Black Collar Beginnings: New York (Black Collar Syndicate) (2 page)

The driver doesn’t respond. He’s syndicate, but Mikie’s. Every move Caleb makes is reported back to the king.

Old bastard. Letting out a breath of anger, he reaches for his cigarettes, and shakes one out. Its taste is bitter and ashen, but familiar, and loosens some of the tension coiling in his gut.

What the fuck was Mikie up to? What did he hope to gain by giving Emma little assignments? Useless ones, at that. No one had spoken of bringing her into the syndicate.

She is seventeen now—three years past the age that Seth and Caleb were when they’d been given their first jobs in the syndicate. Caleb huffs out a breath of smoke. She’s a naïve little thing, all sweet innocence and tart imperial attitude.

Some Morgan traits are born, ingrained in the DNA.

He can remember how his dad had doted on her. She was Beth’s daughter, but Gabe always had a soft spot for her, rarely telling her no. And he was vicious in protecting her
.

And Seth’s furious instance that she was part of their world. His baby brother always struggled—the desire to protect fighting with the urge to teach. It was something else that fell to Caleb when Seth vanished to the south. Not a burden—for being a girl who didn’t know the family business, Emma was dangerously smart and always able to tease a smile from him.

The car bumps into traffic, and he jerks from his thoughts. Fuck this. “I’ll walk,” he snaps, and shoves out of the car. Let his driver report that.

He walks for a long time, wandering the city, letting it wash over him. There is something to be said about being on the streets, where the grit of every-days clashes with the refined sensibilities of the royalty.

Not that he’s ever been that refined. A smirk quirks his lips. From here, he can see the Empire State Building. How many times has he snuck to the top with Seth and the help of a paid off security guard? It used to be a favorite spot.

He hasn’t been back in almost two years. Not since the night he and Seth fought over Cuba.

His phone rings, and he answers it gruffly. “What?”

Where are you?” The voice on the other is slightly accented, and warm, with a trace of worry.

“Not coming down tonight. We’ll talk over details tomorrow.”

An exasperated sigh. “Dammit, Caleb.”

“Don’t,” he cuts off the other man sharply. “I’m tired as fuck, and still looking at your projections. I’ll be down tomorrow. If that won’t work—”

A fluid, foreign curse. Caleb grins, a rare, unguarded expression.

“You will have to settle for this weekend,” the other man says.

“Fine,” Caleb says. “I’ll see you then.”

He hangs up without another word, and hails a cab. It’s disgusting, and smells faintly of vomit. But he can take it wherever the fuck he wants, his uncle be damned.

He gives the driver an address—nowhere near a Morgan estate—and if the man has opinions about this wealthy playboy going into the underside of the city, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Caleb glances at his phone, scrolling through his contacts briefly. There’s an irrational desire to fix the fear in Emma—to make it up to her.

He types and sends the message before he can overthink it.

We’re going out Saturday. Get some girlfriends.

She doesn’t respond immediately, and he almost turns the damn car around, irrational fear clamoring in him.

Then it chimes softly, her response winking at him.

OK.

He lets out his breath, the fear easing.

There are many reasons for keeping her close. Seth would want it, and so would Gabe. Because with her close, he doesn’t feel Seth’s distance as acutely. Because she needs to be taught.

But there is the simplicity and Gordian Knot of her place in the family—special and protected, and vulnerable.

He wants to talk to Seth. How do you protect something, teach while preserving that innocence?

A picture flashes on the screen, and he stares at the scrap of material that barely constitutes a skirt.

Like it?

He can almost picture the smirk on her face—even now, after he scared her, she is teasing him.

I don’t want to shoot someone, Em. Wear some damn clothes.

Morgan Commerce Building, New York City. October 5, 2012.

"Mr. Morgan wants to see you."

The summons is what greets him as he stalks into his office. Caleb goes very still. He hates being here—it already has him on edge and snappy. His secretary, a thin woman with hair that reminds him, vaguely, of his aunt watches him with smiling, hungry eyes.

 No one who reminds him of Beth should look so fuckable. It's wrong on levels Caleb isn't quite ready to tackle, not this early.

 "Coffee. Three sugars, heavy cream,” he growls, because demanding scotch this early would raise a few eyebrows and he doesn't want a lecture. Then he continues into his office and lets the door slam shut behind him.

What the hell does Mikie want? He's changing, and that bothers Caleb. Seth trusts Mikie. Trusted him. Maybe that's changed since he was exiled.

Caleb hasn't trusted him since their father died and Mikie’s first act as king was to remove the heir. Seth didn't see that—refused to see it—but in a lot of ways, he was a child.

Caleb grits his teeth. It's too early to think about his brother, or why Seth was named heir instead of Caleb. It's too fucking early to be
here,
but protocol demands it on occasion.

Fuck it. It’s too early for
everything.

The door opens and his secretary steps in, sex in motion as she sets his drink down and swivels to face him. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Morgan?”

Caleb stares at her, and lets his gaze drop, taking in the sheer top, the skirt that’s too tight and too short to be respectable in the office, her hair swept up in a sleek, and understated braid, that tries just a little too hard to emulate the class of Bethania.

He’s seen girls like her before, slipping into the family offices. She’s a money-hungry whore, and it rubs him the wrong way to have to deal with her.

“You’re new,” he says, his voice silky soft. Her eyes widen, and she licks her lips, caught between fear and desire. “What happened to Andi?”

Confusion turns her face, prettily.  “Andi?”

“My secretary, Andi.”

“Mr. Morgan hired me,” she says, and Caleb’s eyes narrow. That explains so much. Mikie would love to get one of his people into Caleb’s bed.

Now that he knew, it would never work. It wouldn’t have to begin with. Mikie made the same mistake as every girl who chased him. They watched Seth and his torrid affair with Nicolette. The laughing and parties and fights—under it all, there was love, deep and unshakable. The world spun for a love like that, love that burned so fierce it left scars even when it was gentle.

Caleb didn’t love. Didn’t want to, didn’t know if he was even capable of it. The only people he cares about are his brother and Emma. With Seth in exile, she is all that matters.

“Send a driver to pick up my cousin,” he says, abruptly. It will annoy Emma—three days in a week is excessive, and he needs to back off, give her space.

The secretary’s eyes go wide, and he shakes the second guessing. “Rico will go with him. Get out.”

She moves to the door, still with that sexy swing that begs for attention. At the door she hesitates. “Your uncle, sir.”

“Will see me when I’m fucking ready,” Caleb snaps, letting all the anger out. She makes a scared noise and darts out.

Stupid bitch. She’d need to grow some balls if she wanted to work here—working directly for the syndicate royalty, the leaders of the criminal divisions, required more than just a fine ass and a fuckable mouth.

He sits at his desk, ignoring the view behind him. It’s a panorama of the city, a city he loves. Not in the way Seth and their dad did—not the broody, poetic love that made them sappy as fuck when they had a few drinks. Gabe would sit in the office a few doors down and sip his Scotch, waxing fucking poetic about the rise of the syndicate, and how they couldn’t lose sight of the places they came from.

He did it from the corner office of a New York high-rise, in a suit that cost enough to fund Emma’s education for a year.

Deep down, Caleb knew his dad meant it. Just like Seth meant it, that night he overheard him pleading with Nic.
This city is ours.

He was right. They both were—and they both loved her. The city. But here—he can’t connect to the city when he’s this far above it. It’s why he conducts his business on the streets, why he has more blood on his hands than any of the division heads.

Mikie is a business man, in his too expensive suits and his fucking lunches with Remi Oliver. Caleb doesn’t give a fuck about business. He’s a thug, with a brilliant mind and the wealth of his family backing every move he makes.

It’s what makes Mikie so damn nervous.

He flips his phone over, scrolling through the messages. Two deals going down, and he’s stuck here, twiddling his fucking thumbs.

But there are the projections from Ratchaphure. He flips on his computer, pulling up the email. Online is the only place Mikie doesn’t track him—it would be too easy for the feds to piggyback that shit. All the computers in the office are wiped clean every few hours, files encrypted.

They had hired a hacker who broke the NSA database to protect their network, and the little tech head had done a damn good job. Vaguely, as he pulls up the spreadsheet, he wonders what happened to the kid after his work for the Morgan family.

The door slams open, and Caleb glances up lazily.

That took even less time than he had expected.

His uncle looks furious, and Caleb suppresses a shiver as he leans back in his chair, assuming an expression of disdainful unconcern.

“Sir,” the secretary says, nervously. She bites her lip and Caleb watches some of that anger drain out of Mikie, giving way to a predatory smile as she skirts him, hurrying to Caleb’s desk. She hands him a slip of paper, worry clear in her eyes. He glances at it. Emma. Dammit. He catches her wrist as she starts to back away, drawing her around the desk. “Bring me a fresh coffee. Uncle, would you like anything?” Caleb glances at Mikie, but the other man is silent, furious, and he smirks. “Send a message back that the request wasn’t negotiable. I’ll come myself, if she’d like.”

Fear wobbles in the girl’s eyes, and Caleb stands. He doesn’t use it often, but Seth isn’t the only one with an innate sex appeal. He is a Morgan, born and bred, and he can use it just as well—better, in ways—than his baby brother. He only needs the excuse.

Pissing off his uncle is excuse enough. Caleb soothes his secretary, brushing a hand over her shoulder, leaning in to her space as he murmurs. “My cousin is being a teenager. Don’t worry so much. Deliver the message.”

He nips at her earlobe, and her eyelids flutter, as she sways toward him. Then he steps away and she makes a little mewl of protest. Mikie’s eyes flash, but she’s not watching him.

Not anymore, Uncle.

She almost trips as she leaves, and Caleb sinks back into his chair, tapping the message from Emma.

Can’t. Dinner plans with Q.

Little shithead student body president. He wants in Emma’s pants, and it annoys the fuck out of Caleb. No one is touching—

“What the hell are you doing?” Mikie growls, jerking him from his thoughts.

“Working, Uncle.”

“You haven’t been in the office in two weeks.”

“I was here last Monday. Pretty sure I had a different secretary then,” Caleb adds pointedly.

“You don’t like Monica?”

“I like the staff I pick,” he counters. “Not that it matters too much. I’m not here enough to give a fuck.”

“Watch your language, son,” Mikie snaps. “Do you have the projections?”

That’s what it comes down to. Why Mikie still tolerates his bullshit, despite being the patriarch of the family.

Caleb is his tie to the Asian syndicate, and he can’t afford to dismiss that.

He kills the numbers on the computer, and shrugs. “It’s taking longer than anticipated. They have reservations about working with us.”

Mikie rubs his eyes, the only tell the man has. Whatever bullshit he’s feeding the rest of the syndicate, the king is tired and worried—and it’s beginning to show.

“We don’t have time for them to hesitate. Go back and figure out what the hell they have reservations about.”

“Why?” Caleb demands, nerves suddenly strung tight. “Why is it so important?”

“We’ve been working on this deal for almost a year, Caleb. We didn’t think it would tie up our capital so long.” Mikie shifts in his chair, the bulk of his frame creaking alarmingly.

He scoffs, openly dismissing the older man’s concern. “I
told
you and Remi that this shit wouldn’t be easy or fast. They don’t fucking trust us—they have no reason to.”

Anger twists Mikie’s face and he leans forward, into Caleb’s space. “Your job is to make them trust us, Caleb. That’s why we sent you.”

Caleb cocks his head, golden hair falling in his eyes. Blue, so different from Gabe, and Mikie, and Seth. He has always been different—but that difference sets him apart, where it's treasured in Emma.