Bodyguard My Heart (The Bodyguard #2)

Chapter 8

8

D emetrius

“Don’t tell me you cooked all this for me, Gran.” I kissed my grandma on the cheek as I entered the dining area for breakfast.

“Don’t trip. I cooked it for Samara,” she replied. “We don’t get too many girlfriends around here.” She was setting the table and humming an old Haitian hymn I could never quite make out. It had been nearly a decade since I’d been here, and mostly everything still looked the same. It still gave me this strange sense of belonging.

“She’s my wife, Gran,” I corrected as I stared up at the mantelpiece and eyed my parents' old, tarnished wedding picture. They looked so happy in it. Their eyes were so full of love and hope for their lives together. It was a very different contrast to how I saw them growing up. By the time Polo and I came, my father was a busy lieutenant in the cartel, and my mother was a full-time, stay-at-home, exhausted mother.

“You said she was your ex-wife. Why you say that?” She swatted a dish rag at me. I’d said that shit earlier just to get a reaction out of Samara. Even if Samara had turned the divorce papers in and our shit was final, in my eyes she would never be my ex-wife.

“It’s complicated, Gran.” I shrugged.

“Then uncomplicate it. You two having trouble?”

I stared at my grandmother. She didn't know how complicated Samara and I were. When I called to tell her I was married, I’d left out all that shit about it being fake. My grandparents didn’t know anything about my profession. They thought I owned businesses just like they thought my father did before he died.

“I’m trying, Gran.” I sighed. If I wasn’t doing anything else, I was trying. Samara had some walls on her that were hard to tear through.

“Fabian says she’s a nurse. Smart girl! That’s what you need.”

An instant pain shot through my chest. My cousin was gone due to a hit that was meant for me, and he wasn’t coming back. That shit was heavy, and no time seemed like the right time to break that to my grandparents. Fabian was all they had left of my aunt, and now he, too, was gone.

“Gran, Fabian is…”

“Here taste this.” She shoved a fork full of her famous cornmeal porridge in my mouth, making my words trail off. She was avoiding my bad news like she knew what it consisted of. I gave the porridge a good taste.

“That taste just like my mom’s, Gran.”

“Who do you think taught her? An American woman don’t know how to make cornmeal porridge.”

We shared a laugh before she turned to the doorway.

“Tan pou manje!” she yelled, announcing that it was time to eat. Grandpapa and Claude came running into the kitchen fast.

“I’ll go get Samara,” I announced as I turned on my crutches.

“Chita ou enfim tet ou. Sit yo’ cripple ass down. She’s already on the way,” Claude replied just as Samara entered the room. Her eyes immediately found mine and her lips turned up. If looks could kill, I would be as dead as a motherfucker. I watched as she strutted her pretty, thick ass to the other side of the table and sat down. I knew she was pissed about me stopping her orgasm, but hell, I’d stopped my nut too. It took everything in me to pull that Dyson vacuum cleaner that was Samara’s mouth up off my dick, but it was a sacrifice worth making.

Samara really thought she was gon’ keep benefiting from fucking a nigga and not accepting everything else that came with it. I didn’t chase women; they flocked to me, willing to give me any and everything that I wanted. But for the last six years I’d been running after Samara. I had my lil links on the side, but the more I slid up in Samara the less I wanted to mess around. I just wanted to openly love and cherish her for the rest of my life, even if I didn’t properly know how this love shit worked. I stared at her pretty ass from across the table as we all sat down to eat. She was trying not to look at me, but she kept looking up, stealing glances, showing all the feelings she thought she was doing such a good job tucking away.

“We have eggs and plantains, spaghetti and sausage, and my infamous cornmeal porridge,” Gran announced, mainly for Samara as she was the only non-Haitian at the table. Samara loved to try different types of foods, so I wasn’t worried about her not liking any of it.

“It all looks good, Gran. Thank you,” Samara replied.

“Let’s eat!” Grandpapa announced, and we all dug in without saying anything else. I took a few bites, but honestly, I ain’t have much of an appetite. My mind kept wandering to all the shit I had going on.

“D, I was thinking about moving to the States like Fabian. You think you can put me up until I get on my feet?” Claude questioned. The air sucked right out of my lungs. I glanced around the table at my grandmother. I couldn’t think of a better time than now to break this news to them. My eyes shot to Samara. She was staring at me, her chest heaving up and down. I felt her foot find mine under the table. It was a small gesture, but I appreciated it. She nodded and I took a deep breath.

“Fabian was in the car—”

“How do you like everything?” Gran interrupted. It was like she knew what I was about to say and didn’t want to hear it. I turned to her.

“We can’t avoid it anymore, Gran,” I commented. “Fabian was in the car when somebody slammed into us. He didn’t make it, that’s why I’m here.”

Silence blanketed the table, and all that could be heard was heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry that I had to come here under these circumstances.”

“Repeat that shit again,” Claude said. “Are you saying Fabian is gone? No way, I just talked to him two days ago.”

“He was pronounced dead at the hospital. Fabian had an intracerebral hemorrhage. The increased pressure in his skull was too much.” Samara spoke.

“My God!” Gran threw her hand over her mouth and tears flowed down her face. I’d seen a lot of death in my lifetime, some of those lives I’d taken, but nothing matched up to this moment right now. A nigga was truly hurting.

“Are you and your father determined to kill off this family!” Grandpapa yelled as he pounded on the table. His face was a stark difference from Gran’s. He didn’t have any tears, only anger. I understood it. I was angry at me too.

“Fabian didn’t have much here dammit, but he was alive. He was alive and well and free of that gangster lifestyle you live!” he shouted. “You think we don’t know what you do? Who you are? Why you had to marry that girl? We know! You’re the face of the London Cartel!”

His words felt like somebody had snatched duct tape off a wound. My eyes bucked at the realization that they knew who I was. I didn’t know how they had found out, but people talked. I had employed many Haitian natives since I’d become Capo, anyone could have mentioned it to them.

“I didn’t know this was gon’ happen,” I managed to say.

“You take him to that America, make him join your gang. What did you think was gon’ happen?”

“That he was gon’ be able to make some money, provide for himself. Do something with his life!” I defended. “I’m not going to apologize for helping my family.”

“Helping? You sound like your father.” Disgust dripped from his words.

“Yes, helping. I did what I had to do to provide a better life for everybody. You all stay here because you want to. I bought you a bigger house, a better one.”

“We don’t want your drug money! This house, I provided for my family with hard work. I woke up every day and farmed the land. Legally! I didn’t have to destroy others to build up my own. I loved your father. He was my first-born son, but he wanted more than what we could provide. He wanted that American dream and did anything to get that ratchet, cursed money.”

I stared at my grandpa as he ranted. There was nobody in this world that could speak to me this way and survive, but this was my grandfather, and he was right. A part of being a man was learning how to listen. How to take criticism and own up to messes I had created. I needed to hear everything he was spitting at me just as much as he needed to get it off his chest. Samara reached across the table and grabbed my hand. Her support in this moment was everything, even if it was just her touch.

“Your precious lifestyle has taken your father. Your mother died with a broken heart seeing you and Polo go down the same path as him. Now Fabian is gone. What else will you take?”

“Jean Pierre!” Gran’s voice thundered, breaking the tension in the room. “That is enough!”

Grandpa looked at his wife before turning his attention back to me. “You think you can go through life, selling poison to families, tearing them apart with your drugs and your guns. You think because it gives you money and power you’re doing something good for your family! It’s the opposite. You think God is going to bless your house when it was built on sorrow? You are not helping anyone. You are a plague in your own community, amongst your own people. That is not success. Whatever you are running from is going to catch up to you, and you are not welcome to hide here.” He stood from the table and stormed off.

Sobs erupted from my grandmother and Claude as we all sat there processing what had just happened.

“I’m sorry about Fabian. I’m sorry you don’t agree with my lifestyle. I’m not proud of all my choices, but I made the best out of the life I was given. My father wasn’t perfect, he was very flawed, but he did what he had to do to survive. He taught me how to be a man. So as a man I sit here saying that I’m sorry. I’m grieving, too, and the people responsible for his death will suffer. Thank you for breakfast, Gran. We’re leaving. I’ll be in touch about funeral arrangements.” I stood, steadying the crutches under my arms.

“You don’t have to go!” Gran protested.

“I do,” I replied as I began moving to the back room. Samara and I could stay at a hotel until it was safe to return to Miami. I wasn’t down to stay anywhere I wasn’t wanted.

“Thank you for breakfast.” Samara stood. She quickly rounded the table and placed her hand on my back.

“I got you,” she whispered as she placed her hand on my back and helped me walk to the guest room to gather our stuff.