Chapter 4
Ava
The soil slipped through my fingers, gritty and damp, as I stared up at the three-story mini-mansion that held my past. This was the house where I grew up. Where I had been safe. Where Daddy was still alive.
Ron Porter had moved weight from Miami to New Orleans, built an empire from blood and powder, and had a crew that answered only to him. He was ruthless and deadly. He never hesitated to lie, cheat, or put a man down.
To the rest of the world, he was a drug lord, a killer, a thief. But to me? He was just Daddy.
Big and broad like an oak, his skin dark as night, with a voice so deep it could shake a man to his core when he raised it. But he never raised it at me. To most, he was thunder. To me, he was warmth and strength. I was his baby girl. He taught me how to throw a punch before I knew how to tie my shoes. He put a gun in my right hand and a doll in my left. He showed me how to break down a kilo like it was as natural as teaching me my ABCs.
I loved my daddy. But I never put him on a pedestal.
He wasn’t just dangerous to his enemies—he was toxic to the person closest to him. From him, I learned that love came with collateral damage. He cheated on Momma like it was a habit he couldn’t break, and when she found out, she didn’t cry or beg. She fought back—sometimes with her fists, sometimes with whatever she could grab. A bottle. A lamp. A kitchen knife. She cheated back or cheated first.
And then, like clockwork, the cycle would reset.
He’d smooth things over the only way he knew how—money, gifts, and sweet words she wanted to believe. A diamond bracelet. A weekend in Paris. A new car, just because. And she’d forgive him. Pretend none of it ever happened. Until it happened. Again.
Their love was messy. Dangerous. Addictive.
People said Daddy would meet a bad end. That he had ruined too many lives to walk away untouched. They were right. One of his rivals buried him alive near Alligator Alley, then sent Momma a map with directions to his body.
Momma unraveled after that. She turned paranoid, withdrawn, obsessed with keeping me close. A year later, when I was fourteen, she remarried out of nowhere. Vito Genovese.
Daddy had run Florida, but men like Vito ran the world. He was nothing like my father. Short, pale, squat, and old. And Momma? A thirty-four-year-old brick house dipped in Godiva chocolate. It made no sense.
By the time I thought to ask her why she had married him, it was too late. She was dead. And Vito was the one who killed her.
I hadn’t seen it happen, but I was there. Hiding under the bed in the house my father had left us. It was two years after they married. I was sixteen. That evening, Momma picked me up from basketball practice like any other day. But instead of heading back to Vito’s house, she drove us to this house. Our old home in Saint Pete.
Everything was still the same. Like it had been waiting for us. A time capsule of the life we once had. I remember being shocked that she had brought me there—especially without Vito knowing. By then, he rarely let her out of his sight. He had men tailing her everywhere. Always watching. Especially after he caught her cheating the second time.
I was surprised he hadn’t killed her the first time. Daddy would have. "You leave me, I’ll kill you. You give somebody what’s mine, I’ll kill you." But Vito wasn’t like that. His possessiveness was different. More twisted. Maybe he was even deluded enough to think he loved her.
Momma, on the other hand, hated him. I could see it in the way she held herself when he was around, the way her body stiffened under his touch. The way she always seemed disgusted just to exist in his presence.
That night, she seemed different. She had lit a cigarette, something she only did when she was stressed. I asked her what was wrong. She sighed. Long. Weary. As if I were a burden she didn’t have time for.
“Ava, go find something to eat, then shower and go to bed,” she said flatly. “I’ll explain everything in the morning.” I did what she asked, believing there would be a morning. I regret, to this day, not making her tell me then.
Later, when the crickets were at their nosiest, she burst into my room. Snatched me from sleep. Her hands were shaking. “Hide,” she whispered. Her breath smelled like fear and cigarette smoke.
She told me about the money she had hidden under the floorboards in her room. About the bank account in my name. She told me I needed to take the Greyhound to my grandfather’s house in Watts, California. Then she pressed a dry kiss to my forehead. "Them gang nigga’s were loyal to your daddy, they will keep you safe there." She promised she’d meet me later. Then she shoved me under the bed.
I barely had time to catch my breath before I heard the front door crash open. Vito’s voice rang through the house. Calling her name. Then came her screams. “No!” she cried. “No, please!” I could hear his men drag her outside.
I wanted to run to her. I wanted to fight. But I was frozen. Stuck between terror and disbelief. Then— A scream. Bloodcurdling. And then— Nothing. Silence.
I don’t know how long I stayed under that bed. Long enough for my muscles to lock up. Long enough to pray to a God I wasn’t sure existed after all I’d seen and heard in my short life.
Eventually, one of Vito’s men found me. Dragged me out. He took me downstairs to Vito. This man stood in my face, looking directly into my eyes, and told me: “Your mother went on a trip,” Vito lied. “She told me to take care of you.” His hand moved through my hair. A mockery of affection. My eyes never left the fresh mound of dirt I could see outside the window.
I didn’t cry. Daddy had taught me better. Tears were useless. Some things, you only share with God. So I buried my grief deep. Pretended Momma was just gone for a while.
I became a ghost in Vito’s house. Silent. Distant. Only speaking when necessary. Sometimes, I asked if he had heard from Momma. He always gave the same answer. “No, but I’ll let you know if I do.” Without a hint of sincerity.
I stayed until I turned eighteen. Then I went back to my father’s house. Found the money Momma had hidden. I went to the bank and transferred the nearly $600k that had been waiting for me into a personal account. I took a plane to California.
I moved into my daddy’s old house in Watts. A small three-bedroom. Used half the money to help my cousin Dewanda open a beauty bar. I invested. And Daddy’s hood made sure I was safe.
For ten years, I stayed gone, hidden. Ten years after Momma’s death, I still wasn’t over it. Now I was sitting on the same dirt where everything fell apart.
I was supposed to meet Vito hours ago. I knew he was waiting. I just… couldn’t move. I just sat there. Staring at her grave. My chest heavy with things I could name but wouldn’t dare.
A deep grunt pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up. Luciano—Vito’s son—stood over me.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been in awe. He was sin in a suit. With a strong jawline, plush lips, and these green eyes. He looked way too put together for a man covered in tattoos. Everything about him was a contradiction—like a scholar's hands wrapped around butcher's knives, or choirboy lips whispering threats.
But these weren’t normal circumstances. And he wasn’t here just to be beautiful. He was here to collect me for his father.
“Come,” he said, voice low, rough like it hadn’t been used much. He extended his hand. I stared at it for a long time.
My muscles tensed, ready to pull back, to snap, to fight. But what would I be fighting for? Freedom? That was gone the second Vito called. Control? I’d never had it to begin with. Revenge?
I didn’t know
In the end, I took a breath. And I took his hand.