Gregory Delaurentis spent his adult life roaming from job to job, working for Lockheed in California, various law firms in New York, and financial firms on Wall Street. Throughout this period of time, he was writing—unceasingly—finally producing a large body of work, albeit unrecognized and unpublished . . . until now. Cover of Darkness is the first in a series of upcoming books that include Edge of Darkness, Pale of Darkness and Cries of Darkness. These novels follow the lives of three individuals who do battle bringing criminals to justice, while they struggle to understand the complex relationships that exist among themselves. This intriguing trio has absorbed the attention of Mr. Delaurentis for the past year and a half, so much so he decided to self-publish their stories to bring them to a wider audience. [AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER: These are works of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.]
Here’s what Gregory himself tells about his writing quirks:
One of my writing quirks, and I don’t know if it’s a quirk or not, is that I love to write from late evening to early morning. My biological clock is a little off, and I find myself going to sleep early, before 8:00pm, only to wake up around 11:00pm and begin writing until 5 or 6 in the morning. For some reason I feel sharper and more capable of reaching my characters. I put a pair of headsets over my ears and blast music of all kinds and type away. I am a very good typist so my words appear as fast as I can think of them. And so I keep this frantic pace all night long and into the morning without feeling the least bit fatigued.
You might guess that around 6am I go to sleep, but no. I get up from the laptop and take a shower and start my day and I feel energized to do whatever it is that I have to accomplish. When I get home I go straight to bed and stay out after dinner until I rise to write again. This schedule used to drive my wife nuts. She would spend many nights alone in bed while I, in the next room, toiled under the glow of the laptop screen, cranking out page after page of my current novel at that time to her dismay. Now that I live alone, I feel that I have optimum conditions to work under and it brings my life pleasure. I feel that I’m doing what it is that I’m supposed to do, and when your life has this kind of certain meaning it brings happiness that mere words can’t describe.
I guess, because of this quirk, my writing borders on madness, but when one is uniquely happy, does one really care?
Some information on the novel:
A high profile murder of a Wall Street executive in Westchester pits three people against the criminal underbelly of Manhattan nightlife. The key players are two ex-cops turned private investigators—Kevin Whitehouse, whose sharpest tool is his keen analytical mind, and David Allerton, a former Special Forces operative—and Margaret Alexander, Kevin’s lover. In their search for a killer, they are forced to travel to the edge of sanity and morality, while stumbling onto their own confusing secrets as well. The Cover of Darkness is a gritty noir saga that untangles a web of deceit in the course of tracking down a brutal murderer.
The pool area was wide and reflected the sun on this hot summer day. It was edged with white marble so polished that it looked like pearl. Deck chairs lined the sides of the long pool, which was two lengths more than Olympic-sized. Outside the deck area was the carpeted lawn of the vast backyard, dappled with sun.
Hugh Osterman walked along the side of the pool wearing a heavy terry cloth robe and sandals. In his right hand, he held a martini glass. He ran his left hand through his sandy sun-streaked hair as he looked over his shoulder at the man following him.
“What’s going on? I don’t get it,” Osterman said, stopping at the end of the pool where the flotation chairs were kept.
“They said no,” the man replied. Considering the backdrop, he was incongruously dressed in a dark suit and tie.
“They said no . . . just like that?”
Osterman sat his drink down on the marble surface, and pushed a flotation chair into the deep end of the pool, sending it out and away. Then he peeled off the robe and dove smoothly into the water, emerging next to the floating chair.
“You go back and tell them that we aren’t pleased,” Osterman said sternly, pulling himself up and into the seat of the chair. “You tell them that Hugh Osterman wants to know what’s holding things up—what the problem is.”
The suit just stood at the edge of the pool, opening his jacket against the heat of the day. Osterman paddled to the side, and reached out and retrieved his martini glass. “I take it you have nothing to say about this?” he persisted, despite the other man’s silence.
The suit shook his head.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Osterman said as he tipped the glass up to his lips. Suddenly, the bottom of the stem shattered. Osterman gurgled as he dropped the glass, blood bubbling from his mouth, an open tear in his neck. He jolted upright in the chair as the suit closed the distance between them, his Colt .38 Super still trained on its victim, its silencer smoldering.
Osterman slowly sat back as the suit pumped more rounds into Osterman’s bare, well-defined chest—the hot shells of his pistol ejecting out and striking the surface of the water, settling to the bottom. His life ended as his body tumbled from the floating chair, his blood a widening crimson slick roughly in the area where his body slipped through.
The suit popped his clip, slipped in a new one, and headed for the sprawling house.
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The author also has a book video for his book. Use this link: www.youtube.com/embed/-dJ10pSUwaM