My Ruthless Uncle's Justice

ead in my stomach. Today was the day: our family ro

ocating smell of gasoline, my own blood. Frank – my father – had orchestrated it all. He'd meticulously sabotaged our car, intent on murderi

floral wallpaper, a cruel contrast to the grim reality that had just resurfaced. The gruesome memory of m

for parts. How could a father, the sworn protector, conceive such a monstrous act for another w

age. I wasn't that naive 19-year-old anymore. I was a ghost with a score to settle. This time