Chapter 12
Ares
“I’ll Burn The Crown”
It had been a week and a half, and I couldn’t deny that I was stressed. I probably only had five hours of sleep out of the whole week. I had been up damn near every night, thinking about how my life had just changed and was now sitting in Marcel’s hands.
Shit was so irritating, I was ready to say fuck the Delacroix name altogether and let Laurent be the face of the family. But my hate for Laurent would never let me pass him the torch.
I would burn the crown before I gave it to him.
Therefore, I was in my second lawyer’s office, pacing back and forth while he jotted down key things I said. This was my Delacroix lawyer, not Bianca. I was not a dumb man. I always knew better than to keep all my secrets with one person, especially a woman I was sleeping with.
The walls were lined with leather-bound books nobody read and framed degrees that meant he knew how to keep rich people out of jail.
His name was Adrian Serra, one of my grandfather’s most trusted attorneys.
I did not like that, but I needed someone who understood both American law and how the Delacroix’s moved.
“Mr. Delacroix, sit down. You are making my pen nervous,” he said in his accent, glasses sliding down his nose.
“I will sit when my life is not on a countdown,” I muttered, still walking the length of his office.
“Lyric already threatened to fuck my enemies,” I said, dragging a hand over my head. “I might fucking kill her before she even gets to sign an NDA.”
I scoffed and kept pacing.
“You cannot kill her, Mr. Delacroix,” Adrian replied calmly. “The first person the law will come for is you.”
“Well, put something in the contract that stops her,” I snapped, making him write faster. “Make that shit ironclad.”
He nodded once, waiting for me to continue.
“That bitch Bianca is a lawyer,” I added. “Make sure there are no loopholes for her to jump through. She has been quiet. I know she is plotting.”
“I will make sure she cannot rebut anything,” he answered. “She will sign. She enjoys your lifestyle too much to burn it down.”
He was not wrong. Bianca loved power. She would take a fat check and a gag order before letting herself look bitter in public.
I dragged in a breath and leaned my palms on the edge of his desk.
“Leona said fuck me,” I said.
He looked up over his glasses like he expected a meltdown.
Instead, I stopped pacing and smirked. “She just wants her contract. She can have that. Since it is fuck me, let her work. She gets the least walk-away money. She can sing her heart out while she counts her basic ass checks.”
Adrian’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but knew better.
“And Naomi and Amara?” he asked carefully.
Their names made my chest feel tight.
I thought about Naomi’s text.
Call me if you need to talk.
She was my ace.
My best friend before anything.
We had history before the cars and the Forbes cover, and the Delacroix part of my name. She had lined me up when I was still Lil Ghost with crooked fades and big dreams.
Then there was Amara. She had not hit my phone at all. That bothered me more than I wanted to admit. No paragraph cussing me out. No sad emoji. Nothing. She had been the hardest to convince to be with me, and I was sure she thought I was a fuckboy from the start. I could not even blame her.
“Give them what they deserve,” I said quietly. “The higher cut. Especially Naomi. I would have dropped them all if she asked me to.”
My lawyer nodded and scribbled the note.
“I will have everything to them by the end of the week,” he said.
“I already spoke to your accountant. The funds will be wired from your personal accounts. I advise that you have no contact with the women at all. Being in their space will only complicate things. I also advise you to mentally prepare yourself for this arranged marriage.”
“Yeah, I will,” I muttered. “You just make sure my ass is covered in all this bullshit.”
“That is my job, Mr. Delacroix.”
I pushed off his desk, straightened my chain, and walked out before he could start talking about pre-nups and legal optics. I knew all that was coming. I just was not ready to hear it yet.
Outside, the LA sun was bright as hell, disrespectful, like it didn’t know my whole life was ticking away on an eight-month clock. My driver started for the door, but I waved him off and headed to my AMG instead.
I needed to shoot something.
$$$$$
My uncle’s private gun range sat on the outskirts of Los Angeles, hidden behind a fake trucking company and a rusted gate only family knew how to open. This was my father’s little brother, my Black side. No Delacroix bullshit. No French cousins. Just Jackson blood and gunpowder.
“Look who decided to visit the living,” Uncle Reggie said as I walked in, carrying my bag. “You been ghost for real.”
“Been busy,” I replied, setting my weapons on the table. “Life rearranging itself.”
“Ain’t that what life always do?” He loaded his own clip, eyes on me. “Your mom told me your French granddaddy got your balls in a vice.”
I chuckled. “Something like that.”
Before he could say more, the door behind me creaked open. I had invited my right-hand man.
“What’s up, my nigga?” Zacian said, stepping in. Balenciaga hoodie, Eleven Eight fitted low. My best friend since eleventh grade, back when I lost Malik. Zacian told me to lock in with him and that I had a brother for life. Family by choice.
“Glad you came to shoot up the spot too, nephew. Don’t miss,” Uncle Reggie said, clocking him.
“I don’t miss,” Zacian replied casually.
I smirked.
Uncle Reggie nodded toward the lane.
“Talk with your hands first,” he said. “Then use your mouth.”
That was how he was. Always believed bullets cleared the mind before words did.
I stepped into the lane, slid my ear protection on, and let my .
40 speak for me. Zacian took the lane next to mine, quiet, matching my rhythm without a word.
After too many rounds, the target was shredded around the chest and head, a black silhouette that looked like every enemy, every cousin, every reporter, and fake friend rolled into one.
All it did was get my dick hard.
Either I needed to kill a nigga or get some pussy.
Neither option was smart right now. But I was going to do one of them.
I set the gun down, pulled my muffs off, and stepped back. Uncle Reggie handed me a water and leaned against the wall.
“You look like my brother when you mad,” he said. “Same jaw, same eyes. He used to come here, tear up targets, then walk out like nothing happened.”
Zacian glanced at me. “That explains a lot.”
“Maybe that’s why Marcel loves me and hates me at the same time,” I replied. “I look like the son he stole from.”
“You got more than his face,” my uncle said. “You got his pride. That shit’ll build you up and break you down if you don’t watch it.”
I took a slow sip of water, letting his words sit.
“What you gonna do about this marriage thing you were talking about this morning. Old man on his bullshit?” he asked finally.
Zacian’s head snapped toward me. “Marriage?”
I exhaled. “Yeah, bro. Some arranged shit Marcel is pushing on me.”
Zacian whistled. “Damn.”
“I don’t know what I want to do, though,” I admitted.
“Part of me wants to tell Marcel to take his name back and shove it. Let Laurent be the pretty French prince. But if I step down, Laurent gets the power. And if Laurent gets the power, everybody who looks like me or loves me becomes a target. Including you.”
Zacian went quiet. That was his tell.
“Then you already know what you gonna do,” Uncle Reggie said. “You was born into war, nephew. Shit like this come with the bloodline. You just gotta make sure you don’t lose yourself while you playing their game.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like the game is running me.”
He shrugged. “Then change the rules.”
Simple. Like life was that easy.
“You still got your women?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
Zacian let out a short laugh. “Never thought I’d hear that.”
“Grandfather’s orders,” I said. “Clean house. Look like a king, not a rapper with a harem.”
Uncle Reggie chuckled. “I like that old man for you and hate him at the same time.”
“Join the club.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“Whatever you do, make sure you’re sleeping at night. Sin will find you either way, but you don’t need insomnia on top of it.”
I smirked. “I haven’t slept since I left Marseille.”
“Then go handle what’s keeping you up,” Uncle Reggie said. “And try not to shoot nobody on the way. You just had a good session.”
No promises.
I packed my guns up, slapped my uncle’s palm, and walked out with the bag in one hand and my thoughts in the other. Zacian followed close, quiet, like he was already putting pieces together he didn’t yet know the meaning of.
$$$$$
I rode the city, low-key, windows dark enough to keep curious eyes out. LA moved around me. Sirens in the distance, helicopters low, homeless tents under billboards with my artists’ faces on them. This was my kingdom, whether I wanted it or not.
And I could not get one woman off my mind.
Naomi.
I thumbed my phone at a red light and pulled up her text from the break-up night. The only one that did not say fuck you. The only one who actually cared about me in the end.
I’m not mad or hurt. I was wrong for fighting. I’ll stand on it. But you know we are bigger than us dating. So if you need to talk, I’m still here.
I did not want to sound selfish, but it felt good that somebody gave a fuck about a nigga. Not the Le Roi. Not the billionaire. Just me.
The others had reacted exactly how I expected.
But Naomi had given me grace.
Something I did not deserve.
ME: I need a cut. Meet me at my penthouse in an hour if you can.
I stared at the message for a second before hitting send. It looked stupid as hell considering the speech I gave at dinner, but I sent it anyway.
She replied fast.
NAOMI: A cut at your penthouse? I don’t do out calls.
I could hear her attitude through the screen.
ME: For me, you will.
I paused, then added another text, switching languages the way I always did when I wanted people confused.
ME: Viens ou tu le regretteras.
ME: Google it.
I dropped my phone in my lap and finally headed to my kingdom.
The city stretched out around me, neon and concrete and bad decisions. Somewhere out there, Marcel was waiting to choose a wife for me, Laurent was waiting for me to fail, and five women were waiting on their payouts.
But right now, I was only thinking about one of them walking into my penthouse with her clippers and her guard up.
Naomi Carter.
The only woman I ever trusted with a blade near my neck.