Bittersweet Chocolate

Marissa’s belief,
revenge never ends until all the players are dead, or one left standing,
becomes fact when enemies from her past re-emerge seeking vengeance.

It’s the social unrest era of mid-nineteen-sixties Philadelphia. For Marissa Wells, a young black woman, surviving increasing gang violence trumps civil rights, with good reason. Gang culture is part of her lifestyle, affiliation that molds character, skews ethics, and leads to her brutal assault. Marissa retaliates, and her lover forfeits his life saving hers. Guilt-ridden, she severs all ties and moves away. Her mistake―she leaves enemies alive to retaliate.

Transitioning from segregation to integration, she settles in California, meets Tristan Corbett, a white southerner, discovers love is colorblind, and happiness is fleeting.

Marissa’s past starts intruding on her present. Enemies re-emerge, jeopardizing her new life. To eliminate the threat and cycle of revenge, aware she might die trying, she lures her nemesis into a confrontation.

This is a previous release.

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Bittersweet Chocolate

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wade-Reid

ISBN: 978-1-4874-0264-8

Cover art by Latrisha Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Bittersweet Chocolate

Revenge 1

By

Emily Wade-Reid

In loving memory of

MSgt. James E. Reid

U.S.M.C. (Ret)

November 10, 1947—March 27, 1999

Thanks for thirty-five incomparable years.

Well hell, it’s true what they say―whoever
they
are―about
life goes on
regardless of prior debilitating mental and physical life experiences. Who’d know what that meant better than her.

After a betrayal of trust led to her brutal assault and she’d been left to die, despite the scope of her injuries, with indomitable tenacity, she survived. Wounds healed, demoralizing humiliation faded, and even learning the extent of the internal damage, implying she’d never have children, gained acceptance.

What was irreparable, unforgettable, and unforgivable was the death of a man who loved her enough to forfeit his life to save hers. A man who deserved better, died because of the arrogance behind her blind determination to settle a score. His irrevocable loss would remain her cross to bear. In addition, she’d promised him she’d change her gangster ways after she had her revenge, and though she’d failed to achieve that goal, she intended to keep her promise.

So, damn straight, she signed up for
the life goes on
circuit. She had a purpose. For him, she’d prove she could change.

No doubt, she accepted partial blame for what had happened, because she’d chosen to ignore innate instincts and clear signs of imminent disaster. With her customary overconfidence, she’d set out to navigate unfamiliar environments of sex and romance, the venture that almost cost her her life.

How could she have been so naïve?

Sure, she’d been young and a Catholic with all the related moral baggage. Combine that with parent-imposed Emily Post niceties of social etiquette, and it might lead one to assume those qualities accounted for her gullibility.
Uh-uh,
wrong. Human antisocial conduct of deception, or violence and retaliation, weren’t unfamiliar to her. Her youth coincided with the turbulent years of the civil rights movement―discrimination, segregation, and integration. Were there better examples of aggression and backlash?

What’s more, during that period of social unrest, in her Negro community, efforts to survive escalating gang violence trumped civil rights. Sadly, the gang environment was an integral part of her lifestyle. Related to, and affiliated with gang members was an alliance that molded her character, skewed her moral compass, and turned friends into enemies. Being a poster child for
miz
goody-two-shoes
naïveté, she was not.

Yet oddly, considering her background, acts of and reactions to violence were never up close and personal, only life observations. Until that son of a bitch slithered into her world with his brand of harsh reality. Her psyche had tried to warn her that he wasn’t what he seemed. Ignoring common sense and years of learned street smarts, she became involved with him.

Believing he was the man of her dreams, she thought she was in love and he was the man she would marry. She let her guard down and the ensuing devastation taught her two object lessons.

One...as a victim of a heinous act of brutality, she’d learned the true meaning of hate. Driven by her hate, she’d gone after the bastard who orchestrated the attack on her, willing, capable of, and had attempted to kill...
uh,
no attempt to kill. She’d set out to commit premeditated murder. But the bastard didn’t die, and her lover’s death was the result of that oversight. Hatred for each other, her and the bastard, escalated to toxic, and led to her second, most significant lesson.

Two...failure to attain payback, her psyche implemented an acceptable philosophy of
revenge never ends until all the players are dead, or one left standing.
A mindset intended to keep her vigilant and prepared, just in case.

In retrospect, she
should’ve
recognized signs of her unruly youth spinning out of control. If she’d noticed, perhaps she
could’ve
redirected the course of her devastating actions, which
might have
kept her lover alive. Overall, she
would’ve
avoided becoming the target of revenge possibly lasting the rest of her life.

Damn. All those would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, and might’ve been’s...why continue berating herself about things she can’t change. Besides, having survived, and given a second chance, she intended taking the opportunity to amend her ways and keep her promise.

Opting for self-imposed exile and abandoning her justifiable vengeance helped to temper her
one left standing
doctrine. She also planned to utilize key elements of her downfall, arrogance and obstinance, to restructure her lifestyle choices...hmm.

Her good intentions might be useless gestures. She
was
leaving behind folkes who thought they deserved reprisal. Starting with her archenemy, who alleged
he
owed
her.
Like her, he had
an ingrained sense of gang justice, values that made vows of payback credible. He wouldn’t end his vendetta until he’d attained his goal, or died trying. And didn’t that darken her prospects for a happily-ever-after.

Hell. If
he
thought he had a grudge against her, maybe she shouldn’t ignore other wannabe enemies as threats. Although she couldn’t
imagine why the others would consider their mickey-mouse grudges worthy of reprisal...oh, except...no, couldn’t be that stupid. Furthermore, if other erstwhile adversaries wanted revenge, he or she would have to form a line, then get to her first.

Folkes
―homie gang speak for unrelated people―questioned how she’d acquired one enemy, much less several, back when. Had the curious known her like the
folks―
relatives―knew her, the answer would’ve been obvious.

To know her was to love...uh hate...um, want to kill, and she’d started at such a young age.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Bone-chilling night air that invaded every room in the house and still lingered, triggered the start up of the oil-burning furnace. Its low hum echoed through the vents, along with the rattling, metallic ringing of old pipes as water rushed to its final destinations, heralded the first signs of life.

“Marissa!” Brittany’s voice shattered the hushed sounds of the house’s early morning routine.

“Wh-a-at,” Marissa whined, face surfacing from beneath the covers.

“Girl, get up. You’re going to be late for school.”

“Damn,” she muttered.

“I heard that. Clearly, Mom and Dad are wasting money sending you to Catholic school.”

“Oh, shut up, Brie. Like you really wanted to get up and go out in all that snow. It did snow again last night, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and there weren’t any school closed announcements for our schools.”

“Whoa...who would have guessed,” she sneered. “Isn’t this the test...good little Catholic’s test, see if we qualify for martyrdom or something? Heck, it takes all night to thaw out after trudging through the snow, standing around waiting for a bus to take our dumb asses to those eight hours of suffering.”

Brittany sighed. “I know. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Well, I’m tired of it.” Marissa threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. “What am I getting out of this? I’m not becoming a nun. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

“Sounds suspiciously like your friends talking, and I use the term friends loosely. Why don’t you stop hanging around with those guys?”

“What about Frank? Where does he stand in your estimation?”

“He’s the worse of them. He’s our cousin, and should put a stop to you hanging out with them.”

“Stop me, as in control me...Brie, pul-lease.” Marissa snickered. “Besides, I owe Frank and the guys a lot.”

“Gang members, girl, get a grip.”

“Hey, because of Frank and my friends, I go anywhere I want and nobody bothers me. And, it didn’t hurt to have my friends when you had that hassle with those girls from South Philly, did it? So don’t knock my connections.”

“Okay. They have their uses.”

“Brie, you need to stop worrying about me. You take everything too seriously. Like you said, the guys have their uses.”

“I hope you’re not trying to jerk those guys around. I know your feelings about males in general, and I’ve seen the way you treat the ones interested in you.” She shook her head. “You can’t keep doing that and continue to get away with it. Remember what Dad says about it coming back at you.”

“Stop worrying. I can take care of myself. As for my friends, what I am, they helped create, taught me everything I know.” Marissa chuckled. “Whereas the way I treat boys
...
pul-lease, quid pro quo for
the way they treat their girlfriends.” She walked into the bathroom, leaving her sister sitting on the edge of the bed, staring after her.

She knew what she was doing. Even though she bitched about going to Catholic school, she acknowledged she needed it at that time of her life. Religion gave her effective balance necessary to survive in her two worlds.

She was determined to graduate, then make a decision about college or starting a career, and pregnancy wasn’t in her plans for the near future. The religious rhetoric came into play as the anchor necessary to stay grounded. Though there were times she’d been tempted to cross over to the dark side―sin. But she vowed, if she transgressed, she’d keep it venial―kissing, petting―the pardonable offenses.

“Rissa, I don’t want to sound all preachy like Mom, but the girls around here don’t like you. You’re hanging out with their boyfriends,” she stated. “You’re what...twelve?”

She came to the bathroom door. “Thirteen...in a few weeks,” she mumbled.

“Like I said...twelve, and with your looks, the girls believe it’s more than friendship you and the guys share.”

“Brie, I’m shocked...gossiping. Isn’t that a sin, or something?”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” she snapped. “And I don’t give a shi-shoot, how it looks. The guys are just friends.”

“Only telling you what’s being said.”

“Well, give your friends a heads-up.” Snatching up her uniform and blouse, she held it out to her sister. “Tell them not to let this Catholic school facade fool them. If they have something to say to me―they’re bad―tell them to step up, in my face.”

She flung her clothes aside, grabbed her comb, and yanked it through the tangles in her hair. A distinctly painful tug brought her raging emotions under control. Why did she let her sister get to her? This conversation wasn’t any different from previous ones.