I hope to publish it very early December. It will be free in e-book form. Here is a teaser: a snippet of the meeting between Tony Viscolli and Derrick DiNunzio:
Tony had time to file the reports away and make sure nothing pressing waited for him on his desk. Closing his eyes, he uttered a brief prayer, “Please God, help me focus on this meeting and let me make a difference in this young man’s life.”
As he raised his head, a knock sounded on his door. Margart opened it without waiting for him to bid entrance, and in walked Derrick DiNunzio.
He had lost weight in the month since Tony first met him outside of a dirty bar in the absolutely wrong neighborhood. Tony had looked at him and seen a reflection of himself not long before and something, the Holy Spirit he supposed, pressed him to help this boy. He told Derrick to come see him when he turned eighteen. Now Derrick stood before him, right there in the same black leather jacket with the hole in the elbow, dirty jeans, worn out boots, and red-rimmed eyes. He had a scruffy beard and chapped lips.
“Derrick DiNunzio,” Tony said, stepping forward with his hand out. Derrick looked at it and hesitantly shook his hand. Tony gripped it with his other hand, trying to convey friendship. “I’m pleased you decided to take me up on my offer and come see me.”
Derrick shrugged and tried to act tough, but he kept looking around at the very large and well appointed office. “Yeah, well you said maybe you had a job for me, Mr. Viscolli, and I could really use the work, so I came.”
Tony looked at Margaret over Derrick’s shoulder. “Just go ahead and bring in the food when it arrives if you could, Margaret.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Tony gestured to the brown leather couch and chairs that formed a seating area near a lit fireplace. “Please, sit down, Derrick.”
Derrick shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched toward the couch. “What kind of job you need me to do, Mr. Viscolli?”
Tony ignored the question and sat in a chair facing Derrick. “Lei parla Italiano?”
The youth shook his head. “Nah. My mom, she didn’t speak English and she wanted to learn. By the time I was old enough to talk, she refused to teach me any except when she was cussing me out.”
“Well, cussing does sound more sincere in Italian, doesn’t it?”
“I never questioned her sincerity, Mr. Viscolli.”
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