Then there was Amara. She had not hit my phone at all. That bothered me more than I wanted to admit. No paragraph cussing me out. No sad emoji. Nothing. She had been the hardest to convince to be with me, and I was sure she thought I was a fuckboy from the start. I could not even blame her.
“Give them what they deserve,” I said quietly. “The higher cut. Especially Naomi. I would have dropped them all if she asked me to.”
My lawyer nodded and scribbled the note.
“I will have everything to them by the end of the week,” he said. “I already spoke to your accountant. The funds will be wired from your personal accounts. I advise that you have no contact with the women at all. Being in their space will only complicate things. I also advise you to mentally prepare yourself for this arranged marriage.”
“Yeah, I will,” I muttered. “You just make sure my ass is covered in all this bullshit.”
“That is my job, Mr. Delacroix.”
I pushed off his desk, straightened my chain, and walked out before he could start talking about pre-nups and legal optics. I knew all that was coming. I just was not ready to hear it yet.
Outside, the LA sun was bright as hell, disrespectful, like it didn’t know my whole life was ticking away on an eight-monthclock. My driver started for the door, but I waved him off and headed to my AMG instead.
I needed to shoot something.
$$$$$
My uncle’s private gun range sat on the outskirts of Los Angeles, hidden behind a fake trucking company and a rusted gate only family knew how to open. This was my father’s little brother, my Black side. No Delacroix bullshit. No French cousins. Just Jackson blood and gunpowder.
“Look who decided to visit the living,” Uncle Reggie said as I walked in, carrying my bag. “You been ghost for real.”
“Been busy,” I replied, setting my weapons on the table. “Life rearranging itself.”
“Ain’t that what life always do?” He loaded his own clip, eyes on me. “Your mom told me your French granddaddy got your balls in a vice.”
I chuckled. “Something like that.”
Before he could say more, the door behind me creaked open. I had invited my right-hand man.
“What’s up, my nigga?” Zacian said, stepping in. Balenciaga hoodie, Eleven Eight fitted low. My best friend since eleventh grade, back when I lost Malik. Zacian told me to lock in with him and that I had a brother for life. Family by choice.
“Glad you came to shoot up the spot too, nephew. Don’t miss,” Uncle Reggie said, clocking him.
“I don’t miss,” Zacian replied casually.
I smirked.
Uncle Reggie nodded toward the lane.
“Talk with your hands first,” he said. “Then use your mouth.”
That was how he was. Always believed bullets cleared the mind before words did.
I stepped into the lane, slid my ear protection on, and let my .40 speak for me. Zacian took the lane next to mine, quiet, matching my rhythm without a word. After too many rounds, the target was shredded around the chest and head, a black silhouette that looked like every enemy, every cousin, every reporter, and fake friend rolled into one.
All it did was get my dick hard.
Either I needed to kill a nigga or get some pussy.
Neither option was smart right now. But I was going to do one of them.
I set the gun down, pulled my muffs off, and stepped back. Uncle Reggie handed me a water and leaned against the wall.
“You look like my brother when you mad,” he said. “Same jaw, same eyes. He used to come here, tear up targets, then walk out like nothing happened.”
Zacian glanced at me. “That explains a lot.”
