dark coloring, but it’s a look he has seen on Seth’s face.
She leans in, brushing a kiss over his cheek. It takes a concentrated effort not to flinch. This is Emma. Don’t hurt her.
“Thanks for the coffee, cuz,” she murmurs, and slips out of the car. He watches as she climbs the steps, and unlocks the door. Waits until the light in her room comes on before he calls to his driver. “Take me home.”
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
She leans in, brushing a kiss over his cheek. It takes a concentrated effort not to flinch. This is Emma. Don’t hurt her.
“Thanks for the coffee, cuz,” she murmurs, and slips out of the car. He watches as she climbs the steps, and unlocks the door. Waits until the light in her room comes on before he calls to his driver. “Take me home.”
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
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