Black Collar Beginnings: Cuba (Black Collar Syndicate) (3 page)

“You must miss your family very much,” Miguel says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I admire your fortitude.”

Damn.
Right in the epicenter of Seth's emotions. The simple statement shakes his center, and he winces again. His family is not a topic he has ever been fond of broaching with these foreigners. Better not to show his weakness, one for which there is no assuagement. Yet still he finds this honest moment in the dark of night with no one but his boss and the moon the hear irresistible. The caress of the ocean is so soft. In a very quiet voice, he says, “Every minute of every day. Every fucking tick of the clock I miss them.”

Miguel is still and silent long enough for Seth to slide his sidelong attention to the Cuban. Surely Miguel is just as aware as Seth is that he's bearing more of his soul than he has yet. The fear that beats in sync with his desolation also urges him to sincerity just now, so that if he does die for some reason, at least one soul in all the world will know how he feels. Miguel extracts a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He shakes one free, and lips it, then says around it, “You never talk about your home. Why?”

Seth bites back a groan, chokes back the auditory evidence of the storm in his center. He watches Miguel duck his chin against his chest and shield the lighter's flame so he can light his cigarette, and even that, just a simple action that reminds him of Caleb, of Marlboro Reds and righteous indignation. Of the anger in his brother's blue eyes when Seth refused to change his mind about leaving. The opinions of the rest of the family be damned, it has been Caleb's dissension that's haunted Seth's darkest hours. Never mind the spite and bitterness in the eyes of his lover, his Nicolette, whose disbelief that he would leave her for his family follows him into his nightmares. Finally, he swallows the hard, painful doubt that squeezes his vocal cords, and says, “What's the point. It only makes it worse. Besides, I'm sure they've forgotten me by now. I've been gone for so long.”

Miguel makes a dry shell of a laugh and shakes his head. He has this amazing ability to seem completely at ease in any situation. Like Seth used to be. Miguel exhales smoke and says, “I have a hard time believing anyone would forget you. I'm sure your city misses you too.”

Seth scoffs before he can stop himself. How can he say that part of what he misses he will never get back; his dead father. He also shakes his head, vehement even in the wake of the weed and the booze. He says, “My brother was furious at me for leaving, and my girl . . . well, she won't wait for me to come back. I have a hard time believing they'll throw me a 'welcome home' party. If I even make it home.”

Miguel takes Seth's uncharacteristic cynicism with Latin grace, dragging on his cigarette as Seth's words drift away on the tide. He sits forward, whisks a hand through his messy hair, and says, “You have a brother?”

Seth winces into the darkness, the mention of his brother like a knife in his ribs. The coke makes him want to dive off the boat just to cool off, but the weed disconnects his actions from his desires. Instead he makes it a point not to look at Miguel. Suddenly, the sky is so big above him that he's sure it will crush the air from his lungs.

“Yeah.”

Miguel swings his legs off the chaise, and turns his body toward Seth. The Cuban is watching him, so Seth grabs the pitcher that Miguel abandoned on the little table between them. He takes another swig, this one for his best friend. It goes down smooth, even if it burns the whole way.

“Younger?”

Seth hesitates. It's too late to steer this conversation away from this miserable topic. “No, older.”

“And they sent you instead?”

No, not too late. This is too much for this in-between world of water and yacht. He sighs, grabs the margarita pitcher, and says, “Let's see what those other assholes are up to. It's too quiet out here.”

Miguel's eyes widen at the abrupt change of course, but he doesn't press the issue. He sucks the cherry toward the filter, then smashes what's left into an ashtray. “Fair enough,
yuma
. Let's go.”

Havana's Villa, near Cuba, August 4
^th
, 2012

The yacht docks in the small hours of morning at a private marina that's nestled into an outcropping of lush vegetation. Seth is still a bit drunk, though he slept for about an hour, and has had more than one line of coke since waking. The cocktail of booze and speed in his gut turns threateningly as not even inebriation can quell his rising rash of anxiety. A year and a half in this god-forsaken paradise and now,
now
the kingpin desires audience.

Seth's hands are shaking as he pulls on a white linen button up. He discovered during his time spent between countries that he very much enjoys linen, and that with a tan, he is damn near unstoppable in the fabric. Though he has never had a problem getting the attention of the ladies, he has found that his natural sex appeal dressed in linen practically makes clothes fall off of the women he meets. Not even that makes him feel any better about the current situation.

“You all ready,
yuma?
” asks Miguel with a hard slap to Seth's back and a grin.

“Singa tu madre
,” says Seth in a mutter, which solicits a chuckle from Miguel.

“Leave her out of this, will you?”

Seth pulls in a long and steadying breath, and grabs his .40 by habit. Then he pauses, stares at the gun, and looks questioningly to his friend. Miguel laughs again, and says, “Pop the clip, you'll check your gun at the end of the dock. Come on.”

Seth does as he's told, releasing the magazine from the pistol and leaving it cocked to show it empty, and he follows Miguel to the deck. The dock is lit like a miniature carnival, complete with torches flickering from the shore, and straight-faced Cubans with automatic weapons waiting for the passengers to unload. Miguel leads the way down the boarded walk. Seth is close behind, all squared shoulders and chin up, all false confidence. The air of royalty comes as second nature, something he learned long ago from watching his father and brother, but his usual swagger is just muscle memory in this place. The name that carried him here isn't worth a line of coke to these men. They know only that he's a son of money, that he's a
yuma
, and as far as experience goes, they all outrank him.

Still, he has steadied his hands by the time he forfeits his gun, and he doesn't fidget while they search him. The guards wave them through, and he realizes that no one has even spoken yet. He hopes the sound of the waves masks his relieved sigh.

They twine along a path that cuts through waxy leaves and bright flowers, until the space opens to reveal the expansive villa. The main house is a double-layered stucco affair with terracotta tiles, and the all the lights on the premises are ablaze. For all the grandeur, the place is eerily quiet.

By the time they enter the villa through a large patio, it's just Seth and Miguel. Neither speak as they move through rooms full of gilded furniture and chandeliers, and down dim hallways decked in Latin splendor. The decadence is both familiar and completely strange to Seth, and this culmination of the past year and a half, he is glad that Miguel is with him as some sort of anchor back to what he knows. He hates to even admit to himself his hope that Miguel will still be there when he comes face-to-face with the king.

They climb a curved marble staircase, the gilded rail cold against Seth's clammy fingers, and on the second floor, stop before a large door of red wood. Miguel catches Seth's gaze, and the Cuban's expression is serious. He waits a few beats, time for Seth to compose himself, then says, “This is as far as I go. The rest you have to do on your own.” Seth blanches, and Miguel cracks a grin, then adds, “Don't be scared, little brother.”

Seth's eyes narrow and he says, “I'm not scared, asshole.”

“Good,” says Miguel, and he pushes open the door.

A freight train full of insults rails through Seth's mind as he ambles into a huge room, a lounge he quickly notices in the soft lighting. The floor here is also marble, and the entirety of the far wall consists of double doors open to the thick night. Tropical fish laze around a lighted tank, and a hardwood bar stretches to Seth's left. His pulse drums in his ears. A sheen of sweat has broken on his skin as the humidity meets the booze, speed, and anxiety in his blood stream. His eyes sweep the space, the guards on the balcony with guns at ready.

“Seth Morgan,” says a velvet baritone, with the soft edges of a mostly-faded accent. The sound jerks Seth's head toward the bar, the shaded figure there. How did he not immediately notice? “In the person. Welcome.”

Seth's limbs thrill from the sound of his name dressed in that voice, like the name of an exotic dish. His eyes adjust to the shadows that hold his host so softly, so that he can see the sheer black button up over a well manicured figure, the shots of gray at the man's temples, and the lined, brown face. A smile plays upon the man's lips, and Seth guesses him to be around the same age as his father would be, if he were still alive.

Seth's voice is barely more than a whisper when he says, “Thank you, sir. I am honored to be here.”

Havana doesn't answer right away, rather he stands from his bar stool with a tumbler of brown liquor in hand. He takes a few steps, and motions to the bar with his free hand. “Please, join me, Mr. Morgan.”

Mr. Morgan
. A title Seth still reserves for his dad. It gives him chills to hear it in regard to himself. His first few steps toward his boss come rigidly, his nerves coiled around every single muscle in his body. The highly formal situation that had repeatedly replayed in his head is nowhere to be found. The ocean sounds play a soothing background, and the man before him radiates raw masculinity, a dignified sexuality that surely only comes with age. Outranked and completely outclassed, Seth immediately recognizes his position. At home in New York, he never considered that he could be outclassed, he just strutted around with all the pomp of the favorite prince. At home, he didn't have to fear the little people, the thugs and hired help. But here, any person he meets could be willing to put a bullet between his eyes, just as he had done to the nameless Cuban who stole from the boss. And here, any wrong move could send turn him into food for oceanic scavengers.

“Thank you,” he says, extending a hand to shake according to protocol.

Havana accepts, the skin of his hand rough, not the pampered skin of someone who does not earn his wealth. Seth's breath catches when Havana doesn't shake, but rather pulls the younger closer in a quick embrace, during which Seth can smell a spicy musk and feel the other man's heat. Then Havana pulls away and turns to the bar with a sultry air that puts Seth to shame. The kingpin pours a second glass from an uncorked decanter, and says, “My nephew has spoken very highly of you.” He passes the highball toward Seth, catches the Morgan's eye, and adds, “Much more highly than I ever expected from a child of the States. Please, have a seat.”

Child
. The word stirs the fear in Seth's chest, but he takes the liquor and the stool with as much grace as he can muster. Always with these people the insults and the praises come at once. He nods, takes a sip. It's rum, and it's old. As if it would be anything else. The island spirit blossoms as heat across his cheeks, and he momentarily regrets not eating. He says, “Your nephew is a good man. I am happy to have worked with him.”

Havana takes a long drink, inky eyes roving over Seth without shame. Seth can only wonder if his own brown eyes could ever look so dark. His body screams to squirm, but his pending status demands him to be still. Though he is outwardly calm, he has no doubt that Havana can see how nervous he is. Why else would the man be content to watch his guest rather than urge conversation. The older man lets the tiniest trace of a smirk ghost upon his lips. He abandons his rum to reach behind the bar and retrieve a diamond-framed mirror with a pile of uncut cocaine on its surface. Again, chills raise on Seth's skin.

Havana begins chopping out two lines, fat ones for the quality of it, and with the familiarity of a veteran. As he does, he says, “I will be very honest with you, Seth. When your uncle sent you as his emissary, I took offense. You were barely a man, completely green, and spoiled from the harsh realities of this life.”

Seth sets his liquor down with a dull thud. As a second thought, he puts his hands into his lap. There's no stopping their shaking now. He is enrapt with the precise, yet still smooth and commanding movements of
Papa
. Seth hangs on every movement as though those brown hands will provide just a glimpse of the mystique of a true king.