Soft For A Roi (The Delacroix-Laveau Family #1)

Prologue

GENEVIEVE “VIVI” DELACROIX

“A MOTHER’S JOB IS NEVER DONE.”

Iwasn’t the wife.

I was the woman he saved and then couldn’t leave alone.

The white, French woman that a powerful Black man from Compton chose… knowing it would cost him everything.

And still… nobody could tell him not to love me.

So when he died?

They thought I’d disappear with him.

They were wrong.

The air in the lawyer’s office was thick with tension. My son’s father, Ares “Ghost” Jackson Sr., was murdered, and now the truth had hit the fan.

I could feel every stare on me, cutting through my spine like they had the right. The Jackson family sat across the conference table, faces carved from grief and greed. But I wasn’t scared. Didn’t bow my head.

Not for these people.

Not to make peace.

Not anymore.

I walked in wearing black silk and red lips, chin high.

Behind me, my son, my only child. Ares Delacroix-Jackson.

Seventeen. Tall for his age, looking just like his father, broad-shouldered, green eyes as sharp as mine.

That was the only piece of identity he had of me. His very presence was a declaration:

His father’s secret wasn’t a rumor.

Ares Jr. was real. And he was here to collect.

The Jackson family genes were strong, giving my son brown skin. You wouldn’t have thought my son had French in his blood. Therefore, nobody could deny who he belonged to.

“You got some nerve showing your face here.” Regina Jackson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. She sat at the head of the table, veil drawn back, eyes full of venom. She was the wife. The woman who had Ghost’s last name, but not all of his truth.

I adjusted my Dior gloves, unbothered.

“Save your theatrics, Regina. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to claim what belongs to my son. The man you married confessed before he took his last breath. The will is going to prove it.”

“You think walking in here changes history? You’ll never be one of us. He’ll never be one of us.”

I smiled. “I’m not trying to be a Jackson. I’m a Delacroix. And my son… he’s the future of both.”

That set them off. Voices rose. Chairs scraped.

Curses flew across the table. The tension between our families had always been a fuse waiting for flame.

Old rivalries. Street wars. Forbidden bloodlines.

Racism, because Ghost was Black, and I was French.

The kind of mix that bred either kings or corpses.

Security rushed in, forcing everyone to sit, while the lawyer cleared his throat and fumbled with the papers in front of him. His hands shook like he knew this room could turn into a battlefield at any second.

“Per the last Will and Testament of Ares “Ghost” Jackson Sr...”

Silence fell so heavy you could hear the AC hum.

“To my young daughters, Raina and Nia Jackson, I leave five million each to be released on their eighteenth birthdays, along with shared deeds to their father’s homes and businesses.

To my only son, Ares Delacroix-Jackson, I leave my empire, Obsidian Records, its assets, and twenty million in capital to expand it. His sisters are to become employed under his leadership once of age. He inherits my office, my catalog, and my chain. He is the rightful heir of my name.”

Gasps. Murmurs. Eyes cutting straight to my boy and me.

Seventeen years hidden… and now my son stood crowned in front of everyone.

Regina shot up, shaking, voice breaking.

“You money-hungry, homewrecking, white bitch. You took him from me, and now you take everything else!”

I rose, calm, my hand resting on Ares’ shoulder.

“I didn’t take anything, Regina. Ghost gave it. He chose his bloodline. He chose the truth.”

Security moved in, leading us out through marble halls lined with stares and whispers. I felt every ounce of their judgment, but none of it reached me. My hand stayed firm against my son’s back, guiding him forward. For the first time in his life, Ares held his head high.

We were almost out when the world cracked open.

A flash. A scream.

Then a tear through my shoulder.

The bullet ripped through silk. Blood bloomed across my dress like spilled wine.

My knees buckled, but Ares caught me before I hit the ground.

“You gave him too much!” Regina’s voice rang out, shrill and broken. “He got too much!”

She stood in the parking lot, hands shaking around the gun, eyes wild with rage and regret.

Security swarmed her. Sirens wailed. The crowd scattered.

But all I saw was my son. His eyes were surprised. His voice calling for me; his hands slick with my blood.

I grabbed his wrist, pulling him close, forcing my voice steady.

“You’re not done yet,” I whispered. “You hear me? You don’t run. You rise.”

My vision blurred, but I refused to close my eyes. Not yet. Not while he still needed me standing.

I lived…

But a few weeks later, Regina Jackson turned up dead.

Two shots to the chest. Behind her beauty salon. Execution style.

Nobody confessed.

Nobody asked.

But the streets knew.

Ghost’s crown hadn’t vanished with his death.

It had shifted.

And my son, my Ares, was already learning how to wear it.