Every book has a beginning.

Mine didn't start at a keyboard. It didn't begin with research, outlines, or a chapter title.

It began with a woman named Antoinette Sirico Kelsey.

For years, Antoinette shared stories about her brother, Angelo Sirico—a young American soldier who never came home from World War II. She carried his memory with quiet dignity and unwavering love. Those stories stayed with me. They deserved to be remembered.

 Antoinette spent her life keeping Angelo's memory alive, yet she never had the chance to stand before the white cross that bears his name. I felt honored to make that pilgrimage in her place. 

So, during a trip to Italy, I made it my mission.

Alongside my brother Paul and a good friend, Kevin. We walked through the gates of the Florence American Cemetery. Nothing could have prepared us for what we were about to experience.

The moment we saw those endless rows of white marble crosses, it felt as though a spear had gone through our hearts.

The silence was overwhelming.

The beauty was breathtaking.

The sacrifice was unmistakable.

For more than three hours, I walked from grave to grave, reading names, ages, hometowns, and wondering about the lives behind each cross. Many of these young men were only seventeen, eighteen, nineteen... some barely twenty-four years old. They had crossed an ocean, fought for freedom, and made the ultimate sacrifice far from home, far from their families.

With every step, one thought kept returning to me:

Every one of these crosses holds a story.

I wished I knew them all. I wished I could write a book for every soldier buried there so their names would never be forgotten.

But I only knew one story.

I knew Angelo's.

That day changed my life.

It inspired me to write The Archangel of Genoa. While Angelo's story became the heart of the novel, I soon realized something much bigger.

This book doesn't belong only to Angelo.

It belongs to every young man and woman who answered the call to serve.

It belongs to every family that waited for a letter that never came.

It belongs to every hero whose story deserves to be remembered.

If you ever find yourself in Florence, I hope you'll take the time to visit the Florence American Cemetery and Memorial. It remains one of the most peaceful, beautiful, and humbling places I have ever stood. I left feeling pride, sorrow, gratitude, and an overwhelming sense of honor to have walked among America's heroes.

When I finally stood before Angelo's grave, I realized I hadn't simply come to find one soldier.

I had found the inspiration for a story that, in many ways, belongs to them all.

Because every one of those heroes is now our Archangel.