Tuesday 30 November 2021

Read an #excerpt from Rob Samborn's fabulous #NewRelease - The Prisoner of Paradise #HistoricalFiction @RobSamborn

The Prisoner of Paradise 
(The Paradise Series, Book 1)
By Rob Samborn

January 19th – March 23rd 2022

Publication Date: 30th November 2021
Publisher: TouchPoint Press
Page Length: 333 Pages
Genre: Commercial Thriller, Historical Fiction, Magical Realism

The world’s largest oil painting. A 400-year-old murder. A disembodied whisper: “Amore mio.” My love.

Nick and Julia O’Connor’s dream trip to Venice collapses when a haunting voice reaches out to Nick from Tintoretto’s Paradise, a monumental depiction of Heaven. Convinced his delusions are the result of a concussion, Julia insists her husband see a doctor, though Nick is adamant the voice was real.

Blacking out in the museum, Nick flashes back to a life as a 16th century Venetian peasant swordsman. He recalls precisely who the voice belongs to: Isabella Scalfini, a married aristocrat he was tasked to seduce but with whom he instead found true love. A love stolen from them hundreds of years prior.

She implores Nick to liberate her from a powerful order of religious vigilantes who judge and sentence souls to the canvas for eternity. Releasing Isabella also means unleashing thousands of other imprisoned souls, all of which the order claims are evil.

As infatuation with a possible hallucination clouds his commitment to a present-day wife, Nick’s past self takes over. Wracked with guilt, he can no longer allow Isabella to remain tormented, despite the consequences. He must right an age-old wrong – destroy the painting and free his soul mate. But the order will eradicate anyone who threatens their ethereal prison and their control over Venice.

1589 A.D.
Republic of Venice

“Were you followed?”

Angelo Mascari struggled to catch his breath, panting from his twenty-minute sprint through serpentine streets in oppressive summer humidity, not yet able to answer the tall nobleman glaring at him with steady, pale blue eyes. 

Unfamiliar with this district of Venice, Angelo’s nerves demanded his senses be at full attention. They stood on the fondamenta of a narrow canal at a corner outside the Jewish Ghetto. No torches or lanterns lit the footbridge, the wall’s porticos, or a dozen other potential hiding spots on either side of the waterway. Silently, he thanked the moon for its fullness, as its light would provide precious seconds of reaction time should a lurker reveal himself. A black skiff bobbed next to them. Other than retreating the way he’d come, the boat was his only option for escape. 

He was hesitant to trust the nobleman, but with friends in short supply and a warrant on his head, Angelo had little choice. That the man had yet to kill or arrest him was a promising sign. He slowed his breathing and leaned against the wall, the stucco’s mildew finer than wet velvet.

“You spoke the truth,” Angelo said between inhalations. “I should not have gone.” The heavy sea air left a salty tang on his lips.

“Were you followed?” his contact asked with a clipped whisper. Though the windows in the four-story buildings looming over them were shuttered, voices carried in the cramped neighborhood.

“No, impossible.” Angelo scanned the alley and glanced over his shoulder, more concerned with potential pursuers than prying ears. His words betrayed his confidence. No one was aware of his attendance at his beloved’s sentencing—but anything was possible. 

I know that now.

His unnamed collaborator narrowed his eyes, seemingly reading Angelo’s doubt. Six or seven decades of lines etched themselves into the man’s face, framed by chin-length, oyster-gray hair. A snub nose lay in waiting over a trimmed beard of tarnished silver. 

“Your childish endeavor accomplished nothing and nearly ended your life.”

Angelo did not appreciate this near-stranger chastising him, but he held his tongue. During their lone prior meeting, the man declined to disclose how he knew of Angelo’s predicament. He had also refused to divulge his identity, though his precise, modulated diction and distinct, upper-class air exposed his nobility.

“And you ruined your garments.” He scowled at Angelo’s lacerated hemp doublet and bloodstained white wool shirt, a stark contrast from the man’s all-black, posh attire. “That may pose a problem,” he said.

Angelo scratched at the squalid bandage that wrapped his left ear. Having neither bathed nor seen a mirror in many days, grime coated his bruised face and matted his curly, dark hair, but he cared not about his appearance. 

The incredible sight he witnessed less than an hour earlier dominated his thoughts, though he’d yet to process it. He loathed to trust his eyes. From a concealed alcove in perhaps the largest room in Venice, he had watched, helpless. As his enemies concluded their ritual, it appeared as though they had drained Isabella’s very life essence from her body. In the flesh, yet flesh no more. The unimaginable agony she endured. His final vision of the once-beautiful girl, wilted and shackled, would be engraved in his brain for the remainder of his days, however few they may be. 

He blamed himself for the whole of the affair. How could he not? Though only twenty, Angelo strove to live a virtuous life despite the widespread vice in his city. In the end, he succumbed to the greatest addiction of all—love.

Now, with no foreseeable way to rescue her, he felt no justification for standing unscathed. He should have been in her place. With his dreams quashed and his well-being an afterthought, he had two goals: avenge his beloved and—by some means yet known—save her from the torturous fate that befell her.

“Be truthful,” Angelo said, a humble demand. “What has become of Isabella? What? What did I witness?” He hung his head at the hopelessness. 

“Mourn later. She’s not lost forever.”

A breeze skittered moonlight across the canal, bringing with it an acrid, fishy odor, though Angelo found it refreshing on his sweat-drenched skin. Hope swelled within.

From under his gold-embroidered, hip-length linen cloak, the nobleman removed a pouch of coins and a sealed letter, which he offered to Angelo. “Take these and this skiff. Make your way to Palos in Spain and find Sebastiano Cadamosto. Give him the letter. He’ll provide you passage to New Spain.”

New Spain? What about our next move?”

“This is your next move. It’s your only move. At least for some time.”

“It’s the other side of the world.” Angelo abhorred the desperation in his voice, like a punished boy sent away when a man’s work had to be done.

“At present, you’re a liability to the Guild, to the cause at large. You’ll be caught here, anywhere in the Republic, perhaps anywhere in Europe. Go, posthaste. The ceremony has surely ended by now.”

Angelo eyed the boat. He had already been forced to flee danger twice in three days. The mere notion of abandoning Venice without so much as a goodbye to his friends and family grated his core. He’d never set foot on the mainland and was now told to traverse it. A most uncertain future lay beyond the horizon. How could he help Isabella from across the oceans, idling for years with a handful of ducats to his name? 

“No,” Angelo said. “I cannot leave my home.”

“You should have considered that before seducing a married woman.”

Angelo seethed. “She’s the love of my life. Not some wanton mistress. I’ll join your cause and fight them here.” He grasped the rapier at his hip.

“Your prowess with the blade is well known.” The nobleman laid a gentle hand over Angelo’s and guided the sword into its sheath. “But how will you fare against a hundred men?”

“I shall die fighting.”

“Death is but the first consideration. And then your beloved will indeed be lost forever.”

In addition to being a novelist, Rob Samborn is a screenwriter, entrepreneur and avid traveler. He’s been to forty countries, lived in five of them, and studied nine languages. As a restless spirit who can’t remember the last time he was bored, Rob is on a quest to explore the intricacies of our world and try his hand at a multitude of crafts; he’s also an accomplished artist and musician, as well as a budding furniture maker. A native New Yorker who lived in Los Angeles for twenty years, he now makes his home in Denver with his wife, daughter and dog.

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1 comment:

See you on your next coffee break!
Take Care,
Mary Anne xxx