When Don graduated from La Roche College with a B.S. in Advertising Design, he set out to be the best designer in the world and spent his career immersed in the world of advertising and marketing, creating original ideas for some of the world’s largest brands to some of the world’s smallest brands, fighting the disease of mediocrity.
In 2001, that singular approach opened many new doors, including one to his own ad agency, built on a simple mantra: “Every brand has a soul. But not every agency has the heart to find it. We do.”
Likewise, Don believes every story should possess a soul and in this case the untold story of DAY ONE: Birth is a death sentence, released in early 2019, an intense fiction thriller and the first of a three-part series about Kachada Toscano, the protagonist, who has the heart and courage to expose his without any remorse. The unlikely tale of two parallel universes—where the chilling ancestral traditions of the Comanche Tribe and the ruthless code of the Sicilian Mafia—mysteriously intersect will rest on the backside of your eyelids leaving you many a restless night.
Don’s background in advertising has exposed him to a collection of unique experiences that have informed his latest novel, the lighthearted urban fantasy Tale of Bronco & The Wizard. A fantastical tale about the inseparable bond of friendship, the love of football, and a secret cult of nefarious wizards, warlocks, and witches will change everything you thought you knew about the game of football and leave you to wonder.
: "Kudos to the author, Don Sedei, for a well written, action-packed adventure that will have everyone desperate to see Kachada finally get his man."
EXCERPT FROM DAY ONE
ONCE YOU TURN THIS PAGE…
…you will enter the unimaginable journey of Kachada Toscano where the unlikely tale of two parallel universes—the chilling ancestral traditions of the Comanche Tribe and the ruthless code of the Sicilian Mafia—mysteriously intersect. His impassioned narrative uncovers a precarious future and the riddles of a malevolent past that will reside on the backside of your eyelids, causing many a restless night.
March 27, 1954, 3:15 a.m. Pittsburgh Medical Center
“Kahchada is your name: Remember, birth is a death sentence. So make every minute count.” Those were the first words my mother whispered into my ear at birth as I embarked on this existential journey into a cognate world of mystery and chaos.
From the beginning, I was both blessed and cursed with a photographic memory. The first images I recall were two masked faces holding me down, the only time in my life I felt outnumbered.
I was born Kachada Toscano to Taabe Peta who was married to Antonio Toscano. I was given the Comanche name Kachada, meaning “white man,” by my mother, a brilliant scientist who worked alongside Doctor Jonas Salk. She was a full-blooded Comanche and the daughter of the leader of the Lords of The Plains, Comanche Chief Peta. My father served in the Second World War with the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) as an officer collecting intelligence in France. This group was the predecessor of the modern Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). He was the only surviving son of Giovanni Toscano, The Godfather of Franklin, Pennsylvania’s Sicilian Mafia. It was this ancestry that provided me with the courage to survive.
EXCERPT FROM DAY TWO
August 1980, Lawton Oklahoma
I bring my stallion to an abrupt stop, staring at the darkened windows of the dust-covered black SUV. The villagers in the distance stand silent watching me.
The only sound I hear is the purr of the SUV, the snort of my stallion and the mild gust of wind blowing more dust onto the black Tahoe, turning it a dirty brown.
The rear door opens on the driver’s side. Out steps a person wearing black battle fatigues. A woman with long black hair blowing steps up and stops with her calf-high black boots firmly planted in the hard sand. A Desert Eagle is strapped to her side, hanging lower than normal, as if she is a wild-west gunslinger. On her chest is a yellow and white combat intelligence corps flag, and the front of her black beret displays a black patch encircled with an embroidered silver ring surround the silver word MOSSAD.
The much-feared and elite-trained Special Forces of Israel. Noting is said as everyone takes in the images. She stands with authority as two Mossad agents step out of the Tahoe, leaving their doors open, holding IMI Galil assault rifles.
I raise my hand to let the villagers know all is well. I dismount and pat my stallion, signaling for it to join my Comanche brothers watching me. I face the agent, standing all of 5-foot-eight-inches tall in her military boots.
We peer at each other until she breaks the silence. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
I recognize the voice. She takes off her sunglasses to reveal her clear blue eyes. My knees weaken, but I maintain my Comanche poise, lifting my quivering chin, making it impossible for me to speak.
“Not who you expected,” She says, compressing her lips to a smile.
Unable to mutter any intelligent combinations of vowels or consonants, I try to present the impression that I am in control.
She steps within a foot of me and says, “I need to know.”
I say nothing.
She says, “We have a thirty-minute drive to Fort Sill, where you will take a privet jet to Langley.” She turns and walks back to the duty Tahoe to stand next to the open door.
Everyone remains silent.
I walk to the door and climb in. She climbs in next to me. An agent shuts the door, walks to the passenger side, and sits up front. My mind whirls with memories—“Kachada, you promise to finish what we came here to do if anything should go wrong?”
“My sister spoke of you. I need to know how and nothing more.” She says with authority.
My eyes are focused forward. The dusty road turns onto the asphalt of the two-lane NW Madische Road when I confess. “That moment will forever haunt me.”
She taps the back of the driver’s seat and a blackout window rises up, sealing us into a soundproof space.
“I need to hear this,” she says with her bright blue eyes fixed on me.
I reclaim her presence, “Joanne told me how your parents were killed by Nisar Uzza and how you both vowed to kill him.” I affix my eyes on her, “I can only imagine how you must feel.”
A small tear swells along the bottom of her eyelid, but not enough to spill over. I am lost in the memory of Joanne and want to hug her, but don’t.
“Tell me how,” She pleads.