PROLOGUE

 

“You let another nigga put a baby in you.” My husband barked in my ear, his spit flying as he called me every name in the book.

I folded my arms across my chest and glanced around the private jet. The walls were lined with polished wood veneer. The four seats were cream-colored with C.S. initials imprinted on the bottom right standing for Calvin Steele. Embedded in the floor was a mini tray holding a bottle of Hennessy XO and a half-smoked cigar, its smoke clouding the room.

I listened to all the bitches and whores my enraged husband hurled at me, one after another. Then, out of nowhere this motherfucker slapped the hell out of me. “Cal-,” I began. 

He reached over, grabbed me by my neck, and dragged me to the emergency exit of the private jet. “What the fuck are you doing, Calvin? Calvin!” I screamed, my heart plummeting into my stomach. This man, my husband, my best friend, was about to toss me out of a moving plane. 

 

“You nasty fucking bitch.” I struggled as he tried to pry the door open. Each kick to the door causes urine to seep from my skirt. A small puddle formed at the bottom of my feet; I was fucking livid. 

“Bitch you are my fucking wife. You are not these niggas whore. How dare you disrespect me knowing who the fuck I am,” he screamed. 

 

I grabbed hold of his wrist pleading with him. At this point, I was damn near begging for my life. Not a lot of shit scared me, but Calvin did. “Calvin baby please it’s me,” I begged. Tears streamed down my face, and I knew I looked like a hot mess. Desperation filled my voice as I did everything in my power to remind him of the bond we once shared, hoping he would see the person he used to care about. 

“Mr. Steele!” His assistant barked, running behind him and grabbing his arm. I listened as she tried to reason with him, reminding him that we were 35,000 feet in the air. “Mr. Steele, please put Mrs. Steele down,” she pleaded, pulling him away from the exit. 

This mother fucker wasn’t letting off one bit. His main goal was to have my ass looking like Swiss cheese for the world. He finally pulled the emergency exit latch down back towards him. I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until I heard the door click. 

Patricia, the old white assistant who was like a second mother to my husband, helped me to my feet. You could smell the piss lingering in the air with each step I took to the bathroom. Out of respect for me and my sense of embarrassment, Patricia said nothing as she escorted me to the bathroom. 

Before I entered the bathroom, I heard my husband bark, “Clean your pissy ass up! You have five minutes to get your ass back here. We need to finish our little chat,” he barked.

 

I nodded my head without looking back at him. As I stepped into the small, decorative bathroom, the tears I had been holding back finally began to fall. Fear, embarrassment, and anger surged through me. I could not believe Calvin my fucking husband was ready to toss my ass off the jet over another nigga.

 

This nigga got me fucked up, I thought. 

Looking at my reflection, it was painfully clear I was the one who had him fucked up. My once-perfect dark brown skin was now ashy and dry, a stark contrast to its usual smoothness. The pain in my neck was a constant reminder of his aggression, where his nails had dug deep into my skin, leaving red marks. My eyes, swollen from crying, reflected the fear and anger I felt inside. Dried mascara streaks ran down the sides of my face, and my individual lashes were barely hanging on. I definitely looked like what I was going through. I did my best to wash the funk off me, scrubbing away the evidence of my tears and pain. I swapped my miniskirt for a pair of Calvin’s old basketball shorts from his dirty hamper. Anything was better than smelling like piss all day.

I hesitated before leaving the bathroom, torn between staying hidden and facing the inevitable, I knew if I stayed in any longer the devil himself would drag me out for part two.

I could feel Calvin’s stone-cold eyes tracking my every move as I sat across from him. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, I raised my hand, cutting him off before he could say a word. “That was way out of line and unnecessary.” I smacked my lips.

I watched as his eyes squinted and a small smirk replaced his stone-cold face. “Danielle,” he started. “When this plane lands you will kill that niggas baby, come home, and suck my white dick. Once I nut in your pretty brown mouth, you will go back to being my fucking wife,” he said matter of fact.

 

I licked my dry lips and looked at him sideways. This motherfucker really expected me to go home and suck his dick like he was not about to kill me a few minutes ago. “Calvin, all this shit started because of you. You allowed another bitch to touch you. You allowed this bitch to be comfortable enough to step to my doorstep. You made that heffa comfortable enough to step to your wife!” I screamed.

He just sat there, watching me rant with a blank look on his face. That shit pissed me off even more.

“You mad because I fuck a nigga while you were fucking a bitch and had his bitch laid up in our fucking house. Not only that, you got this white bitch pregnant. I let that shit go on for two years and I’m fucking sick of it, Cal,” I spoke. “Did you forget I was loyal as fuck to you? You had no problem being loyal to those snake ass niggas in your corner. But you could not be loyal to your fucking wife.” I laughed. “Calvin you, my friend, got your own self fucked up,” I spoke.

While he was off traveling to different countries fucking bitches, he wanted me to sit home like some old maid and wait on him hand and foot. I knew about his infidelities for a while, I just didn’t say anything. I wanted to see how far he would allow this to go on when he thought it was going unnoticed. That was until this blue eye blonde headed bitch came to my doorstep confessing that she and my husband was fucking, and she was pregnant. I knew for a while that he was fucking different bitches; the problem was he married me. I was a black woman married to a white man, and he had the nerve to sleep with a white fucking woman. That shit was disgusting and made me sick to my fucking stomach.

 

Calvin got out of his seat and leaned in close, his face inches from mine. “You are my fucking wife, Danielle,” he spat. Spit was fleeting all over my face but that was the least of my worries. I knew my husband and I knew this man in front of me was not my husband. My husband was loving and caring. This wasn’t the same man who would sit in the nail salon with me, helping me pick colors while getting a pedicure and manicure. When it rained, he’d have an umbrella in one hand and my raincoat in the other. That man worshipped the ground I walked on. He knew I was designed for him. This man standing before me was deadly, a ruthless white-coat-pushing drug dealer. On the streets, he was called Lethal. His reputation preceded him, but only a selected few had ever encountered him in person. When people heard the name, Lethal many thought he was a myth, and some say he was a legend. Rumors, rather he has been gunned down by the feds or hidden away in an isolated prison by the government. Many people speculated. When you thought of Calvin Steele, you thought of the Illuminati and Mandela effect. 

“You must forget who the fuck you are married to bitch. Let me say this one last time. Your black ass is my fucking wife. You will walk talk and breathe as if you are my fucking wife!” he screamed.

His words echoed in my ear, making me tense up a bit. “Bitch you blink when I say fucking blink. You nut when I say nut. And I promise you Danielle, you will die when I say die,” he retorted.

Calmly as if nothing had transpired, he returned to his seat, straightening his suit along the way. I glance at him, tears welling up in my eyes. Five years I devoted to this man, five years of my life and yet here we were. 

 

I bit down my lip before saying “Why me, Calvin?” I questioned.

“Why you what?” he responded, not even looking in my direction. 

“Out of all the women in the world. Why did you choose me to hurt?” 

He finally lifted his head and turned to me. I watched as he studied my face, noting every expression. I didn’t even give him a chance to answer. “I gave up everything for you. All my dreams, my family, and my fucking life. I gave up all that to be your wife!” I screamed.

Clapping his hands together he finally gave me his full attention “Do you no longer want to be my wife, Danielle?” he asked, pausing to look me straight in the eyes. “I took you from everything. You were so unhappy when I first met you. You were living check-to-check in a nasty, roach-infested apartment. You were going to school stressed the fuck out because these mother fuckers would not give you a chance in this God-ridden world, but I did. Do you know how many bitches would want to be Calvin Steele’s wife? Your ass got it made; you came from a broken home. A fucking abusive home and I saved you. I did you a favor Danielle, I saved you from you. And here you go rubbing your black gums together complaining. Ungrateful,” he barked.

“No Calvin, you took me from a prison and placed me in your prison,” I said softly.

Everything he said was true. When he first met me, I was a beautiful mess. I was working as a paralegal at a law firm Monday through Friday, struggling to make ends meet. Despite having more experience than anybody else, my paycheck never reflected it. My damn bills were more than my paycheck, extension couldn’t even help me get caught up. I left home at the age of sixteen and never looked back. What he didn’t realize was that I escaped the devil to lay in bed with the antichrist. I was tired of being controlled, tired of being told that I was never enough, and tired of these fucking people throwing me away as if I didn’t amount to nothing.

I shook my head in frustration to stop the tears of my past. “All I ever wanted was to feel like I matter,” I whispered in my hand. I could no longer fight the tears of all the pain and hurt that I had bottled up in me. 

Calvin got out of his seat, came over, and wrapped his arms around me. I buried my head in his chest and inhaled his Irish Green Creed cologne. “How can I make this right?” he mumbled against my ear. “Danielle, how can I make you love me again?” he questioned. 

 

I removed my head from him and wiped my tears trying to hide the smirk that was forming on my face. Looking him straight into the eyes I said, “I want you to kill my father.” 

He nodded, his face set with determination. Glancing at Patricia he said, “Tell the pilot to head back to South Carolina. I watched as he slowly reached for his 9mm handgun, the sleek metal glinting under the dim light. With deliberate movements, he placed the weapon on the table, his fingers lingering on the cool surface before he leaned his chair back, the creak of the wood breaking the silence. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his eyes told a different story. No words needed to be exchanged at all. What was understood need not be explained. My father was always a dead man walking and I was the one about to sign his death certificate.