Giveaway Excerpt THE SUITE LIFE by SUZANNE CORSO @suzannecorso @GalleryBooks

Book Description

Publication Date: September 10, 2013

Hailed as one of USA Today’s New Voices for her 2011 literary debut, Brooklyn Story, Suzanne Corso brings back the “true female voice” (The New York Times) of aspiring author Samantha Bonti in this breathtaking companion novel.

IT WAS THE DECADE OF BIG MONEY, BIG RISKS, BIG HAIR, AND BIG DREAMS . . . AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BIG CITY WHERE IT COULD ALL HAPPEN
Growing up in Brooklyn, Samantha Bonti knew the writer’s life she was meant to live waited across the bridge in Manhattan. Summoning the courage to break free from an abusive mobster boyfriend, Sam finally leaves Bensonhurst and begins her new life, working as a temp in a Wall Street brokerage firm. Quickly, she’s swept off her feet by Wall Street player Alec DeMarco, a man of boundless energy, appetites, desires, and the wealth to indulge it all. In a whirlwind courtship, Alec showers Sam with exquisite gifts, the city’s finest cuisine, spontaneous weekend getaways, and, most of all, the love and security a girl from an unstable Brooklyn upbringing craves. But when the party’s over—when Alec’s high-flying career turns litigious and the big money is left on the table—will love be enough to sustain them? With her dream of publishing her novel still very much alive, Sam can’t back down now; she must choose the life that’s most true to who she really is inside.

About the Author

Suzanne Corso is the author of two feature film screenplays, has produced two documentaries, and written one children’s book. She was chosen as one of USA TODAY's “New Voices of 2011” for her debut novel, A Brooklyn Story. She currently lives in New York City.

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EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Brooklyn, 1982

“. . . twenty-five years to life . . .”

Those were the words uttered by the judge as he passed

sentence on Tony Kroon, my longtime abusive boyfriend and

soon-to-be ex. A loyal mafi a henchman who had managed to

kill someone in the course of a botched bank robbery and get

caught, Tony was being sent down—and I was fi nally free of

him. As he was being led away in handcuffs our eyes met briefl y.

Tony’s were as stony cold as ever and mine were already fi xed on

the future—at nineteen, I fi nally had a future to look forward to.

The Brooklyn Bridge and all in between that separates Bensonhurst,

the world in which I grew up, from the fascinating and

fulfi lling life that I was certain was awaiting me in Manhattan.

And I fi nally had my passport in hand—an appointment that

very afternoon with an editor at an important New York publishing

house who had read my manuscript and wanted to meet

me. For as long as I could remember, I’d been writing, keeping

journals, and dreaming of being a published author. Somehow

I’d always believed that my writing would someday provide my

ticket out of Brooklyn. Now it seemed that day had fi nally come.

Nothing was going to stand in my way and everything was

going to be different from that day on. The destitute life my

frail, divorced mother lived would never be mine. There would

be none of the alcohol and drugs that were her crutches, none

of the sickness in body and mind that had consumed her. None

of that for me.

“Samantha Bonti?” a smiling young woman asked as she

approached me in the publisher’s waiting room, hand outstretched

in greeting. “I’m Kim, Lucy Hastings’s assistant. Sorry

to keep you waiting. I’ll take you in now. I know Lucy’s been

looking forward to this meeting.”

And with that, no more than two hours after seeing Tony

being led off to prison and out of my life, I was sitting across

the desk from the woman I absolutely knew would be my future

editor. Her comfortable but cluttered office was piled high with

manuscripts, and, as I looked around, I was flattered that, of all

the submissions she clearly received every day, she had thought

enough of mine to schedule this meeting.

Lucy was probably in her mid-forties, casually but professionally

dressed in what I would soon learn was the quintessential

New York professional’s black sweater and tailored slacks.

As I started to tell her about the many truths behind the fiction

I had written—including growing up with an alcoholic and

drug-addicted mother, living on welfare and food stamps, and

being trapped in an abusive relationship with Tony, all the while

receiving constant support from both my Jewish grandmother

and my church—it seemed as though she was as taken with my

stories in person as she had been with my novel. As we finally

said our good-byes Lucy assured me that I’d be hearing from her

soon, and I left feeling pretty good about myself, confident that

they’d be making an offer. I was already envisioning my book

stacked up in front of the store at Barnes & Noble.

After pretending to have a doctor’s appointment to take the

meeting that would launch my career as a writer, I went back to

my office temp job at a financial firm on Wall Street and then

home to my five-story walk-up studio in Bay Ridge—and I waited.

And waited. But as the weeks dragged on and I had yet to hear

the words that would change my life forever, I couldn’t stand it

any longer. I needed to know what was happening.

The first time I called Lucy’s office to follow up, Kim of

the warm smile and outstretched hand told me that Lucy was

“away from her desk.” The next time she was “on another call.”

As my calls become more frantic and the excuses less believable,

I spent my days at work jumping whenever my phone rang,

afraid even to go to the ladies’ room for fear that I’d miss that

all-important call. At night I curled up in bed with my arms

wrapped around a pillow and my fingers wrapped around my

rosary beads, endlessly repeating my Hail Marys.

When Lucy finally did return my calls, she was apologetic

but brutally honest. Unfortunately, she said, they wouldn’t be

able to publish my book after all. My stomach bottomed out before

she could even finish the sentence. I was crushed. I gathered

my wits and thanked her for her time before asking her reasons

for passing. She paused, momentarily at a loss for words, and

then sighed and admitted: “Because my publisher can’t take the

heat . . . I’m so sorry, Sam. I wish . . .” Things were different? Yeah,

me too. “I wish you the best of luck with your book.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I had visions of Tony’s underlings

making thinly disguised threats from a series of smelly Brooklyn

phone booths. There was no point even trying to argue with her.

It was clear to me that I’d never be able to change her mind, not

with Tony continuing to meddle in my life from behind bars. Shit!

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