They led me down a narrow hallway and into an office at the back of the venue. The door shut behind us with a quiet click that felt louder than the music outside.
My father.
My grandfather.
Three uncles.
Two elders I had only seen at funerals.
Men who did not attend brunches unless something serious was happening.
The room smelled like cigar smoke and cologne. Old money and old decisions.
I stayed standing.
“What is this?” I asked.
No one smiled.
My father stepped forward as if he had rehearsed this speech in his head a hundred times.
“Yuna, my baby girl,” he said carefully, “We have some things to discuss, and your last name is one of them.
I glared at him, confused.
“Your last name is not what you think it is.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
“Stop.”
“You are a Laveau.”
I laughed once, sharp and dry.
“That’s not funny. Who the fuck are the Laveau’s?”
“It’s not a joke,” my grandfather replied, voice even. “And it is not new.”
The air in the room shifted. I could feel it pressing in on my ribs.
“You were raised under another name for protection,” my father continued. “We kept you removed from the Laveau title so you could grow up outside of it. Outside of what it requires.”
“And what exactly does it require?” I asked.
My grandfather leaned slightly on his cane, studying me.
“It requires strength. And requires you to marry into a prominent family in France that the family has to align with.”
“To marry?” I turned up my nose.
My father exhaled slowly, like he knew this was the part that changed everything.
“Yes, marry. The Laveau name sits at the center of Black organized power on the West Coast, and you hold the key to keep us up and running.”
My throat tightened.
“What does that mean?”
