Seeds of the Pomegranate Blog Tour

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Book Title and Author Name

Seeds of the Pomegranate

By Suzanne Uttaro Samuels

Blurb:

A gritty story of a woman learning to survive in 20th century Gangland New York

In early 20th-century Sicily, noblewoman Mimi Inglese, a talented painter, dreams of escaping the rigid expectations of her class by gaining admission to the Palermo Art Academy. But when she contracts tuberculosis, her ambitions are shattered. With the Sicilian nobility in decline, she and her family leave for New York City in search of a fresh start.

Instead of opportunity, Mimi is pulled into the dark underbelly of city life and her father’s money laundering scheme. When he is sent to prison, desperation forces her to put her artistic talent to a new use—counterfeiting $5 bills to keep her family from starvation and, perhaps, to one day reclaim her dream of painting. But as Gangland violence escalates and tragedy strikes, Mimi must summon the courage to flee before she is trapped forever in a life she never wanted.

From Sicily’s sun-bleached shores to the crowded streets of immigrant New York, Seeds of the Pomegranate is a story of courage, art, and the women who refused to disappear.

Excerpt 3:

I sat on a stool in the back room of Pappa’s store, surrounded by stacks of still-unopened crates, all marked with my pomegranate. Clutch had summoned me there that morning—sending a note to Pappa that read, simply Bring the girl. Nonna had shook her head. “The weather’s terrible,” she said, motioning toward the window. She insisted I wear three sweaters under my overcoat —hers, mine, and Caterina’s. When I stepped out into the frigid landscape, the snow blowing in every direction, I was grateful.

Now, Clutch and Pappa sat across from each other at the desk. So far, no one had said anything to me.

Clutch rapped on the polished chestnut desktop with his claw. “Distribution is going too slowly.”

“Perhaps we opened prematurely. Things take time to get established.”

Clutch sneered. “You could sell a thousand jars of caponata. The store owners still wouldn’t be able to move those bills.”

My pulse quickened. I’d finally gotten Harrison’s expression down. When I’d shown Clutch the sketch last week, he’d been so pleased that he’d given me a real five-dollar bill to keep.

Pappa’s eyebrows drew together. “They were moving them before. What’s the problem now?”

“It was a small-scale operation. It wasn’t hard to slip a five-dollar or two into the cash drawer. But now it’s a drawer full of Vito’s bogus bills. Harder to move, even if it is to pay the suppliers, who don’t want them.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t have a choice.” Pappa’s voice was cold.

Clutch laughed. “So you’re the boss now? Listen, Nino. No one wants to go to jail for pushing those lousy bills. It’s time to make a change. That’s why I wanted her here.” Clutch motioned toward me with his claw.

Pappa waved off Clutch. “You talk about jail. But don’t we have friends in the police department?”

“Not everything can be fixed by paying off the cops. Especially with all those new crusaders in charge. No. We need to take charge of things.”

Pappa stood and went to the tower of crates near the back door. Just under my pomegranate logo, the words OLIVE OIL had been stamped. “This is the latest shipment,” Pappa said. “Vito promises the bills are better. Shouldn’t we at least try to move these first?”

Clutch smirked at Pappa, then gestured toward the crates. “Okay. Let’s see them.”

I thought Clutch would help with the crate. Pappa was an old man. A crate filled with olive oil tins had to be too heavy for him. But when Pappa picked it up, it was like the crate weighed nothing. He put it on the desk and pulled it open, the wood splintering.

“Come, Mimi.” Clutch motioned me over.

Inside were eight olive oil tins. Clutch pulled one out. In a single motion, he took a knife from his pocket and pried open the lid. I was still wondering what olive oil had to do with the bills when he reached inside and pulled out a roll of fives. Like the one Pappa had brought from Sicily, but bigger. He put the roll on the table and took out another. And another. And another. When he was done, rolls covered the top. There must be a fortune here. Judging by that lime-green color, though, all of it was fake.

Clutch peeled a bill from one roll and handed it to me. He didn’t need to ask. I knew what he wanted from me.

I told him what I saw. “It’s still too green. The print is clearer, but the proportions are still off—the name of the bank, the signatures, the blue seal. And the drawing is wrong, too. Especially in the eyes.”

Clutch nodded. “Yours is better.”

I tried not to look at Pappa. He’d be surprised, probably even hurt. Because he hadn’t been in the room when I’d shown Clutch the sketch of the five-dollar bill.

“Who’s really going to see that kind of detail?” Pappa snarled.

For one long moment, Clutch said nothing. Then he asked me if I could get the color right.

I nodded. “I’ve worked it out.” Leek green. Emerald, mixed with brown and a bluish gray.

Pappa interrupted. “The ink won’t be good for you. Remember Dr. Florio’s warning.”

“But it’s ink, Pappa. Not paint.”

Clutch hitched his claw up higher on its chain. “Is there a problem? Cascioferro told me the girl was cured.”

Pappa shook his head. I wanted to tell him to shut up. The tuberculosis had stolen so much from me. Here was a chance for me to have something of my own. Something that mattered.

I stepped forward. “I’m fine.” I spoke loudly, so Clutch would look at me, not Pappa.

His eyes on mine, Clutch nodded. “For the time being, we’ll do what Nino wants. The product’s coming out of his stores, so he’s taking the risk. But you’ll keep working on the bill.”

Buy Link:

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mZJdkD

Author Bio:

Suzanne Uttaro Samuels writes about women who defy expectations and the secrets that shape families across generations.

Her debut novel, Seeds of the Pomegranate (Sibylline Press, 2025), follows a young Sicilian noblewoman whose search for freedom and art leads her into the hidden world of counterfeiters in early twentieth-century New York.

A former law professor turned novelist, Suzanne now lives in a lakeside cottage in the Adirondack Mountains with her husband, dog, and two cats. When she’s not writing, she’s exploring old family stories, local history, and the way memory lingers in the places we call home.