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I walked out without giving him a response.

Laurent was halfway down the hall, leaning against the wall like he was posted in front of a corner store. He always thought he was bigger than the program.

I smiled when I saw him.

“Damn. You ain’t got your own crib? You always shacking up here? Grown men don’t live with they grandpa.”

He smirked. “And grown men don’t let their grandfather dictate who they can stick their dick in. Especially not a crackhead.”

I laughed because I already knew he had been listening. Laurent was a gossip boy and always had been. “Bianca still snorting coke off yours?”

His smile didn’t fade. “Actually, she is.”

He adjusted his cuffs before stepping closer.

“It’s crazy watching you go from a poly playboy to a guardian husband. This family really fell off.” He leaned toward me. “And you’re the face of it.”

Something dark moved through me, but I kept my expression the same.

“Si tu étais vraiment un homme, tu ne vivrais pas dans l’ombre d’un homme mourant.” If you were really a man, you wouldn’t live in the shadow of someone dying.

His expression tightened.

I leaned closer. “Souviens-toi de ça. Je n’hérite pas du pouvoir. Je le prends.” Remember this. I don’t inherit power. I take it.

He stared at me before laughing under his breath and lighting his cigar.

“Enjoy your bullshit.”

I watched him walk away and stood there longer than I wanted to admit. Laurent didn’t scare me, but I knew better than to underestimate him. He was dangerous, and I knew that even back then.

I walked outside and got into the car.

“Take me to Le Vice,” I told the driver while texting my cousin Nico.

It was Nico’s club, and he was one of the only cousins I considered solid on the Delacroix side. I needed to tell him what was going on and get away from that estate before I ended up arguing with somebody else.

The Delacroix estate disappeared behind the tinted windows. If I was really about to carry their empire, I needed to remind myself who I was outside of old French bloodlines and Marcel’s expectations.

The driver pulled up to the private entrance of Le Vice. The club was underground, invitation only, and tuxedo only, with a mixed crowd that had money from every direction. Inside was velvet, gold, dark liquor, and women moving through low light while men in tailored suits shook hands over business they didn’t want discussed anywhere else.

This was my other world. The one Marcel didn’t build.

When I walked in, conversations dipped for half a second. It wasn’t because I was Marcel’s heir. It was because I was Ares Jackson.

Feared and respected.

I adjusted my cufflinks and moved deeper into the club. If anybody thought I was about to let the Laveaus embarrass me by handing me a broken bride, they had me fucked up. I didn’t run from problems. I absorbed them, figured them out, and made sure I owned the outcome.

Nico finally showed up at his own club after I was already two drinks in. He slid into the private section he kept for me, and a bottle appeared before he could settle into his seat. A woman with legs up to her shoulders moved in front of us with a lazy, practiced smile.

I threw money out of habit, but my mind wasn’t there. I kept seeing Azaria sitting in that alley.

“What’s going on? I was with the kids,” Nico said.

“My bad, man. I got a lot going on.”

“You look like you’re thinking too much.” He took a drink.