Fiction Writer
"I’m a little nuts, but, I’m not crazy.
Fiction Writer
"I’m a little nuts, but, I’m not crazy.
Greenwich: Old Money Cold Blood
A Novel, Coming Soon!
Greenwich is not a novel about privilege. It is a novel about what privilege can conceal. Beneath the manicured surface of Greenwich, Connecticut, beneath the wealth, the celebrity, the old names and new fortunes, runs a darker inheritance: violence, ritual, secrecy, and a generational evil that has learned how to pass for normal.
What begins as the private history of one family opens into something far more disturbing, where murder, psychological damage, and occult influence are not separate threads, but part of the same design.
Then Jake, his son, steps in, and the temperature drops. He starts pulling the threads tight, one by one, and what Vincent left behind stops reading like a past and starts acting like evidence. He follows what no one was supposed to find, and with every page he turns, the air gets heavier, because some secrets don’t stay buried. They wait.
Greenwich moves with the pressure of true crime and the dread of literary horror. When Jake, his son, steps in, the temperature drops. He starts pulling the threads tight, one by one, and what Vincent left behind stops reading like a past and starts acting like evidence. He follows what no one was supposed to find, digging through a middle-class life spent pressed up against a wealthy world that never quite let them in, and with every page he turns, the air gets heavier, because some secrets don’t stay buried. They wait. It is domestic. Spiritual. An atmosphere of menace so intimate it becomes part of the architecture of his life.
As memory gives way to revelation, and revelation to terror, the novel forces open the question of whether some families merely keep secrets, or whether they become the hiding place for something far worse.
At approximately 53,000 words, Greenwich is a lean, dark novel blending psychological thriller, horror, true-crime realism, and occult fiction. It is ruthless, intimate, and deeply unsettling, written for readers who want their suspense sharpened by dread, and their horror grounded in the sickening possibility that the worst things are not imagined at all.
Epigraph for Greenwich: Old Money Cold Blood
As the red-hot blood poured from the fresh wound in my neck, I thought, at least this will be quick. I fumbled to apply pressure, but everything was too slick, too hot, too out of control. “Come on! You can do this,” I urged, my trembling fingers pressing against the perfectly formed hole in my neck.
I fought to stop the roaring flood, but the strength drained out of me almost instantly. I weakened. My hands slipped. And then I let go, surrendering to the inevitable. As I did, a violent blast of hot blood erupted from my neck and struck the opposite wall, marking it in a way I knew I would never forget.
The sensation was disorienting, a hideous mixture of agony and release, like the unbearable pressure of a full bladder suddenly giving way, explosive and disturbingly euphoric. Pain and relief arrived together, tangled so tightly they were almost impossible to separate.
As the room swirled and the edges of it began to darken, I struggled to comprehend the horror of what had just happened. My father had shot me in the neck with my mother’s chrome-plated .357 Magnum. The thought landed heavily, almost too heavily to process. As I swallowed my own blood, my stomach turned. The metallic smell hung thick in the air, dense and unmistakable, filling the room like something alive.
That is when I was jolted awake.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt dangerous, and I woke in immediate horror to find both of my hands wrapped tightly around my throat. Choking myself in my sleep? My pulse kicked even harder as pieces of the dream flashed through my mind in ragged bursts: the gun, the blood, his face twisted with rage. For a few terrible seconds, the dream had not ended. It had followed me back.
Somewhere in that frantic blur between sleep and panic, my body intervened. My hands loosened, the pressure let up, and the blood and air rushed back into me like it had been waiting outside a locked door. And that is the part that still gets under my skin: the dream did not create the danger. It borrowed it.
Something real was happening to me, and my sleeping brain translated it into something savage enough to explain it, my father, the gun, the blood. What made me let go, and what if I didn’t? On one level, it made perfect sense. On another, it left me with questions that clawed at my sanity.
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Summary
Vinny DeCarlo doesn’t predict the future, he feels when it’s already begun. Raised in the back rooms of diners and the worn edges of small-town New York, Vinny grows up quiet, observant, and strangely tuned to the hum beneath ordinary life. Sometimes pressure blooms behind his eyes, an invisible warning with no clear message, until the headlines arrive and the world catches up.
As the sensations grow stronger, Vinny realizes the terror isn’t what will happen. It’s that something is already in motion, and the “sequence” does not care who gets hurt. When his instinct brushes against death and coincidence starts looking like design, Vinny is forced to face the most frightening possibility of all: he’s not watching the pattern anymore. He’s inside it.
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V Le Chenz
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"Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent”
Calvin Coolidge