A Father's Vengeance

A Father's Vengeance

Gavin

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The smoke burned my eyes, thick and acrid, as my three-year-old son, Caleb, coughed weakly beside me. My wife, Jennifer, stood at the wine cellar door, her gaze fixed on her brother-in-law, Ryan. "It's for Molly's sake," she said, her voice chillingly devoid of warmth. "The guru said Caleb's energy caused her asthma attack. We have to cleanse it." She slammed the heavy oak door shut, the bolt thudding into place, trapping us. My son, who had a severe peanut allergy and sensitive lungs, was left to suffocate in the toxic smoke. Days bled into a hazy nightmare until Jennifer' s brother, Wesley, appeared, revealing Jennifer never loved me; I was just a rebound. He then callously threw more sage onto the embers, sealing our tomb deeper. I clawed our way out, just barely, carrying Caleb' s limp, blue body to a hospital, clinging to a desperate thread of hope. But Jennifer arrived, not for us, but demanding Caleb's O-negative blood for Molly' s minor fender bender injury, ignoring doctors' pleas. "He's my son. Do it," she commanded, her eyes cold. Then, with a casual glance at Caleb, a nurse, obviously bribed, fed him a peanut granola bar. The flatline screamed, and Caleb arched, his tiny chest still. Jennifer, with Ryan' s arm around her, turned her back on our dying son to comfort Molly' s fake tears. My world shattered. Ryan' s venomous whisper echoed: "You and your son, you were always in the way." How could a mother abandon her child to such a horrifying death? How could she choose a niece over her own son, then murder him without a second thought? Something inside me didn't just break; it turned to dust, then reformed into steel. Andrew Wright had to die, so the man who would take everything from them could be born.

Introduction

The smoke burned my eyes, thick and acrid, as my three-year-old son, Caleb, coughed weakly beside me.

My wife, Jennifer, stood at the wine cellar door, her gaze fixed on her brother-in-law, Ryan.

"It's for Molly's sake," she said, her voice chillingly devoid of warmth.

"The guru said Caleb's energy caused her asthma attack. We have to cleanse it."

She slammed the heavy oak door shut, the bolt thudding into place, trapping us.

My son, who had a severe peanut allergy and sensitive lungs, was left to suffocate in the toxic smoke.

Days bled into a hazy nightmare until Jennifer' s brother, Wesley, appeared, revealing Jennifer never loved me; I was just a rebound.

He then callously threw more sage onto the embers, sealing our tomb deeper.

I clawed our way out, just barely, carrying Caleb' s limp, blue body to a hospital, clinging to a desperate thread of hope.

But Jennifer arrived, not for us, but demanding Caleb's O-negative blood for Molly' s minor fender bender injury, ignoring doctors' pleas.

"He's my son. Do it," she commanded, her eyes cold.

Then, with a casual glance at Caleb, a nurse, obviously bribed, fed him a peanut granola bar.

The flatline screamed, and Caleb arched, his tiny chest still.

Jennifer, with Ryan' s arm around her, turned her back on our dying son to comfort Molly' s fake tears.

My world shattered.

Ryan' s venomous whisper echoed: "You and your son, you were always in the way."

How could a mother abandon her child to such a horrifying death?

How could she choose a niece over her own son, then murder him without a second thought?

Something inside me didn't just break; it turned to dust, then reformed into steel.

Andrew Wright had to die, so the man who would take everything from them could be born.

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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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