Black Collar Beginnings: New York (Black Collar Syndicate) (4 page)

“You tell me, Emma.”

She closes her eyes, and counts softly. “Don’t do this. Don’t push me where I won’t go. You can accept that there are things in my life that you don’t know, or you can keep pushing. But neither will get you any answers. Do you understand that? You do not want to push my family. Because if you do—” she pauses, and shakes her head. “Don’t put me in a position between you and them. You’re my best friend, and I love you. But I will always choose them.”

“You hate your mother.”

She shrugs, and stands. “She isn’t my only family, Quinn.”

To soften her words—her warning—she leans down, and kisses his cheek. “I’ll see you on Monday,” she murmurs, and tugs her coat on. She catches her waitress’s eye. “Put it on the family account.”

Without waiting for confirmation, she turns and comes face to face with the security guard.

“Come with me,” she says, her voice imperious.

The man is several feet taller than her, dark-skinned, with a bald head. He looks absurd in his hotel uniform.

As he stands next to her on the street, waiting for her driver, she turns to him, and frowns. “How long have you been with the Morgan family?” she asks.

“About two years,” he says. She can see the nerves in his eyes.

“My uncle and cousin have very specific orders about my safety in the hotels,” she says.

“I follow my orders, ma’am. And you gave one.”

Her eyebrows go up, and she lets out a little laugh. “Following my orders over Mikie’s is gambling on the wrong horse,” she says dryly. A car glides to a stop and she reaches for the door handle. It opens before she can touch it, and Caleb spills out, aggression boiling off him.

“Get in,” he snaps. Emma’s eyes widen, and she moves before she realizes she intends to.

“What’s your name?” she asks, suddenly, twisting to look at the security guard.

He looks startled, and hesitates. She frowns. “Dominic,” he says, quickly. “I’m Dom.”

A private smile turns her lips, and she nods at him. “Thanks.”

She slips into the car and arranges herself on the seat. Caleb is still standing there, glaring at Dom. She leans toward him. “Let’s go, Caleb.”

Her cousin glances at her, and then slides into the car. He stares out the window as the car pulls away. Emma waits until they’re in traffic, away from The Black Diamond. Then she digs her fingers into his side, just under his ribs. Caleb mutters a curse, grabbing for her hand.

Caleb Morgan, playboy and badass extraordinaire, is ticklish. She’s pretty sure he’d shoot most people for knowing. As it is, he just uses his grip on her hand to haul her against his side. Emma settles there, leaning her head against him.

It’s easy, to be this way with Caleb. If there is anything she’s grateful for about Seth’s long absence, it is the relationship that has grown between her and her oldest cousin. They weren’t as close, before. She had loved him, and he had protected and teased her, but it had always—always—been overshadowed by her adoration of Seth. With him gone, and both of them grieving and angry, it had been natural to spend time together.

And with no one else to teach her, it was necessary.

The hardest part, by far, was the three months Caleb had spent in Thailand, the months he refused to speak of.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

“Rico followed you, princess. And you know the Diamond’s security inform me when you stop by.” He smirks. “Especially with a guy.”

She snorts. “Like I would go there for sex. I’m a lady, you ass.”

Caleb laughs, some of the tension easing out of him, so he slouches in the seat. He’s sitting lower than her,  and she can smell his shampoo and cigarette ash clinging to him. He leans forward, and pours two glasses of Scotch. Something is wrong. He never encourages her drinking unless he’s in a foul mood.

She takes the drink silently and sips. The Scotch is warm and heavy on her tongue, burns all the way down to settle, liquid fire, in her belly.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s very quiet, the sound of traffic and the smooth roll of the Bentley the only things she can hear.

“Uncle Mikie is changing, Em. And it worries me. I’m trying really fucking hard to trust him—but there are some things I won’t take on faith.”

She goes very still. She isn’t sure what to make of this. Speaking against the king is unheard of, even from a prince. They obey. They serve. Even without the family mark on their skin, the royalty is expected to serve and obey. This is dangerous.

“Caleb,” she whispers.

“I can’t always protect you,” he says, ruthlessly. “I won’t always be here.”

She gasps and blue eyes flick to hers. They roll with emotion Caleb usually locks away, and it makes her dizzy to see. “Here.”

The gun comes, seemingly, from nowhere, a dainty thing in Caleb’s large hand, but so lovely her breath catches at the sight of it.

Emma never thought she would think a gun could be lovely. But this one is, a small derringer with pearl inlaid into the handle and delicate vines worked into the barrel. It’s lovely and deadly.

It reminds Caleb, painfully, of Emma. Of what he knows she will inevitably be.

“This—this fucked up family—it’s yours. The empire is yours, just as much as it is mine and Seth’s. Uncle Mikie and your mom won’t keep you protected from it forever. But leaving you protected also leaves you vulnerable, and I can’t do that.”

“Caleb,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous.”

His lips quirk. “Yeah well. Weapons are my specialty, sweetheart.”

She holds it loosely, and he itches with the urge to show her how to hold it, how to care for it. She seems to be in shock, startled. Then she grins at him, all eager innocence. “What do I say when Mother asks about it?”

He snorts. Shrugs. “Call it a late birthday present.”

She leans up and brushes a quick kiss over his cheek and the last bit of tension seeps out of him. Her nose wrinkles, adorably. “You smell like cheap perfume and vodka.”

A lazy smile. “I have a new secretary. Had to break her in.”

“That’s gross, Caleb. Even for you.”

He laughs, a loose sound she hears too rarely these days.

“Can I spend the night?” she asks, impulsively. “Mom is in the country and it’s spooky at home by myself.”

His gaze on her is lazy and studious, but finally, he shrugs. “Why not?”

She grins at him, and his heart trips. She will be so breathtaking, in a year or so, when she comes into her own in the family. She already is. Mikie is a fool to dismiss her.

Caleb forces the thought, the melancholy, away, and listens as she tells him about school gossip.

She’s growing up. The last piece on the chessboard of their family.

And Seth is missing it.

.

The streets. New York City. October 8, 2012.

She’s sitting next to him in the back of the limo, watching with lazy eyes as they glide through the city streets. How much of her life, she wonders, has been spent in the back of one of the Morgan cars, prowling the city.

They’re sitting surrounded by friends—hers and his. Alyssa, one of Emma’s girlfriend from Irving, is making out with Caleb’s top enforcer, a wiry guy five years older than her. Emma watches for a second, and when his hand creeps up her skirt, she shoots a pointed look at Caleb.

He shrugs. “They knew what to expect when they got in the car, sweetheart.”

She rolls her eyes, but lets it drop. Sitting here, in her deep blue dress, is where she belongs. It’s not the silly scrap she had sent a picture of. Emma would never step out of her house in something so trashy. She’s wearing a vintage dress with a full skirt that dusts along the back of her thighs, a neckline of lace creeping over her collar bone with tight sleeves down to her thin wrists. It’s classic and almost formal—until she turns. And then it’s a spill of smooth, satin soft skin, red gold curls, and a flirty smile over her shoulder. Caleb had to physically hold on to the bar in his apartment when she sashayed out in that and demure cream heels with enough of a spike that it curved her legs in that mouth-watering way.

Emma is a Morgan. Sex appeal is second nature, as easy as breathing. And she is learning to wield it with deadly skill.

“Where are we going?” she asks. They’ve been to three clubs already. Alcohol is buzzing in her veins, but she’s aching for more—for a few seconds alone.

They are alone—sitting on their bench opposite the others, who are laughing and cursing and groping each other.

“Why don’t you do that?” she asks, motioning to them. Caleb shrugs, his features barely changing.

“Sex isn’t worth the strings, Emma. Not with girls like that.”

She laughs. “You can’t tell me you’re abstinent.”

“No. But I fuck when I know the score. Like my secretary the other day—she wanted something, and worked for Mikie. I knew that.” He stares at her until she nods her understanding. “Don’t ever go to bed with someone unless you know what they want, baby. It’s not worth it for a few seconds of pleasure.”

One of the guys looks up, a smirk on his face. “Maybe you’re doing it wrong, boss. I could show her.”

Emma’s jaw drops, and Caleb moves, faster than she can track, punching Mark in the jaw, a vicious right hook that snaps the man’s head back. His eyes roll back, and he slumps against the bench seat. Silence settles like a thick wave, shocked eyes and tense postures. Emma sighs a little, and sips her vodka cranberry.

“She’s my fucking cousin,” Caleb says, his voice low and menacing. “Do we need to discuss what the fuck that means?”

A quick chorus of
No, sirs.

Pathetic sheep. They could gun down dealers, and trade with fucking warlords, but they wouldn’t dream of crossing Caleb for her. Her irritation spikes as the car stips

“Get out,” she orders, and there is a breath of hesitation. She stiffens, and her gaze sweeps the men. One darts a look at Caleb, but he’s leaned back in his seat, watching. “
Get out,”
she repeats, putting a little ferocity into her tone.

They scramble for the door, and her girlfriends hesitate a moment longer, but they’re pulled along too. “Let the princess talk to him, sugar,” one of the boys murmurs.

He’s silent when they’re alone, and she can’t look at him. He moves first, tugging a small baggie from his pocket and a fishing a mirror from her purse. She watches, her eyes wide, as he cuts two lines, his hands steady. There’s blood on his knuckles, and it soothes some of her anger—irrationally.

“Caleb,” she starts. His eyes cut to her, hot and forbidding. She goes quiet, watching him. Wondering what this is for. What he’s trying to teach her.

Caleb cuts the line with quick precision, and fishes a glass straw from his pocket.

He isn’t an idiot. And he has taken an active interest in Emma, in her actions, the things she hides from the rest of the syndicate. Mikie doesn’t bother—no one looks beyond the shy, demure mask she wears so well. But he’s seen the feisty, laughing, brilliant girl. He remembers the day Seth graduated, and Gabe gave them the two most profitable divisions, and Emma’s instinctive knowledge that something was happening in the family.

It had been easier then, with Seth to protect her. That was a lifetime ago, though. He shakes his head. “You weren’t supposed to learn like this,” he murmurs. She inhales, a startled noise, and he looks at her, sees the tears standing in her eyes. It’s not an act. Not like every other woman he knows—this is pure emotion etched on her lovely face. He shoves aside the thought and dips his head down. He looks, she thinks, like a fallen angel—all shining golden hair curved to the mirror as he snorts the line. He straightens, and his eyes slip closed, a small smile turning his lips. Without looking, he extends the little straw.

“Your turn, baby.”

She has no idea why he’s doing this, why it’s important. But she knows, in her gut, that it is. So she takes the straw without hesitating and lowers her head. She feels his hand, hot on her back, a steady presence. Irrational tears burn in her eyes, and she does the line, the burn covering her emotion. She makes a noise, slightly disgusted, and he laughs, deep in his throat. He pats her back and she slumps next to him as the coke burns into her veins, lighting up the world, and banishing the thoughts of Seth that cling to her. She makes a soft, pleased noise, and snuggles against her cousin as the blow burns through her.

“We ok?” she asks. Caleb sighs, kisses her hair.

“Always, baby. Come on. Let’s go break a few hearts.”

She touches up her lipstick as Caleb wipes away all the traces of cocaine, and then shoves open the door.

The cameras are blinding, and she ducks into him, smiling shyly as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. He shouts a response to someone who yells a question, a gruff laugh in his voice.

This is Caleb at his best—a protective arm around her, his eyes cool and assessing as he smiles for the cameras. Not bothering to hide the gun on his hip, doing nothing to downplay just how dangerous he is.

With a final wave to the cameras, he steers her into the club.

It’s dark, with flashing lights, and music so loud she can feel it, a second, out of sync heartbeat in her chest. She stares around, eyes wide, and feels, suddenly and unexpectedly, overdressed. People are on the floor, thrashing to the beat of the music, and they all look like ghosts under the strobe light, phantoms she doesn’t know. She makes a small noise, and shies into Caleb’s side. His arm on her tightens, and he points. “Look. The boys got us a table. Go sit down. I need to make a call and I’ll be right there.”