Mary Walsh's Blog, page 3
June 16, 2021
Pre-orders are LIVE!
My newest book Plenty of Fish in the Ocean State drops on June 30th!
Order your ebook at: amzn.to/3wyoDrD
Let me know if you would like an ARC!
Order your ebook at: amzn.to/3wyoDrD
Let me know if you would like an ARC!
June 1, 2021
Book #11 is coming June 30th!
My next book Plenty of Fish in the Ocean State is being released on June 30th. Just a few more edits to go... Stay tuned for a cover reveal and pre-order links. It's a rom-com set in Providence, RI and follows MC single-girl Reese as she juggles all the men in her life.
Here's a quick snippet:
"I'll take Former Lovers for $600, Alex."
Let me know if you would like an ARC.
Here's a quick snippet:
"I'll take Former Lovers for $600, Alex."
Let me know if you would like an ARC.
May 11, 2021
New rom-com coming June 30th!
My next book Plenty of Fish in the Ocean State is set for release on June 30, 2021. It features MC Reese juggling three men in Providence, RI around her 30th birthday. Who does she choose?
If you are in the New England area, come to RomantiConn in Trumbull, CT, on July 24th to meet me and buy a signed copy. 80+ other romance authors will be there. Tickets are available through Eventbrite.
If you are in the New England area, come to RomantiConn in Trumbull, CT, on July 24th to meet me and buy a signed copy. 80+ other romance authors will be there. Tickets are available through Eventbrite.
April 20, 2021
new rom-com coming this June!
It's been a while since I've written a rom-com and my next one will be out this June. Stay tuned for a release date. It takes place in Providence, RI and the title is Plenty of Fish in the Ocean State - get it? Our MC Reese finds herself waking up one morning with three of her former lovers at her house. How did they get there? She is mortified that they'll compare stories about her. Who does she choose?
Stay tuned....
Stay tuned....
March 17, 2021
Thankful!
I've been overwhelmed with the praise for Once Upon a Time in Chicago and I wanted to thank everyone who has read it in the past two weeks or who will be reading it soon. You, the readers, are who I try to please so I thank you from the bottom of my heart. If I'm not getting positive reactions, then I'm not doing a good job. I want to keep doing a good job for all of you! Thank you again!
February 26, 2021
Once Upon a Time in Chicago - CHAPTER 1
Once Upon a Time in Chicago
Chapter 1
South Side, Chicago, 1919
A towering man wearing a dark slate overcoat and a black fedora stepped into the small saloon on West 31st Street on the south side of Chicago. The tavern sat at the junction of the Irish Mob, Little Africa, and Little Italy territories of the city.
Bells on the door jingled and the handful of patrons at the bar turned to see who entered the establishment. Some were laughing and playing cards. Others debated headlines of The Chicago Daily News. A din of conversation and a haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. The place fell quiet as everyone fixed a concentrated gaze at the stranger. No one dared to move.
The man in the black hat sauntered to the wooden bar, took a seat, silently rested his leather-gloved hands atop the countertop, and waited. As he stared forward, he slowly drummed his fingers on the bar. The other patrons stopped their side conversations.
The owner of the tavern, Bartolomeo Scavuzzo, shuffled in from a back room, wiping his hands on a copiously clean dishcloth hung from his waistband. His wife, Theresa, had ensured that all of his dishcloths were as clean and as dry as could be. He scurried over to the bar, grabbing an empty highball glass. With a trembling hand, he filled it with two fingers full of his best brandy. Without making eye contact, Bartolomeo set the glass in front of the man in the black hat.
“You made me wait,” the man in the black hat growled. “I don’t like to wait.”
“I sorry, Signore Lombardo,” Bartolomeo choked nervously, his voice straining. A tightness tingled in his chest. “Won’t happen no more.” He skittishly motioned to the waiting glass, part of the supply that he had bought from Lombardo. In return for the alcohol, Bartolomeo also had to pay protection money. “Per favore, drink.”
Lombardo spoke again, “Not good enough. You need fifty more.”
Bartolomeo gasped and stumbled a step back. A deep wrinkle formed on his brow. He quickly scanned his livelihood, worried that Lombardo could ruin his business with a simple order to his hired goons. Bartolomeo feared for his life and his family but felt trapped by the call to payment. “Per favore. I give you everything I have. La mia famiglia... they must eat.”
“Figure it out,” Lombardo snapped. He rose from his seat, unbuttoned one button on his coat, and pushed it back to present a .38 Smith & Wesson Special strapped to his waist.
A collective gasp echoed throughout the tavern.
“Si, signore.” Bartolomeo nodded his head feverishly. He patted his sweaty forehead with a cloth.
“Then we have an understanding,” Lombardo hissed. He walked toward the saloon door, leaving the untouched drink on the bar.
“Papa!” Salvatore emerged from the back room, carrying a broom. At 10, he was Bartolomeo’s youngest son and he wore corduroy trousers and a newsboy hat. He flung his free hand toward the man in the overcoat. “I heard everything. Why do you let that man speak to you like that?” He jerked his head toward the door in a silent direction for the man to leave.
All noise in the tavern ceased.
Lombardo stopped, and glared at the young boy who stood a head shorter than his father. He raised a hand and formed a ‘gun’ with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Sal. As he cocked his pretend gun, Sal stumbled back, knocking over a trash can. Silently, Lombardo faced Bartolomeo once again.
“You need to teach your son to show some respect,” Lombardo warned. Ice and fire combatted each other from the tip of his tongue. “If not, he may encounter an…” He glowered at Salvatore once again. “...unfortunate accident.”
Lombardo pivoted, opened the tavern door, and walked out. The jingling of the door chimes echoed in the once-again silent tavern. Other patrons had been pretending not to stare at the ominous exchange. Some had quietly exited the tavern, avoiding any possible gunfire.
Bartolomeo exhaled, wiping a wrinkled hand across his sweat-beaded forehead. He didn’t want to provoke Lombardo any more than he already had.
“Salvatore!” Bartolomeo scolded his son, now that Lombardo was gone. He didn’t want to risk harm to his son. “What you thinking? You cannot speak to Signore Lombardo that way!”
“But Papa, you are a strong man. You taught me to be proud and stand up for myself,” Salvatore countered. “I’ve never seen you act that way, letting someone tell you what to do.”
“Bambino, some things you learn later,” Bartolomeo explained, embarrassed that he cowered in front of his son. He reached for Salvatore and hugged him close.
Out of sight of his regular customers, Bartolomeo snatched the glass of whiskey that Lombardo left behind and dumped it down the drain.
* * * *
Bartolomeo and his wife Theresa had six children. The oldest three were born in Sicily: Charlie in 1893, Rose in 1898, and Annie in 1899. After selling the family mule in Sicily for passage money, Bartolomeo left Theresa and the three children for the United States in 1903 in search of the American Dream. He ported in New Orleans and found work in the sugar cane fields. After a year of saving money, he traveled by train and foot up the Mississippi River, calling Chicago his final stop. After Bartolomeo gained stable employment as a laborer, he bought a brick three-flat building on Shields Avenue and a tavern a mile away on West 31st Street.
A year later, Theresa and the children sailed across the Atlantic and registered as immigrants through Ellis Island. They boarded a train and met up with Bartolomeo in Chicago. Over the next few years, three more children were born: Phillip in 1904, Salvatore in 1909, and Faye in 1911. Bartolomeo struggled to learn English in the new land but insisted that his children become fluent and lose the Sicilian accent. Theresa never learned the language of the melting pot nation, instead speaking to her children in Sicilian dialect. She signed English documents with an X.
The family of eight adapted smoothly into the neighborhood full of Italian and Sicilian saloonkeepers, restaurateurs, barbers, and grocers. The neighboring paesani formed an exclusive network trying to resist deep prejudice and discrimination from the already-established German and Irish immigrants in Chicago. More immigrants moved to Chicago every week - the Italians, the French, the Chinese, the Russian, and the Greek - each building their own mini-city within the city.
The Sicilians lived in connected homes on narrow streets, sharing a language, clothing style, food, and religion. Santa Maria Incoronata Catholic Church became an epicenter for community activity for them. Many Sicilians didn’t leave the neighborhood. They didn’t need to, nor did they want to. Women only went to the market, church or church-related events like baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Men sought camaraderie playing cards with each other in church social halls.
South Side families rooted for the Chicago White Sox a mile away in Comiskey Park, where fellow Italian-American Ping Bodie played. With the Union Stock Yards nearby, a pervading odor of manure, rancid blood, and grease filled the neighborhood air. Peddlers shouted their wares of produce and milk as trolleys clattered down the streets.
As the Italian neighborhood grew, so did crime and the need for protection from it. Giuseppe Lombardo was a bagman for his boss John “Papa Johnny” Torrio. Torrio formed an American Mafia La Cosa Nostra racket to sell private security and sold booze to the local Italian business owners. Sometimes, by using his gun, he warned other criminals to stay away from his clients, but often he sent henchmen like Lombardo to collect greenback pizzo without providing much safety to the locals. As don of the organization, Torrio became an extremely wealthy and feared man.
If an establishment refused to purchase liquor from the operation, people died.
When Prohibition started on January 17, 1920, taverns either shut down or operated illegally as speakeasies.
In 1925, Torrio decided to retire back home to Italy and gave total control of his $70,000,000 empire of bootlegged booze, gambling, and prostitution to his right-hand man: Al Capone.
Chapter 1
South Side, Chicago, 1919
A towering man wearing a dark slate overcoat and a black fedora stepped into the small saloon on West 31st Street on the south side of Chicago. The tavern sat at the junction of the Irish Mob, Little Africa, and Little Italy territories of the city.
Bells on the door jingled and the handful of patrons at the bar turned to see who entered the establishment. Some were laughing and playing cards. Others debated headlines of The Chicago Daily News. A din of conversation and a haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. The place fell quiet as everyone fixed a concentrated gaze at the stranger. No one dared to move.
The man in the black hat sauntered to the wooden bar, took a seat, silently rested his leather-gloved hands atop the countertop, and waited. As he stared forward, he slowly drummed his fingers on the bar. The other patrons stopped their side conversations.
The owner of the tavern, Bartolomeo Scavuzzo, shuffled in from a back room, wiping his hands on a copiously clean dishcloth hung from his waistband. His wife, Theresa, had ensured that all of his dishcloths were as clean and as dry as could be. He scurried over to the bar, grabbing an empty highball glass. With a trembling hand, he filled it with two fingers full of his best brandy. Without making eye contact, Bartolomeo set the glass in front of the man in the black hat.
“You made me wait,” the man in the black hat growled. “I don’t like to wait.”
“I sorry, Signore Lombardo,” Bartolomeo choked nervously, his voice straining. A tightness tingled in his chest. “Won’t happen no more.” He skittishly motioned to the waiting glass, part of the supply that he had bought from Lombardo. In return for the alcohol, Bartolomeo also had to pay protection money. “Per favore, drink.”
Lombardo spoke again, “Not good enough. You need fifty more.”
Bartolomeo gasped and stumbled a step back. A deep wrinkle formed on his brow. He quickly scanned his livelihood, worried that Lombardo could ruin his business with a simple order to his hired goons. Bartolomeo feared for his life and his family but felt trapped by the call to payment. “Per favore. I give you everything I have. La mia famiglia... they must eat.”
“Figure it out,” Lombardo snapped. He rose from his seat, unbuttoned one button on his coat, and pushed it back to present a .38 Smith & Wesson Special strapped to his waist.
A collective gasp echoed throughout the tavern.
“Si, signore.” Bartolomeo nodded his head feverishly. He patted his sweaty forehead with a cloth.
“Then we have an understanding,” Lombardo hissed. He walked toward the saloon door, leaving the untouched drink on the bar.
“Papa!” Salvatore emerged from the back room, carrying a broom. At 10, he was Bartolomeo’s youngest son and he wore corduroy trousers and a newsboy hat. He flung his free hand toward the man in the overcoat. “I heard everything. Why do you let that man speak to you like that?” He jerked his head toward the door in a silent direction for the man to leave.
All noise in the tavern ceased.
Lombardo stopped, and glared at the young boy who stood a head shorter than his father. He raised a hand and formed a ‘gun’ with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Sal. As he cocked his pretend gun, Sal stumbled back, knocking over a trash can. Silently, Lombardo faced Bartolomeo once again.
“You need to teach your son to show some respect,” Lombardo warned. Ice and fire combatted each other from the tip of his tongue. “If not, he may encounter an…” He glowered at Salvatore once again. “...unfortunate accident.”
Lombardo pivoted, opened the tavern door, and walked out. The jingling of the door chimes echoed in the once-again silent tavern. Other patrons had been pretending not to stare at the ominous exchange. Some had quietly exited the tavern, avoiding any possible gunfire.
Bartolomeo exhaled, wiping a wrinkled hand across his sweat-beaded forehead. He didn’t want to provoke Lombardo any more than he already had.
“Salvatore!” Bartolomeo scolded his son, now that Lombardo was gone. He didn’t want to risk harm to his son. “What you thinking? You cannot speak to Signore Lombardo that way!”
“But Papa, you are a strong man. You taught me to be proud and stand up for myself,” Salvatore countered. “I’ve never seen you act that way, letting someone tell you what to do.”
“Bambino, some things you learn later,” Bartolomeo explained, embarrassed that he cowered in front of his son. He reached for Salvatore and hugged him close.
Out of sight of his regular customers, Bartolomeo snatched the glass of whiskey that Lombardo left behind and dumped it down the drain.
* * * *
Bartolomeo and his wife Theresa had six children. The oldest three were born in Sicily: Charlie in 1893, Rose in 1898, and Annie in 1899. After selling the family mule in Sicily for passage money, Bartolomeo left Theresa and the three children for the United States in 1903 in search of the American Dream. He ported in New Orleans and found work in the sugar cane fields. After a year of saving money, he traveled by train and foot up the Mississippi River, calling Chicago his final stop. After Bartolomeo gained stable employment as a laborer, he bought a brick three-flat building on Shields Avenue and a tavern a mile away on West 31st Street.
A year later, Theresa and the children sailed across the Atlantic and registered as immigrants through Ellis Island. They boarded a train and met up with Bartolomeo in Chicago. Over the next few years, three more children were born: Phillip in 1904, Salvatore in 1909, and Faye in 1911. Bartolomeo struggled to learn English in the new land but insisted that his children become fluent and lose the Sicilian accent. Theresa never learned the language of the melting pot nation, instead speaking to her children in Sicilian dialect. She signed English documents with an X.
The family of eight adapted smoothly into the neighborhood full of Italian and Sicilian saloonkeepers, restaurateurs, barbers, and grocers. The neighboring paesani formed an exclusive network trying to resist deep prejudice and discrimination from the already-established German and Irish immigrants in Chicago. More immigrants moved to Chicago every week - the Italians, the French, the Chinese, the Russian, and the Greek - each building their own mini-city within the city.
The Sicilians lived in connected homes on narrow streets, sharing a language, clothing style, food, and religion. Santa Maria Incoronata Catholic Church became an epicenter for community activity for them. Many Sicilians didn’t leave the neighborhood. They didn’t need to, nor did they want to. Women only went to the market, church or church-related events like baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Men sought camaraderie playing cards with each other in church social halls.
South Side families rooted for the Chicago White Sox a mile away in Comiskey Park, where fellow Italian-American Ping Bodie played. With the Union Stock Yards nearby, a pervading odor of manure, rancid blood, and grease filled the neighborhood air. Peddlers shouted their wares of produce and milk as trolleys clattered down the streets.
As the Italian neighborhood grew, so did crime and the need for protection from it. Giuseppe Lombardo was a bagman for his boss John “Papa Johnny” Torrio. Torrio formed an American Mafia La Cosa Nostra racket to sell private security and sold booze to the local Italian business owners. Sometimes, by using his gun, he warned other criminals to stay away from his clients, but often he sent henchmen like Lombardo to collect greenback pizzo without providing much safety to the locals. As don of the organization, Torrio became an extremely wealthy and feared man.
If an establishment refused to purchase liquor from the operation, people died.
When Prohibition started on January 17, 1920, taverns either shut down or operated illegally as speakeasies.
In 1925, Torrio decided to retire back home to Italy and gave total control of his $70,000,000 empire of bootlegged booze, gambling, and prostitution to his right-hand man: Al Capone.
February 24, 2021
Pre-orders are available!
The pre-order link for Once Upon a Time in Chicago is now live!
Click the link below to get yours.
Once Upon a Time in Chicago pre-orders
Click the link below to get yours.
Once Upon a Time in Chicago pre-orders
February 23, 2021
5 days to go!
Once Upon a Time in Chicago is almost here! It releases on February 28th in paperback and ebook formats.
This historical fiction is a coming-of-age story set in the backdrop of Prohibition Chicago where Al Capone and Joe Aiello control the criminal underground.
This historical fiction is a coming-of-age story set in the backdrop of Prohibition Chicago where Al Capone and Joe Aiello control the criminal underground.
February 17, 2021
Super excited!
My upcoming 10th book Once Upon a Time in Chicago already has 15 pre-order sales before it goes live on February 28th. DM me if you want a signed copy at 50% off!
The story centers around a Sicilian-American name Sal who is coming of age in Prohibition Chicago. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles, and is a hit with the dames at the speakeasy. His carefree lifestyle gets turned upside down when he gets in too deep with the local organized crime.
Does he continue his reckless lifestyle or go the straight and narrow?
The story centers around a Sicilian-American name Sal who is coming of age in Prohibition Chicago. He drinks, he smokes, he gambles, and is a hit with the dames at the speakeasy. His carefree lifestyle gets turned upside down when he gets in too deep with the local organized crime.
Does he continue his reckless lifestyle or go the straight and narrow?
February 1, 2021
Who wants an ARC?
My 10th book Once Upon a Time in Chicago is coming out on February 28th!
Please sign up for an ARC on my website:marywalshwrites.wix.com/author
Signup until February 10th and I'll send out ARCs on February 14th.
Please sign up for an ARC on my website:marywalshwrites.wix.com/author
Signup until February 10th and I'll send out ARCs on February 14th.
