Amy Rachiele's Blog

April 13, 2017

 


april newsletter


What I’m up to:

I had the honor of speaking at the Women’s Leadership Symposium which was held at Valley Forge Military Academy & College on Thursday, March 30, 2017. Attendees of all ages and backgrounds astounded me with their dedication to academics and their drive to reach their goals.


Women in and out of uniform networked with each other while commemorating the 10th anniversary of admitting females into the community of learning at Valley Forge College. Their positive energy moved me; I felt empowered when I left. The day was one of opportunity and connection.


My interactions with the staff, faculty, and participants solidified that my son and I had made a wise decision for him to attend the academy at Valley Forge. He will be a freshman next year, and I hope that it will be another year of growth, awareness, and insight.



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valley forge emblem


 


April Author SpotLight
About Author Soraya Naomi

I read many genres but favor intense, seductive, and provocative novels where the male character loves fiercely, without remorse or boundaries. I also adore forbidden love tales and have an odd fascination with kidnapping romances. No, I don’t secretly want to be kidnapped, though!


I have a passionate obsession with the written word and indulge in chocolate pastries much too often.


My debut novel For Fallon (Chicago Syndicate, #1) was released on July 26, 2014. I’m honored that For Fallon won “Best Breakout Novel 2014” in the Novel Grounds Semi Annual Literary Awards.


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NEW RELEASE: BLACK HAT HACKER


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Sign up to Soraya’s newsletter to keep up to date with release dates: http://www.subscribepage.com/newslettersorayanaomi


For more information about the novels and author:


WEBSITEwww.sorayanaomi.com


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READER GROUPhttps://www.facebook.com/groups/chicagosyndicate/


TWITTERwww.twitter.com/Soraya_Naomi


INSTAGRAMwww.instagram.com/soraya_naomi


AMAZON AUTHORamazon.com/author/soraya.naomi




THERE’S STILL TIME!


Don’t forget to download my Easter treat to you…Mobster’s Vendetta (Mobster’s Series, Book 3) for only $1.99! Only available now through April 30th.


Download link: http://amzn.to/2o1qgMh


Mob Vendetta sale




Looking for your monthly dose of Vito love? Keep your eyes out for a special Vito Newsletter with the next installment of Mobster’s Heart.


In the meantime, catch up on the past 5 parts of Mobster’s Heart on my website!


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March 23, 2017

MARCH


I cannot believe that it was one year ago that I was crossing the beautiful country of Ireland with my son and my friend. The pristine hills and magical scenery are cemented into my memory. To spend a month there with a notebook and pen would be a dream come true.


The entire country offered inspiration as well as a peaceful environment. It is amazing how much our surroundings stir us and affect our mood. I challenge you this March as spring approaches to think about places that move you.


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February Recap:

Attending the AWP Conference in Washington DC

I had the honor of attending the AWP Conference & Bookfair in February with Historical Writers of America Director, Soni Stokes (bottom left photo). It is an essential annual destination for writers, teachers, students, editors, and publishers. 12,000 attendees came through the D.C. convention center doors for a community of insightful dialogue and unparalleled access to organizations and groups in contemporary literature. The conference featured over 2,000 presenters and 550 readings, panels, and craft lectures. The bookfair held over 800 presses, journals, and literary organizations from around the world. AWP’s is now the largest literary conference in North America.


I had an amazing opportunity to meet with like-minded writers and readers. Conversation never slowed or died down with all of the dedicated attendees. It was a pleasure to spend four days networking. I always find conferences invigorating and inspiring because they rev up the creative juices. It is one of the best parts of being a writer.



Historical Writers of America table display
Table at conference. Historical Writers of America
Me with author Soni Stokes
Cab ride through Washington DC


 


Mobster’s Heart: Part 5


Vito’s Short Story


Installments of Mobster’s Heart have been included in my monthly newsletter since October (minus February). If you’ve missed any parts of this story, catch up on my website.


When I get home, I feel like shit. Justin reminded me so much of myself that I was looking in a mirror. I may have had more material things at that age but I had the same disposition. I know what this kid is like, I know what he is capable of, and I know what his potential is.


Erin is lying on the couch. She has a gray blanket wrapped around her all the way up to her chin. She must’ve fallen asleep because the TV is on. Knowing her, she was up late studying. She never ceases to amaze me. She accepts a thug like me into her life and loves me but still remains a straight-A student and extremely successful in college. I look down at her flaming red hair and think how proud I am of her and how honored I am to call her my girlfriend.


The DeLisis gave me the chance to prove myself, to feel wanted, and gave me that deep sense of loyalty that goes along with being part of the mafia. Thinking back, I remember my aggression was at some points uncontrollable until I found the outlet of underground fighting. That is what gave me the calm to function during the week and the ability to clear my head. I don’t think this kid is totally like me in that respect but his motivation and survival skills are admirable.


I lean down and kiss Erin on the forehead, truly feeling a deep sense of love. I don’t know what I would do without her. All that bullshit stuff I have heard people say over the years. “She completes me.” “I always want to be with her.” I get it. I understand something that had evaded me. I became one of those guys that I made fun of. It always made me nauseous to listen to guys go on and on. I watched them change. They would stop going out with the guys as much or they couldn’t make a fucking decision without talking to their girl first. It was disgusting.


One day at school a light went on in my brain. It came out of nowhere. She was walking with a couple of her friends, wearing a green dress that hugged her small form. The group of them laughed together as they shuffled down the hall in a pack. The corridor became quiet, the harsh fluorescent lighting above my head blurred, and everything became just her. The light in my brain shined only on her. No one else interested me anymore. I couldn’t stand it when girls would hang on me. She was all I could think about. I almost got my best friend killed once because of it.


Antonio and I had to go downtown into the fucking loser section of town to pick up some money for his pop. It wasn’t any big deal. An easy in and out job. It was three K in an envelope. Except, it wasn’t. Antonio knew by the weight of it. We had been doing this shit so long in our lives that it became second nature. As soon as Antonio had the package, the look on his face changed. I knew. But my mind was somewhere else the second before. It was thinking about Erin and the little green dress she wore to school that day. I was out of my fucking mind then.


The sleek black barrel of a gun showed up on the edge of my vision. That one lost second before the shit hit the fan was all it took. I whipped my arm out wide, swung it around, and slammed it back behind me, throwing the guy off guard, but it was too late. The gun erupted and a bullet flew, missing Antonio by inches as it landed into the mortar of the brick wall behind him. I was able to reach behind me to snatch the guy’s firing arm. I lifted it and brought it behind his back, snapping it. The ear-splitting howl he made I will never forget. Not because I broke his arm; I could give two shits. It was the fact that I almost got my best friend killed.


That never leaves you. You have to live with that. The “what-ifs.” Those are always more brutal than the “what-happeneds.” Control is a possessive internal quality. It takes you over, consumes you. It wants to stop you from making mistakes and when they happen you are fucked up in the head. Remembering that day, Erin stealing my thoughts and my focus for the split second, fills me with anger. I had to grab a hold of it again. The whole shit storm knocked me down. I never had to deal with those emotions before. It took a couple of years before I could even do anything about them. She had no idea she had me by the balls and there was nothing I could do about it.


 


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January 31, 2017


2017! When I think back I still remember the New Year’s Eve when the calendar flipped and we were in a new century. Here we are seventeen years into that century. It makes me wonder about history. What were people thinking and doing in 1917? World War I was on the forefront of society. Woodrow Wilson was the president. Woman still could not vote in a presidential election.


Are we making history? Yes. All of the time. Each time a new invention is created or another book is written. Television shows that capture the spirit of the time period only to become dated within a decade. Music, art, and sports twisting, molding, and changing with the times.


Even with all that life throws at us, it is still important to take a step back, reflect, and examine how we spend our time, who we spend it with, and how we contribute to our families and communities. I invested in a Passion Planner for 2017.  My friend, Dede, who is also a writer introduced it to me. It is an amazing book that approaches the next twelve months differently than a typical calendar or planner. It forces you to examine your goals, achievements, desires, and catalogs how you use your hours in a day. I love it because as a writer I definitely find myself off track, distracted, caught in the everyday chores, or dropping down the rabbit hole of the internet. We’ve all been there, haven’t we?


 


I love this planner and I wanted to share it with my readers. There may be a few of you out there that would find it useful. Here is to a great 2017!


 


Happy reading, happy life, happy you!


Amy


P.S. If anyone orders a Passion Planner of their very own, please mention Amy Rachiele in the referral section. Thank you! :)




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December’s winner for the free signed copy of Mobster’s Angel was Caroline from Kent (UK)!


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Mobster’s Heart: Part 4
Vito’s Short Story
(Installments of Mobster’s Heart have been included in my monthly newsletter since October.

If you missed part 1, 2 or 3, check your inbox or spam)


The door to the pool room swings open harder than I intended, letting cigarette smoke hit me in the face. It bangs against the wall. All eyes swipe my way. I stroll in and head straight for the bar, which is open in the middle of the day. Only a few of the cracked leather stools are occupied, stragglers, third shift workers, or others who never made it home last night.


The hardcore players are here too, gathered around the rectangular green felt tables. Smoke wafts my way again, annoying me. I never could understand how anybody smoked anything. Even Antonio smokes and I’ve always hated it. I turn my head away and motion to the bartender for a beer. The bleached blond slides a Blue Moon over to me. I don’t give a shit about what kind of beer because it all tastes the same to me.


I scan the room. He is here. I knew he would be. I figured him for a pool hustler. He is wearing a baseball cap low on his brow, hoping the shadow of the brim will cover some of the markings on his face. He is in serious mode. This is how this kid makes a living.


The pool balls rattle when the kid shoots hunched over, aiming. The balls split, rolling in all directions. More than one slips into the pockets.


“Stripes,” the kid calls out.


His opponent stands watching, leaning on his pool stick, sizing up the kid. Two lanky guys in the corner flatten out hundreds in front of them. Gambling. I’m sure they are putting their money on this kid. I know that I would.


“Justin!” the bleached blond calls out. The kid raises his head. “Another?”


He shakes his head no. He wants to keep his head in the game. Alcohol will fuck with his aim. Another smart move.


A pool stick is lifted and balanced on the other guy’s thumb as he calls out his shot.


“Six corner pocket.” Dark hair flops into his eyes; he shakes his head to clear the strands away before he shoots. The felt tip connects with the white ball, and it travels to collide with the one marked six, which drops gracefully into the corner pocket.


The game is quick, just like how I take an opponent down in the underground ring. Justin’s movements are smooth, slick, and efficient.


“You cheated, you little bastard!” Justin’s challenger has rage in his eyes.


The marred face of Justin looks up from being hidden beneath his cap as he addresses his adversary. “I. Did. Not.”


This kid didn’t cheat. Justin was totally brilliant with his game. That surprised me because part of hustling may involve some deceitful play. He did not need to. He is that good.


My anger starts in my stomach and rises to manifest itself in my throat. I want to say something. I want to punch this guy square in the face. Asshole! Does he think because he is playing a kid that he swindled him or that the distance in age was going to change anything? The guy fucking lost. Plain and simple.


The man hovers over Justin and points his finger in his face, making sure to reach below the cap brim on his head. If there is one fucking thing that I cannot fucking tolerate it’s when people point a finger in your face. Do they think that makes them look more intimidating or forces their argument? No, it only makes you look like a bitchy sore loser.


For some reason, I feel I need to back this kid up. I take my empty beer bottle by the neck and slam it on the bar. I slip off my stool and stand tall, my stance stiffening. Some people jolt from the intensity of the crack. The bottle didn’t break but served its purpose.


The guy Justin is squaring off with narrows his eyes at me, trying to read me.

“The kid didn’t cheat,” rolls smoothly off my tongue. I glare right back at the guy.

“I don’t want any trouble in here!” the female bartender calls out. I ignore her.


“Who the fuck are you?” the guy spits.


“Someone who is gonna fuck you up if you don’t pay him. I watched the whole thing, asshole.”

The other player rethinks his strategy of strong-arming Justin. He takes a few hundreds off the side table, crumples them in his fist, and shoves them hard into Justin’s stomach, pushing out his breath. Justin grabs the money.


“Next time, Justin.” The guy saunters to the door. Others in the bar who were watching swig down their last bit of alcohol and meander out with him.


Justin has his back to me. He is smoothing out his money and begins tucking it into his pocket. I walk over.


“Hey,” I utter. Justin doesn’t turn around. “Kid, I want to talk to you.”


“What do you want?” he says sarcastically. He keeps his back to me. “Why do you keep bothering me?”

I think for a second and before I can formulate any sort of answer Justin starts for the door. “Wait a minute,” I get out.


Justin spins on me and locks eyes with me. “This is my life. Dude, leave me alone.” There is no fear in his voice, no wavering. That surprises me. This kid, Justin, fucking surprises me at every turn. Really, he even looks me straight in the eye. Fuck! No one does that. This punk ass kid looked me in the eye!

I reach my arm out. “Wait!” I take hold of his sleeve and he yanks his arm away. I stand stone-still.

People don’t do this shit. Not listening to me. No one ever walks away from me like this kid is doing. My nose snarls in agitation, and I let him. I take it. I let him walk away. I was there once—tough, fending for myself and alone. Doesn’t matter how many people you have around you or how great your best friend is. Sometimes we just have to rely on ourselves.


Justin pushes the horizontal handle on the door, flinging it open, and then sprints away.


I chase him, my feet slapping against the pavement. This kid is fast. He ducks down an alleyway and I notice a familiar part and I reach it, taking a turn myself and cutting him off. He comes to a dead stop.


“Hey, kid, why you running?” I ask.


“Why do you care? I don’t need your bullshit.”


“What kind of bullshit do you think I have brought with me?”


“I don’t know. But I can tell you want something from me.”


I look at him quizzically. This kid is very intuitive…very.


“I don’t want anything. I just want to talk,” I rebut.


He grunts out a half laugh. “Yeah, you just want to talk.” He assesses me, looking from my head to my feet and back up straight into my eyes.


“You don’t swing that way, do you?” he sneers, disgusted.


“Holy shit, kid! What the fuck?”


“Believe me, I’ve had offers,” he tosses out.


Hearing those words from him makes me want to spit on the sidewalk to get out the “dirty.”


“Then what do you want?” he asks again.


“I don’t…” I watch him take a step back. I can take a lot of shit, bloody, gory shit that makes me a killer, but that kind of sexual crap coming out of the teenager makes me fucking ill.


“Look, I told you it’s not that way. You living on the streets?”


“No, I live in a mansion with a mother and a father and a sweet sister. Oh yeah, my mom’s in the PTA and my dad is a stockbroker.”


“Don’t get cocky with me. I’ve been where you are. Maybe not in the same destitute way but I know people like you. You’re a fighter.”


“How the hell do you know what I am? And again I ask, why do you care?” The snarky smirk he is wearing as he talks is fucking irritating.


“You know, kid, I have been asking myself the same question. Why do I give a fuck about anything that happens to street brats hustling for money in a pool hall and beating kids up with lead pipes? You’re right, I don’t know why I give a fuck.” I turn on my heel, shove my hands in my front pockets, and walk down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.


He yells from behind me. “What is your name, dude? You took all this trouble to track me down so what’s your name?”


I swivel my head a few inches, just enough so he can see my profile.


“My name is Vito and people give a fuck about me.”





I hope you enjoyed part four of Mobster’s Heart and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to reach out to me.


Happy reading,

Amy


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December 22, 2016

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The holidays have rolled around AGAIN! The older I get I can never get used to how time moves more quickly. As a child, it always seemed as though Christmas would never get here. Now, it comes all too fast. The past few years my family has purchased matching Christmas pajamas that we wear on Christmas day. It has become a new tradition that my son suggested that we carry on. Traditions are important to me but I also love trying new things.


Last year was the first time my family went to the movies on Christmas night. I had a great time.  My belly was full from dinner and I proudly wore my holiday pajamas under my coat and sat snuggled and warm in the theater seat watching Star Wars: The Force Awakens. My family had an amazing time and we made new memories and traditions.


Have a blessed holiday no matter what you celebrate and enjoy the ones around you.


Warmest wishes,

Amy



Win a Signed Copy of Mobster’s Angel!


*Open to National AND International Fans!*



Tweet out: “Join Amy Rachiele’s newsletter for freebies & fresh stories http://bit.ly/2dSwngB


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November’s winner was Amy Bernal from Kentucky!

Congratulations!





Mobster’s Heart: Part 3
Vito’s Short Story
(Part 1 appeared in October’s newsletter, part 2 in November’s newsletter.)


I never, ever give a shit about shopping. But it’s amazing the things I do now that I never would’ve done before since I’ve met Erin. The most mundane things excite me now just because she’s by my side. I need her. She creates a warm, inviting, intoxicating surrounding that changed my life. I hold her hand as we stroll down the carpeted walkways of the mall. It’s an enormous shopping center with three floors and glass railings so you can see right down to the bottom floor. Erin is chattering away about her sister, Megan, and my best friend, Antonio. The timbre of her voice soothes me. I care about Antonio and Megan so I am listening but Erin doesn’t even realize what she does for me by only talking.


She comes to a stop in front of a store filled with lotions, soaps, and other brightly colored bath stuff. I hover in the doorway leaning against the opening while she juts in and out of aisles grabbing this and that and tossing it into a netted bag outfitted for shoppers. I really could do this all day and never have a complaint because watching her fills me with happiness like I’ve never experienced before.


“Do you want anything?” Erin smiles at me.


She knows the answer is no but that cute little grin on her face was her attempt at a joke. I’ll use the scented, smelly stuff at the apartment because she puts it there but that is about my limit with cherry-scented soaps.


When she’s finished, I walk with her to the check-out. She puts her bag on the white counter and the clerk rings up her items. The clerk is distracted. She glances at me every few seconds and then looks back down at the register keys. I know that glare. It says what is this girl doing with me. We don’t fit. Erin is lively, pretty, and short. I’m tall, broad, and menacing. I don’t try to be that way, I just am. Growing up in the mafia life gives me a certain persona that I can’t shake, put aside, or hide, and frankly, I’ve stopped trying.


“That will be $56.25.”


I take my wallet out of my back pocket and lay three twenties on the counter. The clerk counts out my change but doesn’t hand it to me. She hands it to Erin. Wow, this girl must be really fucking afraid of me. I shrug it off. Whatever. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last.


I shift to move out of agitation. I struggle with why. I’m with the only person in the world who offers me peace and comfort. The face of the kid flits through my mind. Is it only because he reminds me so much of myself? Of my own struggles? I have never questioned my place. I know where I fit in. With the DeLisi family, I know my job, and may not have turned out like I thought but it is still me. Goals and aspirations in my line of work are trivial thoughts. We don’t have them. We just do what we are taught, what we need to do, and it never feels wrong. That kid does what he needs to do. He bridges the gap between a sucky life and what needs to be done. I turn to Erin, take her hand, and lead her down the long stretch of the mall.





I hope you enjoyed part three of Mobster’s Heart and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to reach out to me.

Happy holidays,

Amy


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December 8, 2016

By: Amy Rachiele, M. Ed.


Author of the Mobster Series


Boxing is a rigorous and life altering sport for many. It has its own set of building blocks. Your team is not lined up beside you ready to stop another team from advancing forward nor is it a group of individuals striving to defend a net in the middle of a field of green grass. But it still takes a village.


The mental acuity and commitment to physical fitness and the willingness to let another person hit you is a whole different land of mental game. It takes a community of trainers, coaches, sparring partners, and essential friends and family for support but in the end the boxer must enter the ring alone with only dexterity and perseverance as his guide.


I attended my first fight on December 2, 2016 to watch Anthony Marsella Jr. box. I really had not watched a televised event let alone sat ringside in the heat, sweat, and emotional investment that goes along with being part of something “live.”


“A moment in time” that is exactly what Anthony Marsella Jr.’s fight became. A moment because as soon as I was able to blink my eyes, remove them from the scene before me for a millisecond, he had taken down his opponent. I wrestled with the entire situation from many angles–as a spectator, a mother with a son, and maybe even as a quite removed acquaintance just passing through at that moment of impact. The event became surreal because I was moved, changed, and in essence–altered.


Dedication only taps the surface of the metaphysical doctrine of boxing. I believe the word is tossed about these days. You are dedicated to a cause, or family even friends. Dedication to yourself as a whole is what it takes to be a fighter.


You can have all the support in the world or none at all because in the end you are alone– an island of one facing another island ready to collide, blow by blow, to shift the earthly tectonic plates. Anthony Marsella Jr. gave that metaphor new meaning for me, an uneducated boxing fan and a novice viewer.


Fist to fist!


Shaking the world!


Congratulations Anthony!


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November 16, 2016


Win a Signed Copy of Mobster’s Angel!


*Open to National AND International Fans!*



Tweet out: “Join Amy Rachiele‘s newsletter for freebies & fresh stories http://bit.ly/2dSwngB


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Post on Google+, Facebook, or Tumblr: “Join Author, Amy Rachiele‘s newsletter for FREE #ebooks and exclusive short story about Vito #mobsterfiction http://bit.ly/2dSwngB


*Email me the link to enter! The more links, the more times your name is entered.



October’s winner was Liliuokalani Cintron, FL

Congratulations!

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COMING SOON!

Keep your eyes peeled for Mobster’s Fate, Book 2 of the Chicago Mob Series! Add to your Goodreads TBR list


Haven’t started the series yet? Get caught up with Book 1, Mobster’s Gamble


mob-fate




Mobster’s Heart: Part 2
Vito’s Short Story
(Part 1 appeared in October’s newsletter)

Snatching up the empty bottles of chemicals, I finish my work, erasing all traces in the area. My thoughts stray back to the kid catching a beating and my conscience gets the best of me. A small voice in my head that sounds like Erin makes me think for just a second I should help that kid. He definitely needed backup and I can’t help but wonder what his story is. Normally, I wouldn’t care, so why is it that today I do?

My car is parked a short way down another back alley and I walk to it, going back and forth wrestling with the situation, my shoulder stinging.


Damn it!


I crush up the bottles using my uninjured arm and my thigh and cram them into the storm drain. I hear them splash into the dirty water. I stand and put my hand against my wound, giving it some pressure. It hurts like a motherfucker. The mob doc will fix me up though, he always does. I slip into my car and speed away, the image of that kid nagging me like a bitch.


I spin my car into my parking spot in front of my apartment building. I have been gone for hours so I am not surprised to find Erin curled up on the couch with a blanket, her red hair tousled and flopped over her face. I try not to wake her but she rouses.


“Hey,” she says with a groggy voice, pushing her hair back. Her eyes adjust and she sees my shoulder. “Oh my God, what happened?”


I grunt, not answering. Her lips purse into an angry “O.” She wants to say more but she is forcing herself to keep her mouth shut. I go to the kitchen and reach for a beer out of the refrigerator. To open it, I have to set it on the counter to hold it steady and pop the top.


Erin takes in a breath to speak but she cuts herself off. I know what she is going to say. It is six-thirty in the morning, a bit early to have a drink. I roll my piercing shoulder.


“You should get that taken care of,” Erin comments. “It must hurt.”


I nod and swig down the entire beer. Erin’s face softens and she comes to me. Her tiny form approaches and my body awakens as it always does when she is near. I stand over a foot taller than her but she is the only person in this world who makes all the evil melt away. She is the calm in the storm that is the Mafia.


*****


I don’t know why I do it but I track down the kid from yesterday morning. It is easy because finding people is part of my job. The confusing part is why. Who gives a shit about some young kid living on the streets getting the shit kicked out of him? It builds character.


I pass a rundown abandoned department store and that is where I see the sneaker prints in the grime that has settled by the entrance. Someone has been going in and out for about a week or two. I take the steps two at a time and reach for the metal door handle. It has some give as I push but an object is blocking it from totally opening. I force it with my good shoulder and as I do I hear footsteps. I dance back and head around the corner to watch. Just as I suspected, the kid from yesterday. He is carrying a metal pipe. At first, I think he is ready for action against whoever was pulling on the door. But he jogs down the steps with another purpose. His strides are quick and determined. I decide to follow. He is hurting from yesterday’s beating. I can tell. My shoulder smarts where the bullet was removed but I refuse to wear it in a sling like the doc wanted me to. Sympathy for this kid’s pain is relatable. The pipe swings as he carries it and his pace picks up. I wonder what he is planning to do with it.


He takes a left and so do I. After a few minutes, I realize I am exactly back where I started the other night. We are right near the edge of the dock where I kicked the bodies into the water. Voices carry over the air. I sidle closer and see the three dudes that beat this kid hanging around laughing. They must get their biggest kicks early in the morning. The face of the kid I followed shows, outlined against the worn, cracked siding of the building. He is tracking these other kids. His face is swollen and red with a black eye and fat lip. He dances in place, psyching himself up. He reminds me of me.


Then he bolts, he just flashes out of his spot. He lifts the pipe over his head and smashes it into the back of the legs of the kid closest to him. All of them are taken by surprise. He has the upper hand today. He evens out the score with the pipe and the element of surprise. He swings around, catching another kid in the shoulder. A howl roars through the morning light. He whips up the pipe and swings it like a baseball bat at the third kid, getting him square in the chest. These guys don’t know what hit them. Sneakers slap on the wood dock as he takes off running, never letting go of the pipe.


Revenge. Well planned, executed, and fearless. I snicker at his boldness. This kid definitely reminds me of myself. I walk over to the moaning victims. The tables are turned—yesterday that kid was the victim, now it’s these losers. The fight was unfair and cowardly… three against one. The one sought revenge and I can taste the sweetness even though I only observed. He is rolling it around in his mouth, savoring it. I raise my boot and kick one of these cowards and he flips over, groaning.




I hope you enjoyed part two and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to reach out to me.


Happy reading,

Amy



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Published on November 16, 2016 04:43 • 30 views

October 13, 2016


Mobster’s Heart: Part 1
Vito’s Short Story

I barely felt it when the bullet sliced through my shoulder. I was foolish to have underestimated this asshole. He’s good. His reflexes are as fast as mine. I lift my gun hand in the air and squeeze the trigger, sending two bullets into his exposed chest. His body jolts, quivers, and falls to the asphalt. My shoulder burns with pain. But I am alive and he isn’t. If that’s how your day goes—you are still above ground or not at the bottom of a body of water—then you have a win. If you end up in a heap of human flesh lying on cement, that’s not a good day.


I walk toward the corpse and wrap my fingers around his ankle, dragging him back behind the building that has been abandoned for years. Dust kicks up as his lifeless body shifts and moves. This guy could’ve made it. I didn’t have any problem with him. It was his friend that I was supposed to take care of, to clean up, to erase. I would consider this guy collateral damage. I drag the body next to the other and now I have two bodies to dispose of instead of one.


I never feel bad. I am never sorry, because these people bring it on themselves. I have a job to do and I do it. I can’t bother myself with the who, the what, the why. All I care about is finishing up and getting back to Erin. I left Erin studying at my apartment. She knows better now than to ask questions or probe too deeply into what I’m doing. And it’s best she doesn’t know.


I swing around when I hear rustling behind me. I squint. It is a couple of kids arguing. It starts to get heated and I hear the split of clothing being torn and an oaf as a body is being shoved.


I think they saw me but they’ve got their own action going down.


I breathe in a deep sigh and let it out in a whoosh of relief that it is just a couple of kids. I don’t need more aggravation today. I cover my shoulder with my hand and blood pours out onto it; my shirt is soaked with the crimson color I’m used to seeing every day. It doesn’t bother me whether it’s mine or somebody else’s as long as I walk away.


I take a strip of material that I ripped off the shirt of one of the guys and wind it around my shoulder. I take some duct tape and wind it along the makeshift bandage. Beside me are four cinderblocks. One-handed I pull one along and attach it to the bottom of victim number one’s feet. The reason I’m here. The guy who cheated the mob boss out of thirty grand.


I work fast, not knowing who saw me, and make sure the other blocks are securely tied to the bodies. I shift my vision again and watch around the corner. The kids are jostling and pushing each other, swearing. At first glance, I notice the one kid being bullied is wearing clothes that look days unwashed. I shake my head. No. I have a job to finish.


The alcohol and bleach waft to my nose. It doesn’t sting anymore. It used to, in the beginning, when I was made to clean up for the DeLisi family. I think being the cleaner singed all of my nasal senses and destroyed my ability to detect smells. Images of the kid replay in my head over and over. I look again and he is  running away, surviving. They are probably wanted for petty theft or drug use, derelicts that scrounge for whatever they can get in this deserted part of town.


I glance in front of me and see the glistening gray water. I lift my booted foot and push one body at a time over into the abyss. A huge splash rockets up and water coats my face and splatters onto my shirt and pants. The river is always cold; it never seems to warm up whether it’s summer or spring. The water equals the coldness of what lies inside the river. I execute this hit by submersion instead of burying, chopping up, or boiling the bodies. These two guys are going to be a message to anyone else who has dealings with the DeLisi family that you can’t cheat us. We will find you.


After about five or six days, their bodies will decompose because of the water and the bits of fish eating away at their flesh. They’ll float back to the surface. This is how I was told handle it, so that is what I do.


I shift my vision and watch a boy as large as the other three being harassed. I stare, not taking on my eyes off the scene. It brings back memories of when Antonio and I were kids. The kid is being bullied but he takes it like a man. A punch to the face, a kick to the kidney. It doesn’t last long and the group disperses. The boy, bloodied, rests his arms on his legs, huffing. He catches a glimpse of me and begins running. The last thing I see is a large full backpack jostling behind him. I shake my head; I have a job to finish. The art of killing.





Win a Signed Copy of Mobster’s Angel!


Open to National AND International Fans!

Tweet out:Join Amy Rachiele’s newsletter for freebies & fresh stories http://bit.ly/2dSwngB


OR


Post on Google+, Facebook, or Tumblr:Join Author, Amy Rachiele’s newsletter for FREE #ebooks and exclusive short story about Vito #mobsterfiction http://bit.ly/2dSwngB


*Email me the link to enter! The more links, the more times your name is entered.


September’s winner was Myra Calma

Congratulations!





COMING SOON!


Keep your eyes peeled for Mobster’s Fate, Book 2 of the Chicago Mob Series!Add to your Goodreads TBR list


Haven’t started the series yet? Get caught up with Book 1, Mobster’s Gamble


mobsters-fate-book-2



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Published on October 13, 2016 04:30 • 50 views

September 15, 2016


Fall decorating and back to school are the two things I think of when September hits the calendar. But just like spring, September is a great month to get closets cleaned out or dig yank the left over weeds from your summer garden. Amazingly though, September is Update Your Resume month.



Here are some great tips on how to spruce up your resume:




Add professional activities




Double check that your job history is up to date




Tailor your resume with relative keywords




Track down some new references





 


Win a Signed Copy of Mobster’s Girl!


Open to National AND International Fans!



Go to my FB author pagelike a post and comment “I’m a Mobster Fan!” #mobsterfiction


OR


Tweet out: I’m a Mobster Fan. Check out Mobster’s Girl on Amazon! #mobsterfiction


*Email me the link to enter! The more links the more times your name is entered.


August’s Winner is Sheila C. Lawrence

Congratulations!





TEASER FROM MOBSTER’S FATE
(BOOK 2 IN CHICAGO MOB SERIES)



Meryl

I shoot up in bed. An unfamiliar pain rockets across my stomach area, it takes my breath away. I gasp when the pain subsides, sucking in all the air I can. I see the clock, it’s two a.m.


It comes again. This time the pain is so strong I call out. I twist in the bed letting my feet hit the floor. Paralyzing agony takes over my body making my hands shake. I use the mattress to attempt to stand on unstable legs when it lessens marginally. I suck in really quick sips of air. I straighten and take a few steps towards the doorway of my bedroom. The crippling stitch comes again and I fall to the floor.


The swift padding of feet sounds on the hardwood floor. Lisa appears in my doorway.


“Meryl!” she screams. Lisa slides tumbling to her knees by my side. “What’s wrong?”


I gulp in oxygen before I speak. “Sharp pains,” I rasp.


“I’m calling an ambulance.”


“No!” I reach out my hand to her forearm stopping her. “It’s getting better.”


Lisa extends her hands and grabs me under my arms to help me stand. Knife like stabs radiate from below my stomach.


“Ow!” I holler.


“I am taking you to the hospital.”


Lisa shuffles me towards the doorway. We inch across the tile in the kitchen to the back door. I tread carefully on the back steps having to pause when an assaulting ache strikes. Finally, Lisa sits me in the passenger seat of her car. The pain completely takes my breath away. My body can’t function–do two things at once. I inhale in quick deep breaths when I am able to.  I watch Lisa run from the house to the car with her purse and keys.


She throws her body into the driver seat. “How are you doing?” she rushes out.


“Better.” I lie.


“You look worse,” she comments pressing the button to start the engine. “Buckle up.”


Add Mobster’s Fate to your Goodreads TBR list



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Published on September 15, 2016 04:16 • 51 views

August 5, 2016


August is Family Fun Month, but I hope your entire summer has been fun. I have definitely been taking advantage of my son being out of school and hitting the open road, albeit not on a motorcycle, but in a four door Kia sedan.


My son and I traveled to the White Mountains of New Hampshire to soak in the fresh mountain air by kayaking down the Saco river. A four hour ride from there led us to the beauty of the pristine beach of Lake George, New York. After exploring the sites and relaxing by the water, we spent another five hours in the car to traverse north to Canada where my son was excited to get another stamp in his passport. Niagara Falls is breathtaking.  The cascading ocean is so powerful that it left us in awe as we thought about our own smallness in this great big world.








Sometimes when we step back and take the time to appreciate all that the world has to offer it gets us excited about being alive. Many days we take life for granted. It’s not uncommon or anyone’s fault for doing so especially with the rat race of just getting work completed or the family fed. Stopping once in a while to reflect helps us to stay balanced and focused on what is truly important.


Happy Summer and may your days be filled with adventure and great books,


Amy



P.S. Take a minute and let me hear from you. I love hearing from the fans!




AUGUST GIVEAWAY!!!

Would you like to win a FREE SIGNED COPY of Mobster’s Gamble?



Here’s how:


Copy & paste the following ad and post onto your

FB, Google+, Tumblr or blog:


Don’t be afraid that Antonio may keep you up all night!! Download Mobster’s Girl for #FREE and get book 2 Awakening the Mobster for #FREE ***Find the link in the back of Mobster’s Girl US http://amzn.to/1RLPMjg  UK  http://amzn.to/1Rg1LFf   #mobsterfiction  #romancenovels


Twitter:


The book that started it all is #FREE, Mobster’s Girl, US http://amzn.to/1RLPMjg  UK  http://amzn.to/1Rg1LFf  #mobsterfiction



Email me the link after you’ve posted so I can enter your name into the giveaway!


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Published on August 05, 2016 04:33 • 68 views

July 14, 2016


A SUMMER CROWD PLEASER!

Author, Amy Rachiele’s favorite frozen dessert.


Yodel Cake


This is one of those recipes where guests can’t get enough. It is an unusual flavor combination and in the summer heat it hits your taste buds, instantly refreshing and cooling you.


Ingredients:


2 boxes of Drake’s Yodels


1 large container of softened rainbow sherbet



 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


Slice yodels into 1/2 in discs and line the bottom and sides of any shape dish. (When you cut the yodels the chocolate sometimes falls off. Be careful to keep as much as you can. You can try freezing and cutting them too.)


Take softened sherbet and spoon it into the dish that is already lined with yodel discs. Fill it to the top of dish and smooth. Cover with aluminum foil or plastic wrap.


Put dish in freezer overnight.


Take it out ten minutes before flipping it over on to serving dish.


Cut and serve immediately.


 


Let me know if you make the Yodel cake and how you liked it! I love hearing from you!


Happy Summer,


Amy




GIVEAWAY!

Enter to win a signed copy of Shrapnel’s Kiss, A Military Romance for the month of July. Open nationally and internationally.


Shrapnel's Kiss


Go to Amy Rachiele’s FB Page and like and say “Happy July” to enter OR follow her on Twitter and send a tweet with this link to her Amazon page http://www.amazon.com/Amy-Rachiele/e/B008K51MCM/ (tag @amyrachiele)


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Published on July 14, 2016 04:46 • 67 views