Charles Cosby and the Black Widow

Griselda’s moniker, “the Black Widow,” came about because each of her husbands, she murdered. She mated, then she killed. The business arrangements had been fucked off, or they tried to exert dominance over her, so she responded like any muthafucka in the game would. She dealt with it in the street.

Griselda and I were having an exchange one day, about how women throughout history have been the downfall of kings. She said, “Charles, do you know when a man is most vulnerable?” I said, “of course…getting in or out of his car.” I’d been a street nigga for years at that point. She laughed and said, “No Charles, a man is most vulnerable when he gets into bed with a woman.” Women comprise 90% of the world’s top assassins because they know how to get a nigga in bed, his most vulnerable area.

When a man is successful, beautiful women gravitate to that person. I had maybe 200 one-night stands while with Griselda, but I only got caught with one—a white chick named Amber, the one bitch I cultivated a relationship with. Making millions, catching flights here and there, I needed some “me” time, chill time. I found that in Amber’s friendship.

Amber and I had been dating, traveling, having sex together for months. She confided in her cousin, who happened to be incarcerated with Griselda. Her cousin confided in her roommate because she was afraid she’d bear the brunt of the affair. The roommate told her lesbian lover from Cuba, and all the lesbians was Griselda’s bitches. So she in turn told Griselda, “Your guy is fucking so-and-so’s cousin, the white bitch that comes to visit.” The cousin subsequently got stomped out by Griselda in some high-heel pumps and lost her eye.

That’s when Griselda put an investigator on my ass, which I didn’t know until I got shot up one day, driving in Brookfield Village in my Corvette ZR-1. I got ambushed by some Colombians in a Mustang. I took a hit, luckily they was half-assed about it. Later on, Griselda denied that she tried to kill me. She said she just wanted to scare me, it was a warning shot. I got twelve muthafuckin’ bullets in my car, ain’t no warning shot! They just wasn’t good at what they did.

The day I got shot, I didn’t hear from Griselda—mind you, we talked every day, five or six times on the telephone, even when I was out of town. All the next day, she didn’t call. That night, the phone rang. It was Griselda. She asked me, do I know the definition of loyalty? I said, “Yeah.” She said, “no you don’t, you got a white bitch laying in your bed right now. If you’re not at the prison tomorrow to straighten this out, you can expect another visit from my friends.”

Early next morning, I went to the prison—mind you, I could only use my right arm cause I got shot in my muthafuckin’ bicep. We sat down and had what I thought would be a sensible conversation, but she took it to another level and grabbed me by the throat. I grabbed the bitch back, let her know, “Bitch, don’t put your hands on me, I’ll break your muthafuckin’ jaw.”

She told me, “You put your hands on me, I’ll send so many motherfuckers to Brookfield, we’ll slaughter all you rookies! I’m the Godmother!” She had a point, so I told her, “The times I do want you, I can’t reach out. I can’t tell you, “Baby, be naked by the time I get there.” You’re locked up. Me being a man, I’m weak for the flesh at times.” We got past that shit, it worked.

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Click here for Part Three

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