Devon Laveau-Wells
“A father done fighting.”
Istood against the wall, wiping my mouth with my shirt, mad as fuck. I looked around the room, and everyone stood quietly, even my brothers. They had me pissed as well. They didn’t intervene; they let him think he had the upper hand, but he didn’t.
I built this family from the ground up. I wasn’t going down without a fight. I only agreed because I knew my son was raised to be trigger-happy. I raised him to be the man he is. I was the reason he had that much boldness in his blood.
I looked at Shayla, my wife. She didn’t even bother to help me. She stood back, smirking and shaking her head. I ignored it and addressed my brothers.
“So y'all just let that shit go down like y'all wanted it to happen?”
My big brother stepped up to me. “I think you should step down.”
“What?” I turned up my nose.
“Nephew handles everything as it is. You just the face now. Let that kid become a man.”
“Yeah, my own family are traders. He wants my spot? Tell him he’s gotta pull that trigger next time.” I grabbed Shayla’s arm and left.
The ride was silent. She didn’t say shit to me, and it had my mind racing.
When we got home, the tension was thick in the air.
Every step I took through the house felt heavier than the last, like the walls themselves were watching me.
My own son.
Putting his hands on me.
Putting a gun to my head like I was just another nigga on the street.
I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and pushed through the double doors into the sitting room.
My wife followed me.
Of course she did.
Shayla walked to the bar. After she poured a drink, she sat down, legs crossed, wine in her hand, as our world hadn’t tilted.
She looked up at me.
Amused.
“Well,” she said, “you look terrible.”
I frowned. “You molested my son?”
She took a sip of her wine. “I did what?”
My voice dropped. “Don’t play stupid with me.”
She smirked. “I’m not playing anything.”
“You know what you were doing to him. You were giving him liquor since he was twelve, so you could groom him.”
She let out a soft laugh. “You’re going to have to sound more realistic.”
My hand slammed against the table, the glass rattling under the force.
