The name sent a jolt through me, tightening my chest. I sat up, heart knocking against my ribs as I unlocked my phone. The email was short. Direct. Attached was a contract. I clicked it open, my eyes scanning over the terms, my stomach twisting with every line. It was exactly what I thought it was—an offer. They wanted me to handle their money, make their numbers look right. And from the language in the email, this wasn't a request. The weight of it settled in my chest like a brick.
St. Jean. The call from earlier rushed back like a flood, and I gripped the stem of my wine glass tighter. This wasn't just some random opportunity. This was calculated. Intentional. The St. Jean family wasn't just some shadowy name whispered in the streets. They were the Black Mob of Louisiana, a dynasty built on power, fear, and blood money. I had heard the names of the brothers Jules and Juste, Noles must’ve been their baby brother born some years after them. Jules, Juste, and Noles weren't just some rich men with connections. They were royalty in a kingdom where loyalty was currency, and betrayal was a death sentence.
And now, they had chosen me. Not as a partner. As their next pawn. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart thudding heavy in my chest. I could've ignored the email—pretended I never saw it. But from the whispers, I knew men like the St. Jeans didn't take silence as an answer. I sat there for a minute, staring at the screen while the cursor blinked, my mind racing. Finally, I started typing.
Mr. St. Jean,
Thank you for reaching out, but I'm not interested in providing the services you're requesting. I'm sure there are other professionals who would be better suited for your needs.
Best regards,
Chiana Alexander
I read over the message twice before hitting send. My stomach clenched the second it left my outbox, but I stood on it. I didn't care who they were or how much money they were offering—some bags just weren't worth carrying. I sat back on the couch, sipping my wine slower now, trying to convince myself that was the end of it. They'd move on. Find somebody else. But I knew better. The St. Jeans didn't ask twice—they just took.
_
By the next morning, Louisiana's sun stretched wide across the sky, heat pressing down thick even though it was barely past eight. I drove with my windows cracked, letting the warm breeze roll in as I made my way through the city. The air smelled like fresh rain and earth, a little salt drifting in from the bayou. When I made it to my office, the sun had climbed higher, making the pavement shimmer. I unlocked the glass door, the little gold plaque reading Alexander Financial Solutions glinting under the sunlight. The second I flipped the sign to Open, a sleek black Mercedes SUV rolled up smooth and silent, like a shadow moving in broad daylight.
My stomach clenched. I already knew who it was. The tag read St. Jean. The St. Jeans moved with precision—never too early, never too late. Always right on time, always making an entrance. The doors opened, and three men stepped out, all dressed in black suits so sharp they looked like they'd been stitched straight onto their bodies. My breath caught. They didn't just look important. They moved like it. Like power clung to them, like they were used to people making way when they stepped into a room.
The first one out looked younger , broad-shouldered and built like he lifted bodies and weights in equal measure. His suit barely contained the muscle underneath, and when he adjusted his cuff links, I caught the flash of a heavy gold watch. His eyes swept the street before landing on my office door with a kind of quiet authority, like he was already planning what would happen next. The second man followed, moving a little looser but still dangerous. He had a wolfish grin on his face, the kind that said he liked this part of the job. His locs were pulled back from his sharp-lined face, and a thin gold chain peeked out from under his jacket.
Then the last man stepped out, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. Juste. I knew it was him by the low mug he wore on his face and the way he looked in between the other two men. And he was fine as hell. Taller than the others, his suit fit like it was made for only him—jet black, crisp, expensive as hell. The kind of man who knew money, power, and exactly how to use both. His skin was a rich, peanut butter smooth, and flawless, like it soaked up nothing but good genes and luxury.
His jawline was razor-sharp, lips full, and his dark eyes locked on me the second he stepped onto the sidewalk. I damn near forgot to breathe. Juste St. Jean wasn't just somebody—he was him. Even with the heat pressing down from the Louisiana sun, a chill ran through me. He walked with that slow, deliberate confidence—the kind that came from knowing he never had to raise his voice or repeat himself. His energy sucked all the oxygen out of the street, like the world had no choice but to pause when he moved. And right now, he was moving straight toward me.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay rooted in place as the three of them crossed the pavement like the goddamn world belonged to them. One of the younger ones reached the door first, pulling it open without hesitation. "Ladies first," he said with a smirk, gesturing for Juste to enter. Juste stepped inside without a word, his eyes flicking over the space like he already owned it. The other two men followed, shutting the door behind them with an easy flick of his wrist. Suddenly, my office—my safe space—felt a whole lot smaller.
I straightened my spine, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. "I already told you—" Juste held up a hand, and just like that, I shut up. Not because I was scared, but because something about him commanded it. "I'm not here to argue with you, Miss Alexander." His voice was smooth, deep, with that slight Louisiana drawl that made everything sound like a slow, deliberate threat. "I'm here to offer you an opportunity. This Noles and Pierre wit me." He said point them out.
I folded my arms, standing firm even though my heart was thudding. "I already declined." He studied me for a long moment, then took a step closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of expensive cologne—something dark and rich. "You didn't decline," he murmured. "You sent an email." He looked me up and down. The way he said it, like my response hadn't even been real. Like it was just a formality he was now correcting in person.
I tilted my chin up, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Same thing." He smiled, slow and knowing. "Nah," he said. "Not with me, it ain't." My breath hitched. Pierre chuckled under his breath, and Noles shifted slightly, his expression unreadable.
Juste reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and placed it on my desk. "Contract's right here," he said, tapping the paper with two fingers. "Everything you need to know. Terms, compensation, non-disclosure. You read it, you sign it, you walk away a wealthier woman." I stared at it like it might catch fire. "I don't want it."
Juste sighed like I was being difficult for no reason, then leaned in slightly. "This ain't about what you want, baeeby," he said, voice dropping lower. "It's about what you gon' do." His words sent a shiver down my spine, but I masked it quick. "I have a business. A real one. I don't need—"
"Business is business," Juste cut in smoothly. "You work numbers. We got numbers that need to be worked." I exhaled sharply, glancing at the contract, then back at him. "And what happens if I still say no?" For the first time, Juste smiled—a slow, knowing thing that sent my stomach flipping. "Then we gotta have another conversation," he said. "And trust me, you'd rather have this one."
The message was clear. This was their gentle approach. I clenched my jaw, my pulse hammering, but I didn't let the fear show. I didn't care how smooth Juste St. Jean tried to make this seem—how polite, how businesslike—this wasn't a negotiation. This was a threat. And I wasn't the type to fold. I straightened my spine, my expression calm and unmoving. "No, thank you," I said, my voice firm as I met Juste's dark gaze head-on. His eyes didn't shift. Didn't flicker. Steady. Calculated. But I held my own.
A slow smirk spread across his lips, lazy and full of something unreadable. He wasn't used to hearing no. Not from women, not from business associates, and definitely not from people he had already decided belonged to him. His silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, but I didn't flinch. I wasn't about to let him see even a crack in my resolve. "Hm," was all he said, a deep, quiet sound from his chest before he turned away, walking toward the door with an unbothered grace that sent a chill through me. Pierre followed, but not before giving me a slow, lingering once-over, like he was assessing me, figuring out if I was bold or just stupid. Noles, the last one to move, paused just slightly, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
Then, right at the door, Juste glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his tone carrying something else now—something that made my stomach clench. "I'll be seeing you, Ms. Alexander." The way he said it wasn't a guess. It was a promise. The door shut behind them, the quiet slamming into me like a wall. I exhaled sharply, my hands gripping the edge of my desk as I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. They were gone. For now. But deep down, I already knew—I hadn't seen the last of Juste St. Jean. Not by a long shot.
=
The rest of the day moved fast, but I barely registered any of it. I met with a few of my regular clients—small business owners, independent contractors, people with real money and real tax concerns—but their voices blurred together, their paperwork a mindless shuffle of numbers and figures I could calculate in my sleep. I had built my world around predictability—numbers that made sense, clients who followed the rules, an existence that had nothing to do with the kind of men who showed up in black trucks with contracts that weren't really offers. But today? Today had thrown everything off balance. I caught myself checking the street through my office window every so often, scanning for that familiar black SUV, half-expecting Juste to walk back in like my refusal didn't matter. Hell, maybe it didn't.
By the time I locked up for the night, the Louisiana sky had darkened to a deep, bruised purple, the air thick and humid, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. The city was still awake, though— street vendors pushing carts of steaming beignets and fresh pralines, the sound of conversation and laughter bouncing off brick buildings. I exhaled, rolling my shoulders as I stepped onto the sidewalk, forcing myself to shake off the weight of the day. This was home. My home. And I wasn't about to let Juste St. Jean or his family make me feel like a guest in my own damn life.
When I pulled into my condo parking lot, my body was exhausted, but my mind was still racing. I went through my usual routine—locking the door behind me, kicking off my heels, dropping my bag on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a glass of wine, letting the rich red swirl in my glass before taking a slow sip.
Normally, this was the part of my day I looked forward to. A hot bath, a good movie, and silence. But tonight, silence felt different. It felt... watched. I shook my head, pushing the paranoia aside.You're tripping, Chi. I'd dozed off sometime between finishing my wine and flipping through old episodes of Living Single. The last thing I remembered was sinking into my pillows, body heavy with exhaustion. But how I went to sleep was not how I woke up.
A slow, feather-light touch trailed across my cheek, down the curve of my jaw, and around my ear, making me stir. My lashes fluttered, my body shifting against the sheets as consciousness crept in. Then I felt it. A presence. My eyes snapped open, and there he was. Juste St. Jean. Sitting at the edge of my bed like he belonged there, his dark eyes locked on me, one hand still tracing the curve of my face.
