about a forest. With a
pang, he realizes that he misses home, and the honesty in the criminal world of
Bangkok.
 
Seth says, “You look like
you've never seen a bunch of trees before.”

Rama continues to refuse
the king his attention. Seth isn't trying to be cruel, at least Rama is fairly
sure he's not, but the words sting.
 

His breath creates
condensation on the glass when he quietly says, “The trees of your parks are
restrained by concrete and exhaust. Here, they're free.”

Seth quiets, and Rama
hears him moving. Rama hasn't asked why Seth chose to leave Emma behind. He
won't. There are so many questions he won't ask. Why is she pushing him away,
holding up such a cold mask? What happened in Santa Lucia? What else does he
have to do to prove to her that he's real?
 

Then, he gets it. Seth
is smart. He's caught the tension between his cousin and his ally. Could this
be his way of expressing concern? Rama hears the click of lighter, and his
attention betrays him.

He turns in time to see
Seth raise a lighter to the end of a joint, his eyes hidden behind his
sunglasses, but his lips curling into a grin. Rama's eyes widen, though they
are also hidden. Just when he thought he was getting to know the youngest
Morgan brother, this.
 

Who is this?

Seth takes a couple
puffs, holds the last one. And he extends the joint across the seat to Rama.
Rama's memory flashes back to Caleb, in slacks and a button-down, guns strapped
in place, passing Rama a joint in the back of a Mercedes limo. He sees himself
accept, but he is momentarily numb. He presses it to his lips and inhales. He
lets his eyes slide closed, and feels the tension begin to creep from his
muscles.
 

Suddenly, he gets it.
Somewhere on that exotic beach, Seth found peace through this simple,
magnificent plant. He's done the same damn thing many times. He and Caleb used
to smoke together all the time. Like everything else, that seems like forever
ago. Maybe, he thinks, he and Seth are not so different.

He passes the joint,
letting his gaze sweep down Seth's easy posture, the cocky way he sprawls in
the seat. His suit jacket is in the seat between them. His black guns rest in a
double shoulder holster, over a burnt orange silk shirt. He's not wearing a
tie, and the top two buttons of the shirt are open.
Buddha help me
.
 

Rama looks away. He is
fascinated by the natural ease with which Seth wields his power. He's so
different from his blatant brother, and his crafty cousin, so much more like a
fox to Caleb's lion. It’s happened before, this sudden arousal at Seth's mere
presence—that first meeting, in Bamboo. That night has been easy to forget in
the racket of family feuds and his own syndicate responsibilities. Yet here he
is, blood heating as the weed seems to push him gently against the seat, and
steal the edge in his muscles.

He says, “I like it
here. Such an opposite to the city. It's peaceful.”

“Don't you come from a
city? I understand Bangkok's pretty large,” Seth says in between hits.

Rama allows a small
smile. The question is so seemingly innocent that he wonders if Seth is fucking
with him. He says, “Yes, my city is a big city, but my people believe in
keeping their souls. A forest is a magical place.”

Seth passes the joint,
then tips his head back against the seat. He says, quietly, “For me, it's the
ocean.”

Rama blinks, pauses on
his way for a hit. Why does it always surprise him when Seth is honest? He has
never been dishonest, not really. But he's usually so closed and far away that
the glimpses of soul are as powerful as they are rare. Again, Rama finds his
gaze slipping down over the guns, and the buttons. Why are the Morgans so damn
irresistible?

He hits the joint, and
he wonders suddenly what it would’ve been like to have been in a room with both
Morgan brothers at once. He wouldn't have stood a chance. His whole club
wouldn't have stood a chance.
  

Still, he won't be
thrown off by his own game of sex appeal. He says, “You liked it in

Cuba?”

It's not quite a jab,
just a little reminder that Rama is clever, too. Rama may not play like a fox,
but he certainly understands a cat—and they play just as coy. Seth lifts his
head, turns a thin-lipped expression on the Thai.
 

Seth says, “I wouldn't
say that.”

Again, Rama is reminded
that he and Seth are not so far apart. He understands this Morgan more than he
realized. Sure, he relates. If asked about his stay in New York City, “like” is
not the word that would come to mind.

It's too early to push.
They have hours left of this trip, and Seth is extending some sort of peace
offering. So Rama says, “Tell me about this place.”

Seth's posture eases,
and he passes the joint for the last time. Rama kills the thing, rolls down his
window, and tosses out the remnants.
  

“Valhalla, the extremely
off the radar, high-dollar destination for politicians and CEOs of
multi-billion dollar companies. The place doesn't advertise, doesn't even have
a website, and they're extremely picky about new members. What happens here
stays here.”

Rama tries not to look
impressed. He says—more to himself than to Seth—“It comes with a built-in
clientele.”

“Exactly,” Seth says
with a grin. The expression could almost be boylike, if the topic were anything
else.

The car rolls around a
wide bend, and the trees open up to reveal a wide, still lake palely reflecting
the surrounding mountains. The sky is clear, and the afternoon sun makes the
autumn leaves feel warm. Across the lake, Rama can see a sprawling stone
structure. It reminds him of the castles in England and he feels an unexpected
pang of longing.

Ever since his meeting
with Emma, seeing his and Caleb’s plan, dreamt up over Cha Yen and weed—he’s
been feeling that lost, lonely feeling. He shakes his head, trying to banish it
and memories of the blue-eyed prince.
  

They follow the road
around the lake, and pull up to the front doors. Everything is stone and glass,
sleek brushed metal fixtures and straight-backed attendants. Seth shrugs into
his coat as his driver gets out to open his door.
  

 
“How did you find out this is here?” Rama
wonders.

Seth's grin deepens, and
he says, “Every piece of real estate has a price.”

His door opens, and Rama
watches the king unfold himself from the car, as though all the people of the
land have gathered to see this glorious arrival. Rama scoffs softly. Seth makes
it seem so easy to believe the whole world wants him. Pretty soon, Emma will be
the same damn way.

He pushes aside the
thought, and follows Seth into the fall afternoon. It feels good to stretch his
legs. He slips his hands into his pockets as a bellhop sidles up to them.
  

“Good afternoon, Mr.
Morgan. Please, follow me.”

They are led through the
glass double doors in a wide reception area. A stone fireplace is alight in the
middle of it, surrounded by earthy shaded couches and chaise lounges. Rama
tucks his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, and lets his liquid eyes roll over
the scene. Everything about the place screams of opulent elite.
  

They are greeted by a
man in his early sixties, wearing a black suit, red face, and stupid smile. He
says, “Mr. Morgan, I'm Nicholas Hamilton, the proprietor of this
establishment.” The men shake hands.

Nicholas says, “Would you like a drink, or a cigar? I just got in
some fine Cubans.”

Seth allows a smirk, but
just for a flash before he turns the smile into appreciative. He says, “Maybe
just some water.”

The girl behind the
counter scrambles to a bottle of mineral, and pours into two crystal tumblers.
She hurries around to present them to the guests. Rama watches Seth's charm in
action, watches the girl blush when he smiles, and says thanks. He holds that
smile as he takes a drink.
 

“I've arranged for you
to have full access to the resort. I also offer any of our services
complimentary,” Hamilton says with that big, ridiculous smile.

He hands them both
lanyards with red cards attached.
  

“My security and staff
will recognize these and cooperate with you. Would you like me to show you
around?”

“No need,” Seth says
coolly, slipping the card into his pocket. “We'll just have a look around, if
that's alright.”

“Of course,” says
Hamilton. “Anything you need, just ask. We have also opened one of our empty
suites, number fifteen, for your viewing pleasure.”

Seth smiles, a sure,
slow thing, and says, “Thanks so much, Mr. Hamilton.”

Rama notices that the
two of them still have the attention of the young brunette behind the counter.
They've also caught the eye of the forty-something woman playing the baby grand
in the corner. Likewise, the dolled-up barely-twenty-one blonde girl sitting
beside the man in his fifties. The old man doesn't notice because his hand is
on her inner thigh, and his lips are against her ear. Rama smirks at her, and
she flushes. He can recognize one of his own.

Then, he and Seth are
brushing past the resort's owner toward another set of glass doors. Rama
doesn't look back, doesn't need to look to know there are eyes burning into his
back—he accepts it much as Seth, as the adoration due royalty. They enter a
long hallway and follow it until they meet a parallel hallway. A wood sign
informs them that the ballrooms, pools and sauna, and restaurant are to the
left. Suites are to the right.

Seth catches Rama's eye
sidelong, and lifts an eyebrow in question. Rama flicks his chin to the right.
Seth smirks, and they turn the corner.
  

“So the word is Hamilton
is looking to retire. He's got some other ventures going, has made a fortune
off of the fortune of others. But it's hard to find a buyer with my kind of
capital who's interested in this niche market. The truth is, we're a godsend,
and he has no idea we mean to do anything but keep it running as-is.”

Seth picks up his train
of thought from the car as if they never quit talking. Rama soaks in the words,
slowly, battling the distraction of Seth stalking the hallway like he already
owns it.

He's so natural here, in
this place that oozes wealth and class. Rama has never seen anything like
it.
 

He had believed he had
seen the utmost of style when he saw the Morgan hotels, but this is a level
above it. He certainly never saw anything like this in Bangkok, where his
family's bars are stuck between other brothels and wooden walls. This is so far
above it that he feels suddenly out of place.
  

“For the price I'm sure
he's asking, he ought not give a fuck what happens to it once he sells,” Rama
says with an edge.

Seth pulls the red card
from his pocket, swings it around on the lanyard so that it wraps around his
fingers. He catches the card with a sly smile, and doesn't miss a beat.
 
He says, “The other resort is nice, but this
place—this is our goldmine. We stand to make some big friends.

Powerful friends. And
Hamilton can't stumble over himself fast enough to take my money.” They come to
the door bearing a wrought-iron number fifteen. Seth grabs the door handle, and
glances at Rama, that same fox smile. He says, “Tell me your girls wouldn't dig
a place like this.”

Rama finds the
mischievous sentiment contagious. He cracks a one-side smirk. They would be
scrambling over each other to provide the best performance once the word made
it back home of this clean, safe whorehouse by the lake.
  

“That's what I thought,”
Seth says, and pushes open the door.

They enter into a
massive living room, done in polished red wood and earth tones. The ceiling is
twelve feet high at least, and there's a sliding glass door that leads to a
balcony. Beyond the glass, a view of the lake and fog-crested mountains.
Breathtaking.
  

To their left is the
bedroom; to their right is a dining room with a dining table for eight.

Rama ambles through the
room, to the balcony doors. It occurs to him that for all the “business” he's
seen Seth handle, he's never actually seen him do real estate. And though Rama
doesn't know much about the industry, he can tell that Seth is absolutely right
about this place. He smiles, and it's private with his back turned to the king.
He says, “This is a Buddhist whore's paradise.”