Roy Tarantino, a second-generation Italian-American, is a typical loser. He has lost everything—his business, his wife and son—and is about to commit suicide by jumping from his apartment on Mulberry Street, Little Italy, New York City.
In the exact moment when he is about to jump, he hears a woman’s scream coming from the apartment just across the street. This strange coincidence will turn his failure of a life into a success as he becomes, after an intriguing series of crimes that unexpectedly cross his path, a talented middle-aged detective. These crimes, a rape and a murder, concern two friends, Jessica and Laura, who seem to have been wrongly exchanged by the rapist and the killer. Behind these crimes, an intriguing multiple love story—on the model of Madame Bovary—creates the texture of a fantastic plot that gives the reader several surprises.
Roy becomes able to solve the mystery thanks to his knowledge of psychiatric illnesses and of great classic literature. But just a page before the end . . Crimes in Little Italy speeds from its beginning to its conclusion like a Ferrari on the open road in a very exciting and compelling way. The plot is very tightly constructed and carries a lot of very interesting material with grace and expertise. It hits the bull’s eye on nearly every page and can be defined an “unputdownable” book that the reader will find impossible not to read from cover to cover in one sitting. With a meticulously precise eye on the streets of New York City and a clever undercurrent that recalls Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, this novel offers an innovative approach to the thriller genre and will delight both lovers of thrillers and lovers of classic literature.
|My name is Roy Tarantino and I am a Daniele Bondi’s creature. This writer was not very kind to me. I’ve got an erratic, indecisive, and unlucky nature. Actually, I’m not naughty at all. I tried through the whole of my life to set and achieve goals, but with poor results. Always!
To be sincere, I’m a class A loser as I was not able to graduate. My marriage agency failed and I was betrayed by my wife twice: she not only walked out on me and ran out of my life to go and live with another man, but also obtained full custody of our son, Thomas. This fact was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
This is why, at the very beginning of my story, I’m about to throw myself into the empty space before me. Yes, I’m about to commit suicide…
In this precise moment a woman’s scream, a short, sharp and chilling scream, rips through the starry night.
As a matter of fact, my creator has decided to give me a chance. The chance to become a… detective!
About my Italian origin:
Even though I was born in the Big Apple, my blood doesn’t lie—both of my parents were Italian. My father was from Puglia; not from Taranto as my last name might suggest, but from Bari. My mother, on the other hand, was born and raised in Florence, and woe to you if you ever called her “Tuscan” and not “Florentine”! They emigrated to New York separately, in the early fifties. When he was twenty, my father left Italy with his best friend, Gianni, and they opened a restaurant together on Hester Street. My mother was little more than a child when she arrived in America with her parents and their dream of opening a custom tailor’s/dressmaker’s shop. My maternal grandparents had gotten it into their heads that Americans would pay through the nose for their fashions and for some time they did do quite well. One day the family went to eat at my father’s restaurant and that was where he met the girl that would later become his wife and my mother. After they married, she left her parents’ dress shop and went to work at the restaurant that they continued to run up until the mid-nineties. I also worked there for a time, helping them serve thousands between all the lunches and dinners, until my parents, well into their old age by then, decided to close the business. They both died in 2004. My dad died from a heart attack, and my mom, unable to imagine any other kind of life than the one she’d had with my dad, died a few months later. That’s how much my parents loved each other.