The Silence That Screamed

The Silence That Screamed

Gavin

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My life was a perpetual grind, a blur of diner shifts and endless cleaning jobs. Every ache, every sleepless night was for him, for Mike, and the "debt" he owed to the terrifying Desert Scorpions motorcycle gang. Fifty thousand dollars, he said, or they'd kill him. I sold my mother's locket, praying it would buy his safety, buy our future. My son, six-year-old Leo, coughed beside me, his asthma worsening, the inhaler almost empty. I kept telling him, "Mommy's getting the money, sweetie. Daddy's going to be safe, and then we can get you the best doctor." But one night, Leo's struggle for breath became a desperate fight for air. Panic seizing me, I scooped up his limp body, clutching the crumpled "debt" money, and ran into the street. "Children's clinic, fast!" I screamed to the cab driver. The city lights blurred, Leo gasped, and then, a terrible, final silence filled my arms. He was gone. My baby was gone. Numb, I stumbled towards the warehouse Mike described, Leo's cold ashes in my bag, still with the money for his "contact." But then, Mike's voice drifted out, light and cruel: "This 'Scorpion' scare was genius. Got her working like a dog." "So, no actual threat?" I heard. "Nah. Just needed to keep her on the hook. Tiffany's wanting that new kitchen, and Cody's birthday is next month." My world shattered. Leo died for a lie. The money felt like poison, his ashes like lead. A cold, hard resolve solidified in my heart. Mike Johnson would pay.

Introduction

My life was a perpetual grind, a blur of diner shifts and endless cleaning jobs.

Every ache, every sleepless night was for him, for Mike, and the "debt" he owed to the terrifying Desert Scorpions motorcycle gang.

Fifty thousand dollars, he said, or they'd kill him.

I sold my mother's locket, praying it would buy his safety, buy our future.

My son, six-year-old Leo, coughed beside me, his asthma worsening, the inhaler almost empty.

I kept telling him, "Mommy's getting the money, sweetie. Daddy's going to be safe, and then we can get you the best doctor."

But one night, Leo's struggle for breath became a desperate fight for air.

Panic seizing me, I scooped up his limp body, clutching the crumpled "debt" money, and ran into the street.

"Children's clinic, fast!" I screamed to the cab driver.

The city lights blurred, Leo gasped, and then, a terrible, final silence filled my arms.

He was gone. My baby was gone.

Numb, I stumbled towards the warehouse Mike described, Leo's cold ashes in my bag, still with the money for his "contact."

But then, Mike's voice drifted out, light and cruel: "This 'Scorpion' scare was genius. Got her working like a dog."

"So, no actual threat?" I heard.

"Nah. Just needed to keep her on the hook. Tiffany's wanting that new kitchen, and Cody's birthday is next month."

My world shattered. Leo died for a lie.

The money felt like poison, his ashes like lead.

A cold, hard resolve solidified in my heart.

Mike Johnson would pay.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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