Prologue #3
“Then let him watch, whisper and pray on delays,” I said.
“’Cause the second he mistakes my patience for weakness I’ll bury his ass under the same legacy he thought I couldn’t build.
I won’t just bury him, though; I’ll salt the grave, so nothing ever grows with his name on it.
Wife or not… child or not… that seat already got my name on it in blood.
I’m just deciding who gets to sit next to me before I take it. ”
My father cracked an impressive smirk. “That’s the Belvior blood I needed to hear.”
The Belvior Family wasn’t just a crew or a gang; we were a dynasty built on blood, structure, and fear.
We stood as the wealthiest Black family in New Orleans, and arguably the entire South.
We didn’t just run that city; we orchestrated its very rhythm.
Every contract signed, every club opened, and everybody that turned up in the alleys bore our fingerprints in some form.
People didn’t just know of the Belviors, they feared us deeply.
Whispering “Belvior” too loudly could send shivers down one’s spine, prompting wary glances and anxious looks over their shoulders.
Anyone of high rank affiliated with our family could walk into any restaurant, shop, nightclub, or hotel without paying a dime.
That wasn’t because we lacked the means, it was simply that no one dared to hand us a bill.
Politicians owed us favors, judges raised their glasses in our honor, our enemies envied us deeply, and our allies followed our demands without question.
Law enforcement even turned a blind eye before we urged them to, while the city itself learned to bow before our presence.
In our world, respect wasn't something we asked for; it was given willingly and automatically.
My father played chess. Me? I was the checkmate.
Muthafuckas never saw me coming until there were no moves left to make.
I wasn’t just muscle; I mastered the board, then started controlling it.
If I kept moving the way I had been, that crown was already mine.
Next in line wasn’t a question, it was a countdown.
All I had to do was wait my turn and make sure nobody lived long enough to block it.
“So, question. What if I end up with a daughter first?”
“A daughter still counts. The official requirement is an heir. Any legitimate first child fulfills that obligation. But let’s not play dumb either.
In families like ours, a son has always been viewed as stronger politically.
Men trust sons quicker when power is involved.
They see continuity, stability, and a future version of you. ”
He took a slow pull from his cigar.
“Now personally, I think daughters can be just as dangerous if raised correctly… sometimes more dangerous.” A dark chuckle left him.
“Still, rules are rules. If your first child is a girl, your position remains secure. Nobody can publicly challenge your place over that. Now privately? Of course, there will be old men whispering over expensive liquor about how a boy would’ve been preferable.
Ignore them. Those same men tend to underestimate daughters right before those daughters become the most dangerous people in the room. ”
I nodded slowly before folding my hands together and staring him down again. “Last question.”
His brow lifted slightly.
“So, hypothetically speaking… say I fall for a woman in the next few months. She fits into my life naturally, she understands me, I want her around, and I can actually see her being my wife, carrying my child, and enjoying this life with.” I paused briefly before finishing.
“But later I find out she can’t give me a child. Then what?”
“Then you let her go.” He shrugged without an ounce of emotion. “Merge, as much as you may care for her, emotions don’t outweigh legacy. And hopefully you’ll discover that valuable information before marrying her. Untangling emotions after paperwork gets involved becomes inconvenient.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“The child comes first… always. So again, the woman who gives you your first child is the woman you’ll have to marry.
That part is not up for debate. And if you can’t produce an heir with the woman of your choosing or if you drag your feet too long trying to find the perfect woman,” his tone lowered slightly, “then I’ll make the decision for you… the same way my father did for me.”
“Damn, Pops.”
He shrugged again. “It’s never personal, son, just business. But I’d rather not go that route. Forced arrangements can get messy, resentment gets messier, and nothing destabilizes power faster than a rich, unhappy spouse with access to secrets and too much free.”
A dry chuckle left him.
“So, before you start calling some fine lady ‘the one,’ make sure you know where that woman stands when it comes to having children. Save yourself the heartbreak and the complication. My advice? Don’t choose the girl based only on butterflies, chemistry, or how good she looks sitting on your lap or dick.
Choose her according to whether you truly believe she can survive this lifestyle.
Can she handle pressure? Attention? Danger?
The weight attached to our last name? Can she stand beside you without folding the second this world stops being fun and starts becoming ugly?
Because loving a Belvior and surviving a Belvior lifestyle are two completely different things.
Also, go with someone you can picture yourself waking up beside every morning without flinching or feeling homicidal. ”
That pulled a laugh out of me.
“I’m serious, son. Marrying a woman you hate creates a very stressful household.” His eyes sharpened slightly. “Still… even if you can’t love her, tolerate her.”
“Or kill her,” I muttered low under my breath, thinking he didn’t hear me.
Unfortunately, he did.
He pointed his cigar toward me.
“That’s an option too. But being a widower too young and changing wives every other year creates unnecessary attention.
People start questioning your stability, your judgment, and your ability to lead.
Investors get nervous, allies get cautious, and eventually enemies start whispering that the Belvior heir can’t keep a woman alive long enough to build a household. ”
I nodded in understanding, then felt like fuckin’ with him.
“I assume you love Mama then, since y’all still together,” I teased.
Him and Mama had a love-hate relationship. One day they’d be all lovey-dovey, cuddled up, laughing like high school sweethearts, and the next, she’d be throwing a shoe at his head for breathing too loud while she’s watching her stories.
“I do love her… now,” he responded, scratching his chin. “Just not when she’s hiding my cigars, switching the TV mid-game, or threatening to pour hot grits on me in her sleep like she’s Freddy Krueger with a breakfast special.”
I snorted. “So… you love her on a schedule?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Some days I’m in love, some days I’m just trying not to get hit with a shoe. Marriage is about balance, son.”
I didn’t respond right away. My mind drifted to the thought of being married to Zonnique.
I could already hear her talkin’ ‘bout, “Do the guards really need to be here all night?” then sliding into, “Your tone feels disrespectful,” just because I blinked too hard, followed by her beefin’ with my Mama for calling her “that lil’ girl,” and throwing a whole tantrum over parsley on every item of food.
Hell, I’d probably wake up one morning and mistake the sound of her heels for gunshots.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m ready for all this?” I confessed, the words slipped out lower than I intended.
It wasn’t weakness; it was a rare moment of truth in a room that didn’t allow many. That type of honesty in our world could get a man killed instantly if said to the wrong ear. But Pops just nodded, like he understood, because maybe he felt that way before taking on the position.
“You are,” he replied confidently. “But readiness doesn’t matter in this family, rules do. So either build the throne or kneel before whoever does. Your choice.”
I grounded my molars.
I hated when my father was right. I hated it even more that he always was.
His tone softened. “I want greatness for you, son. You have my relentless drive and your mother’s natural charm.
You could lead this empire into another century if you stop thinking like a soldier and start thinking like a boss.
Figure it out, Merge. The clock’s ticking, and the Belvior name doesn’t wait for indecision or hesitation. ”
Pops poured himself another drink, then handed me one too.
“To two years," he toasted, raising his glass.
I clinked mine against his, the crystal ringing clear.
“To two years,” I repeated, though my heart raced with uncertainty.
***
I sat in the private section of Cygne Noir Lounge, one of the Belviors’ signature establishments.
The bass thumped low and heavy, strong enough to make the glasses on the table tremble.
Being there usually settled something in me, but that night, even the familiar surroundings couldn’t calm my mind.
The lounge didn’t simply look like it belonged to the Belviors, it felt like us.
Black and gold bled through every inch of the place, while low lighting glinted off polished marble floors, velvet seating, and bottles that cost more than most people’s monthly mortgage payments.
Everything about Cygne Noir whispered wealth, exclusivity, and danger… just like the family behind it.
Across from me sat Knox, my right-hand man. He wasn’t blood but closer than most who shared my last name. I pulled him out of the streets and put him on to the business years ago. Knox handled the cleanups, and the quiet threats. He was ruthless like me, just more level-headed.
“You look like hell,” he noted, sipping his drink.
“I feel worse,” I admitted.
Knox pointed at my glass. “That’s your fourth drink, which means you stress-drinking again.”