Marked For Love (Mob Romance) by Cristina Grenier Page B
Authors: Cristina Grenier
Tags: mob romance
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fingertips, sifting through it before her gaze. “Your father will pay, Grace...Once he is fully aware that you are in my grasp, he will realize that there is no other option.
**
He was screwed. Utterly fucking screwed.
For what must have been the tenth time that day, Ignacio Trellis listened to the recording sent to him a week prior.
Every time he played it, it sounded graver and graver.
“ Fuck …” The epithet left him on a low hiss as Grace’s voice issued him the ultimatum for the umpteenth time: pay Giorgio Acconci what he owed, or be the cause of his only daughter’s death.”
Fucking Giorgio Acconci.
Ignacio should have known not to get tangled up with the Italian mafia. The mother fuckers were crazy. He’d known it the first time he’d met one, and watched the man carve out his rival’s eyeball with a carving knife.
Their breed were violent, senseless, no-account criminals; but Ignacio loved the money they brought into his business, and so he dealt with them.
He’d had a bad streak. Almost a year of loss after loss, betting larger and larger amounts in a bid to pay off his debt. Sure, he’d always had cash in his pocket from his side hustles, but that was what he needed to keep his clients coming back for more.
Giorgio Acconci was bad news. Even as distant as his connection with the man was, Ignacio knew that. He was supposedly head of one of the most powerful Mafia branches in the world – and if he had stepped from his pedestal to go after a small fry like Ignacio, he must mean business.
Of course, that much had been made very clear when he’d taken Grace.
If only the fuckers had stayed in Boston. He could have had some boys fuck them up and take back his daughter before things had escalated. As it stood now: He had two choices:
He could go heavily into debt and give up everything he owned to pay back Acconci and save his daughter, or he could flee everything he’d ever known, stay under the radar, and trust that the crotchety old man wouldn’t have the balls to kill her.
He was on the fence.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t fond of his daughter. She had definitely helped him out when he needed to bring in new clients. Grace had, naturally, inherited his good looks – though her mother came out in her when she was pissed.
Italian horse fuckers had probably had her seven ways to Sunday now, and though the thought riled him, it didn’t get him in a rush to pony up every cent he had in his possession.
Half a million dollars was a lot of money, and if he weighed the cost benefit analysis…well…had Grace really brought in half a million dollars’ worth of business for him? She was a good kid. Smart. But Ignacio always looked out for number one. In the end, all he really had was himself.
This cunt Acconci…he asked a lot – and he had the balls to take Grace right from under his nose. It was the principle of the thing that infuriated Ignacaio more than the kidnapping itself. Grace was his daughter. Acconci had come onto his turf to shit in his cereal, and he wasn’t happy about it in the slightest.
Sighing, he rewound the message and played it again, frowning deeply.
She sounded scared. Really scared.
The question was: Who was more terrified? She or him? It made sense that the most cowardly person be allowed to walk. Cowardice was a hard road in this day and age. Brave people got killed. The brave were stupid. Sometimes running from a fight was your only option. He should know. He’d been running from his goddamn sham of a marriage for years.
Who was to say that after Acconci offed Grace he wouldn’t come after the father as well? Now that was a terrifying thought. Rubbing sweat from his brow, Ignacio wet ham-like lips nervously. He was barely fifty eight – far too young to die.
He wasn’t finished living yet.
Biting his lip, he played the message again, trying to drum up enough sympathy for the daughter he barely knew to save her life.
**
He watched her
**
He was screwed. Utterly fucking screwed.
For what must have been the tenth time that day, Ignacio Trellis listened to the recording sent to him a week prior.
Every time he played it, it sounded graver and graver.
“ Fuck …” The epithet left him on a low hiss as Grace’s voice issued him the ultimatum for the umpteenth time: pay Giorgio Acconci what he owed, or be the cause of his only daughter’s death.”
Fucking Giorgio Acconci.
Ignacio should have known not to get tangled up with the Italian mafia. The mother fuckers were crazy. He’d known it the first time he’d met one, and watched the man carve out his rival’s eyeball with a carving knife.
Their breed were violent, senseless, no-account criminals; but Ignacio loved the money they brought into his business, and so he dealt with them.
He’d had a bad streak. Almost a year of loss after loss, betting larger and larger amounts in a bid to pay off his debt. Sure, he’d always had cash in his pocket from his side hustles, but that was what he needed to keep his clients coming back for more.
Giorgio Acconci was bad news. Even as distant as his connection with the man was, Ignacio knew that. He was supposedly head of one of the most powerful Mafia branches in the world – and if he had stepped from his pedestal to go after a small fry like Ignacio, he must mean business.
Of course, that much had been made very clear when he’d taken Grace.
If only the fuckers had stayed in Boston. He could have had some boys fuck them up and take back his daughter before things had escalated. As it stood now: He had two choices:
He could go heavily into debt and give up everything he owned to pay back Acconci and save his daughter, or he could flee everything he’d ever known, stay under the radar, and trust that the crotchety old man wouldn’t have the balls to kill her.
He was on the fence.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t fond of his daughter. She had definitely helped him out when he needed to bring in new clients. Grace had, naturally, inherited his good looks – though her mother came out in her when she was pissed.
Italian horse fuckers had probably had her seven ways to Sunday now, and though the thought riled him, it didn’t get him in a rush to pony up every cent he had in his possession.
Half a million dollars was a lot of money, and if he weighed the cost benefit analysis…well…had Grace really brought in half a million dollars’ worth of business for him? She was a good kid. Smart. But Ignacio always looked out for number one. In the end, all he really had was himself.
This cunt Acconci…he asked a lot – and he had the balls to take Grace right from under his nose. It was the principle of the thing that infuriated Ignacaio more than the kidnapping itself. Grace was his daughter. Acconci had come onto his turf to shit in his cereal, and he wasn’t happy about it in the slightest.
Sighing, he rewound the message and played it again, frowning deeply.
She sounded scared. Really scared.
The question was: Who was more terrified? She or him? It made sense that the most cowardly person be allowed to walk. Cowardice was a hard road in this day and age. Brave people got killed. The brave were stupid. Sometimes running from a fight was your only option. He should know. He’d been running from his goddamn sham of a marriage for years.
Who was to say that after Acconci offed Grace he wouldn’t come after the father as well? Now that was a terrifying thought. Rubbing sweat from his brow, Ignacio wet ham-like lips nervously. He was barely fifty eight – far too young to die.
He wasn’t finished living yet.
Biting his lip, he played the message again, trying to drum up enough sympathy for the daughter he barely knew to save her life.
**
He watched her
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