Cover image for I'll be watching you
I'll be watching you
Gotti, Victoria.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
Rockland, MA : Wheller Pub., 1999.

Physical Description:
527 pages (large print) ; 24 cm.
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Central Library X Adult Large Print - Floating collection Floating Collection - Large Print

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From the author of the bestselling The Senator's Daughter comes another gutsy thriller, I'll Be Watching You. Victoria Gotti intricately constructs an exciting plot. Bestselling novelist Rose Miller is enjoying life at the top. She's married to a devoted & wealthy potential gubernatorial nominee, resides in her luxurious countryside mansion, & has a charming, beautiful young daughter. But, a shadowy stalker lurks outside threatening to tear apart her perfect world & uproot a hidden past. Her stalker remains at large & the suspects begin to mount bringing into question her line of ex-lover's, acquaintances & relatives. Detective John Falcone begins to uncover a shocking pattern of threats & violence surrounding Rose & her family. After her best friend is murdered in a bizarre ritual drawn from a scene in one of her novels, the terror begins. Rose's only desire is to protect her family, especially her daughter Alexis. All too soon, she is cast into a web of deep seeded revenge which threatens to end her life. I'll Be Watching You keeps you guessing until the very end.

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

More potboiler fare from the author of the legal thriller The Senator's Daughter (1997), who is herself the daughter of someone of note, the infamous gangster John Gotti. Rose Miller has made a celebrity name for herself as a writer of psychological suspense novels. Rose has a wealthy husband with political aspirations and a daughter she dotes on. But there are some dark patches in her background, including her affiliation with her husband's half-brother. Early on in the narrative, we witness someone spying on her, which lends a creepiness to the story that never abates, and we soon wonder if the voyeur is someone from her checkered past. Rose is on a promotional tour for her latest thriller at the same time her brother-in-law comes to trial for racketeering and extortion. Tension mounts as the creep who spies on her closes in; Rose's daughter is at risk, and the reader's heartbeat quickens as things look increasingly dire. But then comes an oh-come-on ending, which threatens to ruin the whole plot Gotti has carefully set up. But expect demand, and answer it with a couple of copies. --Brad Hooper

Publisher's Weekly Review

The money and fame-burnished life of a glamorous author turns into a nightmare when a stalker provokes terror and a sensational trial brings scandal in Gotti's (The Senator's Daughter) designer-clad thriller. Off the plane from Paris with just enough time to greet her husband, a criminal attorney and gubernatorial candidate, and her daughter, a beautiful preppie, before changing outfits at her opulent Fifth Avenue apartment for the book party at the Waldorf, novelist Rose Miller thinks she has relegated the dark side of her life to her fiction. Then, in a box of Victorian roses, she receives a nasty threat on the same day her childhood playmate and long-lost love, now a Las Vegas kingpin, returns to New York to be tried for racketeering‘with Rose's husband as his lawyer. Who's the stalker? Gotti furnishes an array of sordid characters‘from the domineering father-in-law to the overwrought publicist‘to keep readers guessing, but her novel falls short of her successful debut. The story is undermined by the opening passage, recited by the corpse at a funeral, by the surprise ending, which isn't at all surprising, and by the white noise of shopping tips. The story, like the heroine, keeps afloat on sheer energy and determination, but not much substance. Random House audio; author tour. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

In this latest from Gotti (The Senator's Daughter, LJ 2/15/97), who as daughter of crime boss John Gotti should know a thing or two about suspense, Rose Miller has it all: wealthy husband, gorgeous little girl, lavish house, great success as a novelist‘and a stalker who knows about her shady past. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



The appearance of imminent death always exhilarated him. Billy moved from the bed, pulled up his trousers, and took a step backward to better view the scene. He stared at the inert form lying with arms and legs gracefully stretched on the mound of cheap velour blankets and threadbare sheets. She looked perfect, serene. Her eyes were closed as though in sleep; long blond curls like expensive lambswool delicately embroidered the edge of the pillow, cascading down the side of the worn motel mattress. The white lace teddy sprinkled with pearls - the one he'd purchased and made her change into was appropriate for the moment, complementing the rhinestone tiara on top of her head. Put it on," Billy had told her earlier. "No, I couldn't possibly...." Ignoring her protest, he'd fastened the tiara on her head. Then he backed away and moved toward the portable stereo that he had brought with him for this "romantic" evening. The cassette he had specially prepared was already in place. Soon the music began, and filled the room. Billy walked back to the bed and reached for her hands. His pulse quickened. "Lets dance to the perfect wedding song." The look he'd been waiting for came into her eyes. When she resisted his offer, he sat beside her on the quilted polyester bedspread - standard seedy motel decor. He could now see that first tiny flicker of awareness that something wasn't quite right. Recognizing she was in danger, the near naked showgirl he'd lured away from the strip joint reacted just like all the others. At first she began speaking too quickly, nervously. "I have to go," she said, her eyes darting around the room, her voice now shaky. "Just one dance," he whispered as he pulled her up and held her tightly against him. She felt good in his arms. She belonged there, just as they all had. For a moment he felt disloyal, thinking she might feel better than Rose. Then he felt her panic accelerate. Her body grew rigid and her eyes filled with fear. This was his favorite part, and tonight his enjoyment was intensified. She was particularly satisfying. At the end, she seemed to know it was useless to plead, and in a burst of animal strength, she fought him. He placed his hands around her throat, and when she began to lose consciousness, he whispered, "Till death do us part." When she was dead, he danced with her again. This time there was no resistance in her lovely, flaccid body. As the music began to fade, his eyes fastened on the white lace teddy. Was she an angel yet? No , he thought; with her sordid past, he assumed shed be relegated to a demon. Billy turned his back on her and walked to the window. There was a chill coming in from the cracks around the panes. The incoming draft made a soft hissing sound that vaguely pleased him. Outside, the streets were tranquil. He'd have to celebrate this triumphant moment in silence. His eyes closed as the keen thrill coursed through his body. Then he opened them and shifted his gaze toward the sky. The day dawned blue and wan, the sun only an imagined presence behind a thick blanket of clouds over the city, which from his vantage point looked like one huge gray puddle. The few patches of snow left over from last weeks mild storm had turned to dirty slush as the temperature inched up a few degrees. Gray, wet, befitting the moment, he thought. Billy reached inside the pocket of the blue flannel shirt he was wearing and pulled out a box of Marlboros and a gold lighter. He lit a cigarette and dragged heavily on its tip. He always savored that first cigarette after one of these strenuous scenes, his version of "afterglow". The motel room was sparsely furnished. There were a few scattered pieces of antiquated furniture and the few personal belongings the stripper had brought up with her: a purse, a magazine, and a cheap pink umbrella. The cleanup routine had been perfected through experience; already the fingerprints and debris were completely removed. He had played out this same scenario a number of times before. Billy searched his memory for her name. Was it Roseanne, Rosemarie, perhaps even Rachel? He couldn't remember. Oh well, it didn't matter - not now, anyway. He lit another cigarette and inhaled the nicotine deeply, then turned back to her. A rush of pleasure suffused him. Those luminous dancing eyes, not dancing anymore, pouty lips, enticing, inviting. Except for the red marks around her neck, she looked pristine, a perfect beauty. He'd waited several years for this unforgettable moment - and others like it, with more still to come. From his pocket he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, its edges jagged, having been torn from a book. He read it, not once, but twice, and then smiled. He had accomplished his plan scrupulously, right down to the last detail. He focused on the vase resting on the end table, then checked his watch. Three hours, three roses. How perfect. Billy's intense gaze was fixed on the flowers; he was mesmerized for a moment. Now it was time for him to leave, but not before he'd added the finishing touch. He walked to the end table and removed the roses from the vase. Gently, careful not to prick his fingers on the thorns, he plucked the petals and scattered them around the bed, blankets, sheets, and the showgirls lifeless body. In his head he heard the music begin again. Always, it seemed quiet at first, as though whispered in his ear. As the song grew louder, he began softly whistling the lyrics. The subtle fragrance of the petals enlivened his senses. Their touch, scent, and beauty enveloped him, and now he was singing along to the music: The moment you wake, Let there be no mistake, Ill be watching you. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from I'll Be Watching You by Victoria Gotti All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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