One Night… And A Surrogate Later

Prologue

Mayzen “Merge” Belvior Jr.

The chandelier above my father’s desk spilled gold light across the room like luxury itself was bleeding from the ceiling.

It reflected off polished marble, crystal decanters, and the glass protecting a wall of Belvior men who had ruled the city long before I was even a thought.

Their stern expressions seemed to carry the same warning: don’t become the first son too undisciplined to carry the legacy they had killed, sacrificed, and survived to protect.

My father, Mayzen Belvior Sr., sat behind his desk like the room itself knew better than to challenge him.

He didn’t need a throne; power settled over him naturally.

He was the kind of man who could shake hands with the mayor over breakfast, donate a million dollars to the city by lunch, and have that same mayor’s body floating face-down in the Mississippi River before midnight.

He lifted the cigar to his mouth, took a slow pull, then exhaled the smoke without taking his eyes off me.

“Merge, I’ve given you three years to get your house in order. The terms were clear then, and they haven’t changed now. But… I’ll remind you again. When I prepare to step down in two years, you need a wife, an heir, and a household worthy of the position you’re expected to inherit.”

Here we go with this shit again.

Same conversation.

Different year.

Same deadline hanging over my head like a bill collector with excellent memory.

The Bloodline Clause had been written into the Belvior family bylaws generations ago after one of our ancestors died without a legitimate heir.

The fight over succession nearly split the organization in half and left enough bodies across New Orleans to make the city smell like death for months.

Since then, the rule had remained untouched: no wife, no child, no claim to the seat.

It didn’t matter how loyal a man was, how many enemies he eliminated, or how well he commanded respect.

Without a family to ground him, he was considered unfinished.

“Unfinished” was the polite version. What they really meant was unstable, reckless, and far too dangerous to trust with the future of the Belvior bloodline. And judging by the disapproval carved into every face hanging on that wall, they had already found me guilty of all three.

Instead of responding right away, I just stared at the Black Swan crest engraved into his desk. That same design was tattooed across my back, stamped on my chain, and welded into the gates of our estates.

Every man tied to the family wore the crest around his neck.

But the Black Swan was never handed out freely.

Nah. A man received it either by birthright, or proved his loyalty ran deep enough that being related didn’t matter.

When a woman got one, though? That meant she was locked in…

for life. If she had that bling resting against her chest, everybody who mattered knew she was the wife of a Belvior man.

Pops let the silence drag a few seconds before adding, “Son, you can call the traditions outdated. You can even say the thought of marriage bores you. But your feelings about marriage don’t matter and neither does your opinion of tradition.

This family was built on laws that existed before you and will remain long after me.

So, if you want the crown, you must shoulder the curse that comes with it. ”

I’d heard that line so many damn times, it felt permanently etched into my brain. Hell, I used to joke that when I died, they’d carve it into my tombstone just so Pops could get the final word.

I leaned back in the chair across from him wearing an expression that straddled the line between a smirk and irritation.

“Pops, you’ve been reminding me every damn year for as long as I can remember,” I finally spoke.

“And every damn year, it’s the same thing—no proposal, no wife, no child!” he snapped. “Just excuses, women who come and go, and ambition with no structure behind it!”

My father leaned forward, the cigar resting between his fingers. The heat in his expression had surprisingly cooled and his temper settled into the kind of controlled calm that usually meant the warning was over and the threat was about to begin.

“You’ve got the hunger, Merge, but you lack control.

And power without control is nothing but noise.

This empire wasn’t built for you to let it drown in chaos simply because you refuse to do what is expected of you.

You’re my son, not my employee. I shouldn’t have to threaten your position to make you understand what’s at stake.

But if you can’t build the household required to secure the bloodline—”

“Then Kalvon gets the seat. I know,” I cut him off with a resigned sigh, the weight of my father’s expectations pressing heavy on my chest.

My thumb dragging thoughtfully along my jaw as I stared off for a second.

Kalvon was a pretty-boy accountant. He was one of the family’s golden boys who always wore a suit, crunched numbers and cleaned blood off balance sheets.

The nigga was smart as hell… I’ll give him that.

He knew how to move millions without ever stepping foot in the mess that made it.

But where Kalvon had spreadsheets and safe bets, I had instinct, scars, and loyalty stitched into my skin.

Kalvon wasn’t built for what it took to be a Don.

He never had to bleed for that shit, bury a body, or make a call that would keep the family alive and the streets scared.

The only reason Kalvon was even being considered was because his late father had served as consigliere.

His father’s position had given him access and respect by association, not authority earned through action.

The bylaws contained plenty of rules I didn’t like, but that shit was the one I disagreed with most. I’d always believed the Don’s seat should remain within the Belvior bloodline.

No outsider, no matter how connected or loyal, would ever protect the empire with the same ferocity as someone born into it.

But hey… I didn’t write the rules; I just followed them.

Tried to anyway.

Kalvon knew the rules. That nigga lived by them, he could quote them word for word, twist them to suit his purpose, and weaponize them whenever they worked in his favor.

But knowing the bylaws and being book-smart could only carry a man in our position so far.

All that intelligence didn’t mean shit once the wolves started circling, the bullets started flying, the books stopped adding up, and our enemies identified every weak point and knew exactly how to use it against him.

Then there was his gambling habit. A man who depended on luck had no business being trusted with control, especially when that control came with access to the family’s accounts. It was the kind of liability that stayed hidden until the right temptation exposed it.

I saw the risk plain as day. The problem was, I wasn’t the one calling the shots… yet. I never trusted the nigga. It was Pops who kept vouching for him, talkin’ ‘bout how the numbers always lined up and every dollar was accounted for.

As if clean books automatically meant clean hands.

“You got that look again,” Pops said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“What look?”

He raised an eyebrow and pointed his cigar in my direction. “That I'm about to outsmart the rules look.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. “I’m not trying to outsmart anything. I’m just… thinking.”

“Son, I’ve known you your entire life. I wiped your butt when you were a baby. I taught you how to drive, how to tie a tie, and how to be a man. I even watched you get your first heartbreak. When you’re thinking, you tap your fingers. When you’re plotting, you get quiet.”

I immediately stopped rubbing my jaw.

“Case in point,” he said. “But thinking doesn’t move anything forward, son, all it does is buy you more time…

and you’ve already wasted enough of that.

Merge, you’re the heir. You’ve earned your place through blood and loyalty.

But this position isn’t something you inherit; it’s something you complete. You know that.”

I exhaled slowly. “I know, Pops.”

“Then you also know it’s not a suggestion, it’s law.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “What ever happened to that girl you were messing around with back here?”

I frowned. “What girl?”

Truth was, I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about.

I dealt with plenty of women, but only for convenience, never commitment.

I wasn’t the settling type. I treated encounters with females like meetings: I showed up, handled what I came for, and left before emotions started asking questions.

And if any woman I fucked ever met my family, it happened during an outing, never by invitation.

“The one you described as ‘a lot’,” he clarified.

Zonnique.

No doubt, she was bad as hell, but her ass was toxic as jet fuel with a short fuse. That girl had a way of bringing hell to breakfast like it was on the menu, then would look at me as if I was the arsonist. Just the thought of her was enough to ruin a perfectly good mood.

“You talkin’ ’bout Zonnique?” I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him confirm it.

“Yeah… her.” The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “She still around?”

“Yeah… like a subscription I forgot to cancel,” I muttered. “Why you ask, though?”

“Could you see yourself marrying her?”

I leaned farther back in my chair, putting distance between myself and the question.

“Absolutely the fuck not. Marrying that girl would be choosing chaos on purpose.” That thought alone made me grimace. “I’d rather marry the damn clause itself.”

Pops chuckled, clearly amused by my reaction. “What’s so wrong with her? She’s beautiful, carries herself well, and has a business of her own. From where I’m sitting, she sounds like the kind of woman a man in your position should be considering.”