Do you tend to base your characters on real people or are they totally from your imagination?
Of course I’m taking bits and pieces from real people I’ve met. But they are all Frankenstein’s monster. I take pieces and put them together into a new shape, then inspiration strikes and they shamble off to wreak havoc.
If you could meet a paranormal being or character of your choice with no safeguards, what/who would you choose and why?
I’d like to meet Silvio, my current character, just to experience what it means to be in the same room with him.
What do you like or dislike about eBook publishing?
What I like is how much talent is out there that is completely undiscovered by the mainstream. You get so much creativity and unique writers and books that would never get a chance in print publishing because publishers are scared of risk.
What I dislike? So many awful books with horrific editing and terrible covers.
What are your current projects?
I’m currently writing the second part of “The Lion of Kent” – my co-writer has made a really good start on it, now I have to write my scenes and chapters before we can continue. It’s about a gay knight in the late 12th century, who becomes famous, then joins the Templars to escape his sins, and eventually ends up doing cool stuff in the Holy Land.
Then there’s the “Dark Soul,” the story of a married Mafia capo and the killer he’s sexually and emotionally obsessed with. Silvio, the killer, is sex on legs, and the poor capo basically stands no chance.
I’m also working on two historical novels set in the Second World War in Europe.
Can you tell us a little about your latest release?
The latest release is “Dark Edge of Honor,” a military sci-fi romance novel I wrote with Rhianon Etzweiler. It’s the story of two enemy soldiers falling in love despite everything.
Here’s the blurb:
Sergei Stolkov is a faithful officer, though his deepest desires go against the Doctrine. A captain with the invading Coalition forces, he believes that self-sacrifice is the most heroic act and his own needs are only valid if they serve the state.
Mike, an operative planted within Cirokko's rebels, has been ordered to seduce Sergei and pry from him the Coalition's military secrets. His mission is a success, but as he captures Sergei's heart, Mike is tempted by his own charade and falls in love.
When the hostile natives of the planet Cirokko make their move, all seems lost. Can Mike and Sergei survive when the Coalition's internal affairs division takes an interest in what happened in the dusty mountains of Zasidka Pass...?
What do you like most about writing?
When I hit the flow (which is rare) – the words just come out and they are all perfect. That’s an amazing feeling. Also, when the story just takes its twists and turns, keeping me on my toes, and my character surprise me with the stuff they’re doing and which I’d have never expected.
What genre do you write mostly and what appeals to you most about your genre?
I’m the wrong guy to ask. I get bored with every sub-genre after a couple books, so I constantly need to move from contemporary to military to sci-fi to fantasy to military to thriller and back again. I follow the story – and if the story happens to be in a certain genre or sub-genre, I try to learn the rules of that really quickly.
Where do you get the names for your characters?
Sometimes they are homages to existing people. William Raven was named after William Marshal, one of the most famous knights of his time. Raven is an allusion to Ravensbourne, which is a little town on my daily commute. As I like in Kent and William is “the Lion of Kent”, that seemed very fitting.
Silvio Spadaro – “Silvio” means “of the forest” – the forest being wild and untamed and dark/threatening terrain (think back to fairy tales – weird and horrible things happen in the forest). “Spadaro” is an old Italian name pointing either to a Byzantine officer (there’s the soldier connection again) or to sword-maker. There’s the whole Biblical idea of who takes up the sword will die by the sword – very good symbols for a mafia killer, I thought.
So, yeah, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about the names. The right one will just simply click in my head.
What are you reading now?
Non-fiction about medieval warfare and the Third Reich. All research.
Who are your favorite authors?
On the literary side, William Faulkner and A M Tuomala. In our genre, Kirby Crow, Manna Francis, Rachel Haimowitz, Peter Hansen, Kate Cotoner, Rhianon Etzweiler, and many, many more.
What would you advise an aspiring author?
Keep writing, read books on writing craft, read outside the genre, and learn how to accept feedback and critique. Keep working on your prose even if you get to the point where you think you know what you’re doing. An honest critique will hurt you badly, but without honest feedback, you might never grow out of your beginner’s mistakes.
When did you start the adventure of writing?
I was telling stories from a very early age. Started to actually write them down as a teenager. Published my first short story at sixteen and my first longer piece of fiction at 23, I think. My first novel at 25. It just kinda grew from there.
What's the funniest scene you've ever written?
I’m not actually good at comedy. I hope my characters are funny at times, but they tend towards snarky and witty rather than funny. So, uhm, I’d have no clue where to start looking.
A quick quiz: Answer as fast as you can.
Frank Castle, aka The Punisher
Toroncino affogato – semi-frozen nougat then drenched in hot espresso.
Luke Skywalker and friends. Ruined a perfectly good empire.
The Sentinel, Judas Priest
Have you ever written to music?
All the time.
Anything loud and rhythmic: metal, hard rock, R’nB, industrial, reggaeton, film and games scores
What is the most interesting thing you have learned from your research?
I’ve done some very interesting research on medieval hunting techniques for “Lion of Kent”, and I’m currently reading about the French tournament circuit. You basically had this year-long event of tournaments being held all over France, and half of Europe’s knights touring from one to the next to win a lot of money and even more fame and political power. Fascinating culture somewhere between touring bands and celebrities like Brad and Angelina taking their kids around the world, drawing huge crowds.
Here's an excerpt from Dark Soul:
He didn’t expect hostility. If he had, he wouldn’t have shown up; he wasn’t that brave. But he still liked having Vince at his side. This way he had at least one ally in the room. The others were fleeting alliances or all-out rivals for the business soon to be up for grabs.
Luigi Ferretti, the old badger’s right-hand man, stepped into the room and walked toward Rossi, an east coast boss. They exchanged a few whispered words, then Rossi put his wine glass down, straightened his suit like a boy being called to the principal’s office, and followed the consigliere.
Stefano was too low on the food chain to receive the call so soon. First the dying man’s old comrades, then the young Turks. No doubt the big pieces of the old man’s empire would be taken by the time his turn came. But even if there were only scraps left, he couldn’t afford not to be here. He had to circle with the other sharks.
His cell phone buzzed. Just short; a text message. He fished it from his pocket and cast a glance at the screen.
Having a great time, but the hotel bed is so empty without you.
He smiled at the thought of Donata in that Parisian five-star hotel, wearing a silken negligee—maybe the one as red as spilled blood—her small breasts and hard nipples pushing against the barely-there fabric. He was damn lucky to have married her rather than taken her as a mistress, even if he did tend to send her away on shopping trips to London, Paris, or New York when he had to get this involved with the family business. Even if, as she put it, she only bought the clothes so she could take them off for him.
His neck was cramping up, so he stood, stretched out, and then headed for the open balcony doors and the salty breeze. In a corner, two men were talking in murmurs, denying him solitude, so he headed down the broad stairs toward the front of the mansion.
The white gravel driveway was lit all the way from the road. Above the rhythmic swell of the ocean sounding from beyond the house, Stefano heard the revving of a powerful, aggressive engine.
A motorcycle, all sharp edges, painted black with white highlights. It zipped along the winding driveway as if it had a race to win, swerving dangerously and then stopping with a dramatic turn, spraying gravel everywhere.
Including across Stefano’s polished leather shoes.
The driver was hunched over the handlebars, wearing a matching full-body leather suit with Kevlar plates.
Like some modernist centaur on wheels.
The driver stepped off, displaying long, long graceful legs and a tiny ass clad in leather. Woman? Lean and angular, but feminine, even when kicking the stand underneath the bike. The helmet came off after a somewhat awkward release. Short, spiky hair beneath. Not a woman—and that jolted through Stefano just as hard as the driver’s cold, motionless, focused expression. In that pale face lurked the blackest, darkest eyes Stefano had ever seen, and lips like they’d been cut with knife blades, perfect, sharp, and deadly.
The driver cast him an annoyed glance—At his proximity? His staring?—but then paused and regarded him longer. No smile, no recognition. Eventually, he turned to hang the helmet from the handlebar.
Stefano backed away, but watched the man unstrap saddlebags just large enough for a proper suit and toiletries.
The driver glanced at him again. “Old guy’s not dead yet?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Bene.” The driver shrugged. “I’ll go have a shower now. Wanna come?”
What. The. Fuck. He forced himself not to recoil. Think, Stefano. Think. If he’s family. Son? Cousin? Grandson? He couldn’t afford to make enemies here, even if those words—that invitation—could get men killed.
Wanna come? The way he’d said it could have meant anything.
Stefano decided on a sneer. “That would hardly be appropriate.”
The driver shrugged and sauntered past him toward the house. The guards near the door stopped him, but when he produced a piece of paper from inside his leather suit, they let him pass. They even looked a little impressed. Or was it bewildered?
Stefano followed back into the house—not following the driver, though, of course not—and watched him climb the big central staircase inside.
The leather played off his body in interesting ways. He tried to ignore the other details—taut piece of ass, broad shoulders, the V-shape of the back at odds with the first impression of femininity when he’d straightened up from the bike.
Not that women had any reason to be here. At least not attractive single women. Stefano shook his head and turned away.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” one man said, casting a baleful eye up the steps.
“He’s Battista’s boy,” another man said, in the far more hushed tones of respect.
“Gianbattista’s getting senile to rely on him,” the other man sneered. “Fucking wild card.”
“Well, seems Battista’s not coming personally.”
Stefano inched closer, ostensibly to settle at one of the small round tables scattered around the house, and pretended to be interested in the glass of salt sticks nobody else had touched.
“What’s he up to these days, anyway?”
“Breeding roses, they say.” The boss ignored his companion’s incredulous snort. “For all intents and purposes, Battista’s retired. I’d say the boy’s making sure nobody comes calling in favors.”
“Oh yeah. He killed Diego Carbone. In self-defense.”
The other man grimaced. “I’d heard Carbone was dead, but not who did him.”
“I have it on good information. He did Diego. Pumped him full of lead and then strangled him. It was a massacre. Diego shot him, too. Put the boy in the hospital for a few months—blood poisoning or some shit like that. People say he’s just as insane as Carbone now.”
“Cazzo.” The man glanced up the stairs, but the driver was gone. “I believe it.” He looked around as if trying to escape the conversation, then stood and followed a servant with a silver tray of canapés.
Stefano made eye contact with the boss who’d been left behind. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing that conversation. Stefano Marino.” Stefano offered his hand.
Gathering information beat sitting near the fireplace being bored. The thought that the driver had killed Diego—an enforcer so violent as to be virtually insane—made him uneasy. He didn’t hear much news from the east coast, wrapped up as he was in the microcosm of his own territory and his immediate interests. But some interesting names in all that. Il Gentiluomo, Gianbattista Falchi, cultured on the outside with his mild manners and graying temples, an old-style consigliere like straight out of The Godfather. Stefano had met him only once, warned and aware that Falchi was a trickster and schemer, yet still not immune to his charisma.
How curious that the old consigliere trusted his security to this young killer who didn’t seem to give a fuck about tradition. Maybe as a retiree with still-considerable influence, Gianbattista Falchi could afford to ignore tradition, too.
“You’re still here,” a voice said at his back.
Stefano turned around to find himself standing way, way too close to the driver. Those black eyes were without light, without reflection. The stare punched the air from his lungs, and those lips . . . God, those lips. Distantly, he heard his conversation partner making his excuses, but he paid the man no mind, and neither did the driver. He could feel the heat from the driver’s body. Imagined touching. Being touched. He blinked and stepped away.
Only then did he realize the driver had changed and showered, as promised. His short hair was still wet, and he was wearing a severe black suit over a white shirt. No tie. The suit was cut to hide the gun under his right shoulder, but also showed off a whole lot of lean muscle. Not an ounce of fat on him.
Stefano swallowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“They call me Barracuda.” No smile, just stating a fact. The name was oddly fitting for that expressionless face. “Silvio Spadaro.”
Spadaro was offering his hand. Stefano took it, the grip firm and dry, the skin rough. Of course, he was a killer, a sicario, so he’d have to touch guns enough to harden against them. Stefano swallowed. He shouldn’t be thinking about what this hand touched and how. “Stefano Marino.”
“I know.” Spadaro lifted an eyebrow, and didn’t release Stefano’s hand. “How long have you been waiting for the old man to die?”
“Leukemia takes a while. We’ve had some false alarms in the past.”
“This time it’s real. That’s why I’m here.” Spadaro kept holding his hand, and Stefano realized he was beginning to sweat. It wasn’t fear. The man was just so intense. Not freakish, not insane. Just mental games, psychological warfare. A killer’s job.
“So, how—” he forced his hand from the man’s grip “—is Gianbattista Falchi these days?”
“Sta bene.” Spadaro cast a quick glance around the room. When the eye contact broke, Stefano could breathe again. But then the eyes came back, staring him point-blank in the face. “He sent me to pay his respects.”
“Why’s he not coming personally?”
“Want the truth or a polite lie?”
Stefano huffed. “Surely he’d say goodbye to his old friend?”
“He fucking hates the rest of the family,” Spadaro said flatly. “And he hates the smell of hospitals. The lies, the polite smiles. He said he wouldn’t trust himself not to make a scene.”
Seemed Gianbattista had embraced his retirement. Or saw a danger to himself here. Stefano filed the thought away. “So he figures you of all people won’t?”
Spadaro’s lips quirked. “Maybe I’m here to make sure the old guy meets Death properly this time. Do you know what’s going on in people’s heads here?”
“I have an educated guess.” Stefano reached for the glass of salt sticks, more unnerved than he wanted to admit by the killer’s comments. He didn’t expect violence, but you never really knew with the family, did you?
“Yeah, well, fuck ’em.” Spadaro cast another glance at the assembled Mafiosi. “I wouldn’t change places with any of them.”
Was that a slip of the mask? Calculated provocation? “Oh? Why not?”
“You know what they did to Joey D’Amato?”
Stefano straightened. Why would Spadaro mention the faggot? Way too crass and unsettling, especially considering he’d been vanished, not even a body to bury.
Spadaro studied him, head tilted. “That’s why I don’t belong to anybody,” he said quietly, but with the force and conviction of a kidney punch. “I’m not following their fucking rules.” He swept the crowd again with his expressionless black eyes, then fixed them on Stefano’s face.
Stefano’s lips tingled. It was still hard to breathe and he had no idea why. He couldn’t let this man intimidate him. Couldn’t be seen as too interested. Barracuda or not—even Gianbattista Falchi’s protetto or not—he could afford zero suspicion. He’d be dead. Fuck Spadaro for flustering him so, and fuck himself for getting flustered, but he’d never show it. “Well, give Falchi my best wishes when you return to him.”
“Will do.” Spadaro sketched an ironic salute and stepped away.
Stefano fought the urge to straighten his tie, fought harder against the urge to watch the Barracuda cut through the assembled groups of men.
He caught Vince’s gaze, and though his bodyguard relaxed a little, he still looked worried. Stefano could see why. A sicario who belonged to a “retired” consigliere, and not just any pensioner, but crafty old Gianbattista Falchi, who’d been more powerful in his own right than many bosses. That was all manner of disturbing. “Paying his respects” by being anything but respectful. Mentioning D’Amato like killing the faggot was somehow wrong. Mentioning him in fucking public.
He stood around, restless, then noticed Luigi approach Spadaro and touch his shoulder. The black eyes flared and Spadaro glowered at Luigi as if he were about to take the older man’s head clean off. But he reached into his suit jacket, pulled his gun from his holster with two fingers, and handed it to Luigi. The consigliere took it without batting an eyelash, then went upstairs. Spadaro followed.
Vince stepped to his side. “That’s really fucking impressive. Arrives here and gets seen almost immediately.”
“Well, he was sent by Gianbattista Falchi.”
Vince nodded solemnly. “I don’t like his attitude.”
“I fucking hate it.” The way the man’s presence made his skin tingle wasn’t hatred, but that wasn’t something he could admit. Spadaro seemed to have that effect on people. The fact that he clearly carried weight and power was even worse.
So what was this guy’s game?
Okay... Your favorite time.... Giveaway Time!!!!
This will be the rule for all Giveaways this week...
All Giveaways will end Friday, November 18th at Midnight....
The winners will all be picked and announced....
Monday, November 21st!
Now time for Aleksandr's Giveaway!
Aleksandr has so kindly let me give away anything from his backlist...
Except Counterpunch. Not sure why!
What do I want from you.....
Well, you have to leave your email address ~ A MUST.
You have to be a follower of this blog ~ A MUST.
You must leave a comment or question for Aleksandra ~ A MUST!
Author Name: Aleksandr Voinov
Email address: email@example.com
Website URL: www.aleksandrvoinov.com
Blog URL: http://www.aleksandrvoinov.
Goodreads Page: http://www.goodreads.com/
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The Giveaway for Riptide:
From October 1 to December 31, Riptde authors and editors will set sail on a massive
Grand Opening blog tour!
We're gearing up for three months of games, prizes, interviews, chats, and scavenger hunts, and we'd love to have you along! At each stop along the tour, we'll be giving away great prizes - tons of books from our authors' backlists, swag by the boatload, gift ceritficates to All Romance Ebooks, and entries into the Grand Prize drawings for a Nook, a Kindle, and an iPad.
Go check it out!!!
And remember... Keep it Dirty, Smutty & Hussy!