I was raised in a basement in the Bronx, where silence wasn’t just survival—it was the only language spoken. There were no knocks on the door. No rescue. No script. Just a boy learning to breathe in the dark, and later, a man figuring out how to write from it.

Silence Was My First Language is the book I needed when I was ten. And again at thirteen. And again every time I hoped someone might see what was happening behind those locked doors. It is not a feel-good memoir. It doesn’t offer easy healing or packaged redemption. It is a reckoning—unfiltered, unflinching, and honest.

For years, I lived a double life. In one, I became a senior executive in the medical device industry, building a career through steel, strategy, and survival instinct.
In the other, quieter life, I wrote. I typed in silence, shaping sentences like lifelines, building chapters around the boy I used to be. It was that second life that saved me.

Today, I write for those who were never allowed to speak. For the ones who made it out, but were never asked how. And for those still trapped in places where their truth isn’t welcome.

My debut novel, Selling Arteries to the Devil, a corporate thriller about the dark underbelly of medical innovation—where ambition becomes corruption, and billion-dollar devices are built on buried truths. It's fiction. But only barely.

I followed it with The Jaguar,. is fiction born from the same fire. It follows a Salvadoran refugee turned New York doctor who must return to the country that scarred him to save those left behind. It’s not my story—but it carries my bones.

Every book I write is a conversation. Between the boy and the man. Between silence and voice. Between survival and what comes next. And if my work does one thing, I hope it's this: That someone who never got to speak finally feels seen.