“Please Don't Close The Store — My Son Needs More Blanket.” Said A Single Mom to The Mafia Boss

“Please Don't Close The Store — My Son Needs More Blanket.” Said A Single Mom to The Mafia Boss

"Please don't hurt him. He's all I have left," a trembling mother begged the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Winter had settled into the city with brutal certainty. Snow blanketed the streets of South Side, piling high against rusted fire escapes and cracked sidewalks. The wind howled through narrow alleyways like a wounded animal, biting through coats and scarves without mercy.
Christmas lights blinked cheerfully in the wealthy neighborhoods up north Gold Coast mansions glowing warm, families laughing behind frosted windows, children dreaming of presents under towering trees. But here, in the forgotten corners of the city, frost and silence ruled. Dim lights flickered behind thin curtains. Heat was a luxury. Hope felt like a stranger.
Camille Ashford, 27, walked carefully down one of those broken streets. Her boots, worn at the soles, left shallow prints in the gray slush. A faded navy coat two sizes too big, bought from a thrift store three winters ago hung loose on her thin frame. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands escaping and sticking to her pale cheeks. In her arms, a plastic bag held discounted groceries a dented can of chicken soup, day old bread, and a small carton of milk marked half price.
Exhaustion showed in her posture, in her slow steps, in the purple shadows beneath her hazel eyes. Still, she wore a gentle smile the kind that cost everything to maintain.

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