Chapter 18 #2
That part surprised me more than anything.
My father never admitted exhaustion… ever.
I said nothing but kept listening.
“I built this family around structure for a reason. Once men start bending rules for comfort, the entire foundation weakens. That’s how dynasties collapse. I’ve carried this family for decades. Every deal, every war, every body, and every decision eventually lands on me.”
His eyes lifted toward me.
“And somewhere on down the line, a man reaches a point where he’s ready to put the crown down before it buries him with it. I said all that to say, sometimes survival means choosing the least dangerous option, not the perfect one.”
He paused briefly.
“So, I ask again, would you rather be married to a woman like Zonnique, who already understands this world, knows how to play a role, minds her business, and values appearances… or a girl you barely know who already sounds emotionally attached before the child even arrives?”
I reclined after that, scratching my beard thoughtfully.
The logic wasn’t terrible. Zonnique understood power, privacy, and image. Whereas Talia felt too eager, too comfortable, and too emotional. And emotional women make dangerous decisions once their feelings get hurt.
“So, you’re saying keep Zonnique as the wife and hide the surrogate completely.”
“I’m saying that you marry the woman who won’t complicate your life more than it already is. The surrogate delivers the child, signs the paperwork, and disappears. Zonnique plays the role publicly, you get your heir, the council gets their proof, and we all move forward.”
“I don’t know, Pops,” I admitted honestly. “Zonnique got a new nigga and shit. Last thing I need is feelings resurfacing on her end and this turning into another problem.”
Pops nodded slowly. “Just think on it, son… but don’t think too long. Problems don’t get quieter the longer you ignore them. But whatever you decide, make sure it's the decision that keeps you on that throne, because I’m not doing this shit forever.”
He reached for his newspaper and snapped it back open with the kind of finality that made it clear the conversation was over.
I sat there in the heavy silence, staring at the half-filled glass of Hennessy in front of me.
Marry Zonnique.
Hide the surrogate.
Fake the pregnancy.
Secure the heir.
That sounded good for the public eye and business. But sitting in that quiet room, I couldn’t shake what I really wanted.
The truth was, I did eventually want a family of my own.
But I didn’t want a wife who played a role; I wanted someone I could have conversations with that actually mattered, someone I trusted enough to wake up next to without calculating my next move, someone who’d challenge me instead of just agreeing to stay out of my way, someone whose company didn’t feel like a business transaction and whose laugh meant something real, not performed.
I wanted a woman who made me want to pull her close first thing in the morning and kiss her even when her breath was stinky as hell.
I wanted to feel something when I touched her…
that raw kind of connection. I wanted to take my lady on trips and feel proud as fuck having her on my arm in public, all while turning heads not because of the name on our marriage certificate, but because people saw her and understood why I chose her.
I wanted to grow old and know I made at least one choice that was actually mine and not something the family negotiated on my behalf.
But the Belvior legacy doesn’t work that way. It trades your heart for a crown and your happiness for a dynasty.
If I was going to lose real love, real choice, and real family in the process, then I had to ask myself:
Was becoming the Don worth it?
A few seconds later Mama came rushing back into the dining room looking overly emotional.
“Joyce screamed so loud in my ear I almost dropped my phone!” she announced dramatically before sitting back down. “We’re going shopping tomorrow!”
I rubbed my forehead. “Y’all moving fast.”
“Of course we are!” she shrieked. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting on this?!”
“Every family dinner for the last three years,” Pops chimed in, his tone dry and laced with sarcasm.
“Oh, hush, Mayzen!” Mama said, waving him off dismissively. Then she turned her attention back to me, her curiosity piqued once more. “Anyway, what is the girl like? I can’t wait to meet her!”
That question felt more complicated than it should’ve.
“She’s…” I searched for the word carefully. “Unpredictable.”
“Hmph. Unpredictable might be good for you.”
Or dangerous.
???
Anytime I needed answers to problems money, power, or violence couldn’t solve, I went to one person.
Ms. Odette, or Ma O, as I called her.
I’d gone to visit her plenty of times growing up after fights with my pops, funerals, deals went wrong, and when I didn’t want a sermon but still needed truth. And she always had that kind of truth that cut and heal in the same sentence.
Ma O wasn’t blood, but she was the closest thing to a grandmother I ever had.
She helped raise half the Belvior men in one way or another.
She washed our heads when we were kids, prayed over our chains before we wore them, and whispered over the caskets of the ones who didn’t make it home alive.
Nobody questioned her. Hell, even my father treated her like royalty. I understood why though.
The impact of Ma O extended far beyond my family.
The entire city was aware of her presence and the power she wielded.
People went to her because she was a real root worker…
not the fake social media spiritualists selling moon water and motivational quotes.
Nah. Ma O dealt in roots, oils, candles, bones, prayers, protections, and reversals, visions.
All the old New Orleans magic people pretended not to believe in until life started beating their ass.
She wasn’t someone you visited when you had options.
She was who people went to when every other door had slammed shut—when doctors admitted defeat, when prayers fell flat, when science had already written their epitaph.
More than a few women around New Orleans claimed she helped them conceive children after doctors told them motherhood would never happen for them.
No explanations.
No documented miracles.
Just life blooming where doctors swore nothing could grow.
And then there were rumors about the men who’d tried to con her, cheat her, or treat her like some carnival act. Those same men ended up in unmarked graves much sooner than expected. There were people who even believed she could sense death circling somebody long before tragedy ever arrived.
The stories about her abilities varied depending on who was telling them.
She was a healer to some, a conjurer to others, and labeled a witch to those who’d witnessed what happened to people who doubted her.
But one thing remained consistent across every version of the legend: nobody called Ma O a fraud… not if they valued their next breath.
Personally, I learned a long time ago not to ask too many questions.
Her house sat at the end of a narrow street in the Lower Ninth, where the porches leaned and the trees looked old enough to remember secrets of long-ago lives to anyone who cared to listen.
I pulled up slowly, cutting the engine before my headlights fully touched her windows.
The night was heavy with crickets, humidity, and the strange kind of silence New Orleans carried after dark.
I walked up the narrow porch steps slowly, the old wood creaking beneath my boots.
The closer I got to the front door, the more familiar the place started feeling.
I was greeted by the scent of burning incense mingled with the earthy aroma of aged wood. Wind chimes clinked softly, and dried herbs hung from the porch ceiling beside little glass jars full of things I stopped trying to identify years ago.
A single yellow porch light glowed above me, flickering just enough to make the shadows move strangely across the walls.
I lifted my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could even make contact with the door, it swung open with a soft creak.
Ma O clicked her tongue softly the second she saw me and stood there with a knowing look on her face as if she had been expecting me for hours.
She was a small woman whose dark skin had seemed to soften with age.
She was draped in a deep indigo shawl. Her eyes were bright as a cat’s, and sharp enough to make grown men uncomfortable.
Her gray locs were wrapped high in gold thread, her wrists jingled with charms that looked older than time itself, and gold rings covered nearly every finger.
“Mmm,” she hummed, as if divining thoughts from the air itself. “There goes trouble in a tailored coat.”
I smirked faintly. “Good evening to you too.”
“You nervous,” she stated, her words not a question but an assertion.
I let out a quiet exhale through my nose. “That obvious, huh?”
“To me? Yes.” Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing my expression as if trying to peel back the layers of my soul. “You’ve been carrying confusion around your spirit for weeks now.”
That made my jaw tighten slightly.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
“Come on in,” she invited me.
I stood at the doorway, hesitating for a second as I observed the inside of her house.
A candle flickered near a bowl of black stones, and shelves lined the walls, filled with jars labeled in languages I couldn’t read.
“Close that door, child. You letting spirits wander in and out like they paying rent,” she rasped, her voice crackling like the flame beside her.
I pulled the door shut, sealing the world outside.
Ma O shuffled over to her rocking chair, motioning for me to sit across from her in a chair carved with symbols.
“Sit. You looking like the devil been sitting on your chest.”
As I took a seat, the wood creaked like it had its own opinion of me.
“Ain’t the devil, but close enough," I replied, trying to inject a hint of humor into the heavy atmosphere.