Prologue #2
My father only knew as much as he did about Zonnique because she had spotted my parents out one day and taken it upon herself to introduce herself like she already held a permanent position in my life.
By the time I heard about it, she had charmed my pops, smiled in my mama’s face, complimented her outfit, and somehow worked my name into the conversation enough times to leave both of them thinking we were more serious than we were.
The woman had introduced herself like my future wife while I was still treating her like an occasional inconvenience.
“Yeah, she’s fine, and the pussy good, but that’s about where her résumé ends,” I said.
“Zonnique ain’t wife material. Hell, she barely qualifies as a peaceful evening.
Her ass can’t even cook. The girl burned spaghetti, Pops…
spaghetti. I didn’t even know that shit was possible.
Adding to that, she doesn’t listen unless the conversation involves gossip, compliments, or somebody else’s business, and the only things she’s truly committed to are that shop, her reflection, and her Instagram followers. ”
My father was openly amused now, like my irritation was the best entertainment he’d had all day.
“I’m serious, Pops. I wouldn’t trust that girl with my back turned, my business, or my last name.
She likes the image of power, but she ain’t got the discipline it takes to stand beside it.
She’d blow the whole operation posting selfies from somewhere she had no business being, caption talking about, ‘Felt cute, might delete later,’ while half the damn city zoomed in on the background trying to figure out where we were. ”
My father hummed. “Well, it’s good to know you two have something in common.”
“What that supposed to mean?” I questioned.
“It means, she likes the appearance of power, and you like the rewards of it. The difference is she's chasing attention while you're chasing a title. Neither one matters much if you're unwilling to do what’s required to keep it. You keep talking about the crown like it’s waiting on a shelf for you to pick up whenever you’re ready… it isn’t.
The crown comes with conditions, responsibilities, and sacrifices.
You’ve already proven you can run businesses, make money, and command respect.
Nobody’s questioning that. What they’re questioning is why a man who claims he wants the position keeps dragging his feet on the very things required to obtain it.
You want the authority, the influence, and the legacy, but every time the conversation turns to finding a wife and building a family, you find another reason to wait.
Merge, power isn’t just about getting what you want; it’s about accepting the obligations that come with it.
Until you understand that, you’re no different than somebody who admires the throne but doesn’t want the responsibility of sitting in it. ”
Well, damn. Say what you really feel, Pops. Matter of fact, blink twice if you left anything out.
My father always did have a gift for taking a simple conversation and turning it into a personal attack. The crazy part wasn’t what he said, it was that I couldn't even argue with the shit.
What I said about Zonnique was all facts, though.
She was the kind of woman who’d burn the kitchen trying to prove a point and post the ashes online for sympathy.
I usually let those types go after the first sign of craziness.
So, either her pussy was that good, I was playing with fire just to see if it would burn, or I was hoodoo-hexed.
I lived in New Orleans, where saints pray over sinners, the air smells like bourbon, and the same hands that pour holy water mix potions on Basin Street, so the hoodoo part wouldn’t have surprised me.
In New Orleans, voodoo isn’t folklore; it’s a neighborhood business.
Candles burn beside gun oil, spirits get called before sunrise, and every wish costs a person something they can’t get back.
“If you can barely stand to be around her, then why are you keeping her around?” my father asked.
“Well, shit, her pussy good,” I admitted with a shrug. “Not life-changing or nothing, but good enough to make her slightly less irritating for about twenty minutes… thirty if midway she don’t start crying, saying she loves me or turns the moment into a damn interview about my intentions.”
My father shook his head.
“But that ain’t the main reason I keep her around,” I continued, turning serious.
“Letting Zonnique go could create bigger problems. She’s overheard conversations she couldn’t even fully understand and still walked away knowing too much.
If she leaves, she leaves with information she can turn into leverage, and we both know leverage becomes a problem real fuckin’ quick. ”
My father gave the kind of nod that carried a warning more than an agreement. “Then you’d have to cut her off the Earth.”
That was his way of saying kill her without letting the actual words leave his mouth.
Muthafuckas called me ruthless, but compared to my father, I was damn near eligible for sainthood. That nigga could make the devil looked soft-hearted.
A laugh slipped out of me. “Damn, Pops. You always skip straight past blocking a number and go directly to funeral arrangements. I said I don’t trust her ass. I ain’t say cancel her subscription to breathing.”
My father’s expression never changed.
“You know the Belvior creed, Merge.”
“Loose lips drown in the bayou, and secrets stay buried when the person carrying them is,” I finished for him.
I knew the creed by heart. I had followed it, enforced it, and buried people for breaking it. I just liked getting under my father’s skin from time-to-time.
Pops caught his wedding band between his thumb and forefinger, slowly rotating the polished gold around his finger.
“Son, if you don’t trust this girl and can’t see yourself marrying her, eventually, you’re gonna have to let her go. And when that time comes, you’ll have a choice to make.”
His tone remained calm, which somehow made the warning feel heavier.
“Women are emotional creatures. If this Zonnique girl is as clingy as you claim, nine times out of ten, she’s not gonna take you choosing another woman over her too well, especially if she’s been in the picture longer.
Rejection doesn’t always come quietly. Hurt turns into anger, anger turns into revenge, and revenge usually comes with a running mouth.
And we both know that once emotion takes over, loyalty is usually the first thing to leave. ”
He stopped turning the ring.
“So, either she becomes the next Mrs. Belvior, or she becomes a memory nobody mentions twice.”
He looked down at the band one last time.
“Your call, son.”
That was my father… always presenting two doors when both of them somehow still led exactly where he wanted me to go.
As if he could hear my thoughts, he added, “And before you start looking at me like I’m forcing your hand, understand that I’m not telling you that this particular girl has to be your wife.
I’m telling you somebody does. Hell, hold auditions if you need to.
Whether Zonnique proves worthy of the name, gets replaced by somebody who is, or talks herself into a permanent silence, that decision belongs to you.
But yo’ ass is getting married. That part isn’t up for debate. ”
I exhaled deeply running a hand over my face.
“Son, if it makes you feel any better, I felt the same way when my father, your grandfather, laid everything out to me. I fought it too. I thought I could outrun the blueprint. The only difference is I didn’t have the luxury of choosing my wife… my father arranged my marriage.”
My eyebrows shot up, intrigued.
That was news to me.
“No shit?”
“Yes shit.” He laughed. “He said I was too reckless to make the right decision. Unfortunately, I proved him right more times than I care to admit. But you? I’m giving you that chance.
So, choose like it matters because it does.
Don’t be like me and spend years trying to convince your heart to agree with a choice your hunger already made.
That kind of war with yourself will destroy you from the inside out, and nobody will ever know why you’re broken, because nobody sees it. ”
He tapped his chest.
“The damage happens here. You keep fighting it long enough and eventually you forget what peace feels like.”
He paused, eyes hardened by years of sacrifice.
“So again, choose wisely, son, because the worst prison a man can live in is one he builds for himself.”
For the first time during our talk, I wasn’t thinking about the crown; I was thinking about the cost of it.
“Look,” he continued, “I know it feels wrong being expected to marry for anything other than love. But if I’m being honest, I wasn’t in love with your mother when we got married; hell, I didn’t even like her ass.”
Damn.
Pops shook his head as if the memory tasted bitter and sweet at the same time.
“But… I wanted the empire, so I did what needed to be done. I got married, had the child, and locked my feelings away. Then… somewhere along the way, love showed up.”
I tilted my head, smirk creeping back. “And you’re hoping for a repeat performance?”
Pops let out a dry chuckle. “I’m hoping for maturity… love’s optional.”
He tapped his ash into a crystal tray, then reclined in his chair.
“But let me make one thing clear. When I step down, on that exact day, you must be married—not engaged, not promising to try but married. No wife, no crown. And trust me, Kalvon will be watching. He wants this position almost as bad as you. He’s waiting for one crack in your discipline, one delay in choosing a wife, one whisper about you being sterile or one rumor that you fumbled the bloodline. ”