To Trap A Kiss is .99 cents right now and To Kiss An Enemy is totally free on Amazon for the next few days! So if you haven’t read either definitely be sure to go check them out.
EBOOK arcs of to kiss an enemy
My second book comes out on February 28th. This is a stand alone, but it does have characters from The Capaldi Brothers series in it. If anyone would like an ARC please e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I was everyone’s dream girl. A teenage model who traveled the world and got everything she wanted. Everyone wanted me. Including Luca Capaldi, son of one of the biggest crime family’s in Boston. The trouble is that the fantasy everyone sees is not the reality I have.
I’m the illegitimate granddaughter of two of the biggest mafia dons on the east coast. I’m reviled as a dark, family secret to be forgotten about when they don’t need me and used and abused when they do. And both of them want to use me as a prize to get even more power. If they have it their way, I’ll become a pawn in their games. But I’m not a pawn. I’m a Queen. And I’m going to take the kingdom, and their golden boy down with it.
TO KISS AN ENEMY is book 2 in The Capaldi Brothers Series. It is a dark, standalone romance with an HEA and lots of heat. If you enjoyed book 1 in The Capaldi Brothers Series following Daniela and Niccolo, you’ll definitely enjoy Audrina and Luca’s story.
Dead men tell tales
Water washes things away.
But at the end of the day,
what is a an ocean, river, or a lake
but just a really deep grave?
Leave your secrets to the deep,
the sun or the tide will bring them to light
and their secrets will be whispered alive
by the coroners who speak the language
of death and time
I grew up in a haunted house.
There were corpses of a marriage hidden in the walls.
An imprint where a fist fight had taken place.
Old papers from lawyers of a forgotten court case.
One summer, a new bride moved in to take the place of the old.
And a few summers later, she was in the ground cold.
But the cops were invited to the funeral, and so the truth was never told.
The first bride of the house escaped. And the other never got to grow old.
You can find her at the end of Bridge St.
She’d love flowers by her grave.
A Summers Day
It was a hot, summers day. She went out to the field. It was filled with flowers, floral, and fragrant. She had a book in her hand and a basket for a picnic complete with a blanket that she’d grabbed from the attic. It was in one of the old trunks that no one did anything with so she didn’t think anyone would miss it.
She’d cut her hair short for the summer. It was too hot for it to be long. Her mother had been furious, but she’d felt lighter when she’d chopped it all into a brown bob.
Millie finished setting up her picnic, read, and ate, taking bites of the sandwich she’d prepared for herself. As she was in the middle of a particularly good part, a shadow fell over her.
Reluctantly, Millie looked up from her reading. She found herself staring into a pair of emerald, green eyes. “Charlie!” she gushed, dropping her book and getting up to hug him tightly. “When did you get home?”
“Just this morning,” he said, “walked all day from the train.”
Millie pulled herself away. He might have been a soldier, but he was still the butler’s son. Even if they had grown up together. She might have been the fifth youngest in a family of five, but she still had responsibilities, didn’t she?
She smiled. “Oh. Well, I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me, too.” He took his cap off.
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“I simply had an inkling,” he said, with a grin. “Anyway, your father was kind enough to keep tabs on me the whole time. Always sent me stuff if I needed it and….”
He pulled something from his pocket. It was a velvet box, and inside was a ring Millie recognized. Her mothers engagement ring. Millie’s brows furrowed together. “He did say once I made something of myself, I could marry you. That is if you’ll have me. Will you?”
Millie smiled at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing him deeply. “Of course, Charlie. Of course.”
I went out walking in the desert, under a sky of pinks and blues. With red rocks surrounding me. I saw a rattler slither by.
I heard the coyotes howling at the moon. And I thought of all of the nonsense in my head. Then, in the middle of nowhere, I howled with them too.
The only ones that listened were the coyotes, and the moon that blue.
We are sitting in your dining room. The table is the same one you’ve had since college, a cheap wooden thing bought at an Ikea. The tea kettle is on, bubbling and boiling. While your Amazon Alexa is softly playing an old song, the title of which I can’t remember. It will bug me for weeks, until in the middle of the night, I’ll wake up with the title in my head.
“What are we?” I ask, softly, so soft I am not sure that you even hear it.
“I don’t know that we’re anything anymore,” you said.
And I grabbed my things, and left, as the tea kettle whistled. Like it was announcing the end of a relationship.
The old gods are pacing in their ruined temples, waiting to be unleashed. While some of them flicker faintly, ghosts of themselves, in and out of peoples memories.
“Remember when we were something?”
“Remember when you worshipped us from everything to death and grain?”
“Remember when you once feared our names?”
We are still here. Still waiting.
Fairytales are gone
There are no fairytales anymore. All that remains are relics, buildings covered in cobwebs, with carpets covered in glass and blood stains of revolutions. Shells of bullets left from battles fought long ago. And lonely ghosts wandering the halls and ballroom floors. Kings and Queens put to the grave, in the ground, where they should be. With a different kind of fairytale to take their place.
One without crowns and dynasties.
The Internet looks for scarlet letters
When people talk about Hawthorne, they talk about him like he’s this dusty, out of touch author. And sometimes I wonder if that’s because people miss the point of one of his most famous works and that’s why we’re where we are at now.
Hester Prynne gets put with a big, bold Scarlett A on her clothing. For a mistake that wasn’t hers alone to make. Marked forever.
And isn’t that what the internet does? It looks for scarlet letters. Sometimes deserved. Sometimes not. And so we’re all Hester Prynne.
Living with mistakes. Sometimes not even ours.