PROLOGUE
There is a particular kind of silence that exists only in courtrooms.
It is not peaceful. It is not respectful. It is the silence of wolves holding their breath, waiting to see if the lamb finally falls.I was twenty-three years old when I stood in that courtroom and heard the judge sentence me to three years for embezzlement charges so perfectly fabricated that even I almost believed them.
My lawyer ,hired by my own uncle , fumbled every argument. My fiancée, Celeste Harrington, sat in the gallery in a cream dress and didn't even look at me.
The men who called themselves my father's brothers clapped each other on the back in the hallway before the verdict was even read.I did not cry.
I did not scream.
I sat in that wooden chair, in my pressed suit that would be the last expensive thing I'd wear for three years, and I made a list.
Not of my miseries.
Not of the injustices.
A list of names.Victor Harrington. Raymond Cole. Senator Phillip Drace. Celeste Harrington. And last ,the name that cost me the most to write ,Margaret Steele. My mother.Seven names. Seven people who built a cage around me and called it justice.
They thought prison would destroy Marcus Steele.What they gave me was three years of uninterrupted time to plan every single move of my return.
I am not angry.
Anger is a fire that burns the one who holds it.
What I am is patient.
What I am is precise.
What I am is a man who has already won ,you just don't know it yet.
My name is Marcus Steele.
And I am coming home.
