"The Galliano Club series promises to be as riveting as Amato’s previous novels set in Mexico. The Roaring Twenties in their uninhibited violence and excitement come alive . . . A sure hit with loyal fans and new readers alike." - Michael Hogan, author of Women of the Irish Rising

“A gripping thriller series that will immerse you in the gritty, violent world of America in the 1920s. Clawing their way through the tale are a host of desperate characters that will shock and amaze you.” - Amanda Hughes, author of The Looking Glass Goddess and The Image Seeker

“Spot-on historic atmosphere as the compelling characters fight, dance, and gamble their way to the Galliano Club . . . An epic tale with all the glitz, danger and gritty charm of the era.” - L.A. Chandlar, award-winning author of the Art Deco Mystery Series

Thanks for joining Ruth, Luca, and Benny (and me) on the road to the Galliano Club!

This is an excerpt from my current work-in-progress.

The next installment of the Galliano Club series is the full-length novel MURDER AT THE GALLIANO CLUB, coming Summer 2022.

By the time Benny Rotolo was in Lido for a week, he had a plan, a partner, and a line on a patsy with access to big money. As he waited in the Model T, twilight bled into evening and Benny thought about what a swell education Chicago’s North Side gang had given him.

Dean O’Banion. Hymie Weiss. Bugs Moran. In their own way, each had taught him how to find a man’s weak spot.

The Model T was parked in the lot next to the huge Lido Premium Copper and Brass Rolling Mill, which stretched into the night for two city blocks. Five stories of red brick full of giant forges and block-and-tackle machinery that took crucibles of molten metal and rolled it into copper sheeting to build who knows what. The black-framed windows sheathing the enormous building glinted in the moonlight.

Compared to the mill, the single-story brick Lido Premium office building on the other side of the lot was no bigger than a shoebox. A light shone in one of the windows. Another lit up the entrance.

Benny squirmed a bit in the passenger seat, trying to find a more comfortable position for the Colt Pocket Hammerless concealed in the inner breast pocket of his sixty-dollar suit from Marshall Field’s. The wool suit had been right for windy Chicago but upstate New York’s summer humidity turned it into a steam bath.

The Lido Premium mill faced Hamilton Street in the section of the city known as East Lido. At this time of night, any road in Chicago would be clogged with cars and buses and people heading to the next good time, but not here. Benny could see a sliver of the street from where they were parked and it was empty and quiet.

Lido was right smack in the middle of New York state, just north of the Mohawk River, and duller than dishwater. Summer nightlife meant a dance at Saint Rocco’s Catholic Church, a lecture at the Women’s Institute, or a Buster Keaton picture at the Strand Theatre. Six years into Prohibition, too, like nobody knew how to take advantage of a good thing.

A smart fella could step into empty shoes, so to speak.