Mobster's Girl
By Amy Rachiele
4.5/5
()
About this ebook
Gripping my chest is the only way to hold myself together or what’s left of me will fall out. The past week has enlightened me on one thing-I don’t care.
Megan, Mobster’s Girl
I didn’t even hesitate. I took two strides and blasted him in the face with my fist. He was ready for it this time-unlike in church. He tried to hit me back but I ducked and smashed him again.
Antonio, Mobster’s Girl
You can’t help what family you’re born into or what lies they keep from you. You can’t help it if they mold and shape you just the way they wanted. Are monsters born or made?
Antonio and Megan have a timeless issue. They were told to stay away from each other. They try, they really do. But they are drawn to each other.
Antonio is eighteen and the up and coming mob boss of Palmetto, New Jersey. Megan is a girl uprooted from the grassy plains of Ireland at the age of five. Now she’s seventeen and faced with horrors she never thought existed.
Warning! Underage drinking, strong language, and violence.
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Reviews for Mobster's Girl
20 ratings4 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Simply truly awesome.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mobster's Girl by Amy Rachiele
So this is the first book I’ve read by Amy Rachiele, her writing was easy to read, plot and character development was well written, and the story flowed really well. I picked up this book this afternoon and finished it in one sitting with a few cups of coffee.
Mobster’s Girl is about a young woman name Megan who all the sudden notices Antonio is looking at her. Antonio is tall dark and handsome and a bit dangerous young, he is also from a very well off and powerful family in their neighborhood. The title of this book says it all. Antonio remembers meeting Megan when he was 5 years old and is fascinated with her, but years ago he and his friends were warned by his father not to go near her. But you know what happens when parents tell you not to do something…. They talk ………….and Antonio knows he want Megan to be his. Megan knows her parents won’t approve but that doesn’t stop her, she gets butterflies when he smiles at her.
Mobster’s Girl is about romance, coming of age, and finding out sometimes people are not always what they appear. I really enjoyed Megan and Antonio’s love story and cannot wait to read more.
I have to thank Amy Rachiele for listing her book in our group We ♥ YA Books, and offering our members copies to review so thank you. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series Awakening the Mobster which I just found out was released 2 weeks ago.
I have rated Mobster’s Girl a 4 star rating and if I could I would give 4.5 stars. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5You cannot help what family you are born into, or what lies they feed you, or the things the keep from you. Are Monsters born.. or are they made? Antonio was born into the Mob life.. it's all he's ever known. He's been raised and groomed to one day take over his family business.. although all Tonio wants is Megan.. the only thing he's ever been forbidden. Tonio is dark and dangerous but has a side to him that is undoubtedly drawn to Megan. Megan has always feared Tonio.. his friends.. his family.. but lately she's caught him staring or looking her way and she can't deny the draw she feels towards him. Tonio has been warned that Megan is off limits, and Megan's been warned to stay far away from Antonio, but that doesn't stop the draw they feel for one another. Will their love be enough to stand against the lies and disagreement of their families or will the truths their about to find out tear them apart?
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Where do we draw the line on love? Just what would you be willing to overlook for the one you love? Megan and Antonio will test that limit in this debuting novel. As different as characters can be, these two awesome characters will find a light where on obstacles lie. Antonio the son of a Mobster is used to the life of violence and mayhem. Megan knows that Mob business is dirty, but she has always steered clear of anything that would bring herself attention. With the direct declaration from her family to stay away from Mob boys, she has made a lifestyle of blending in and avoidance. From afar Megan has always admired Antonio, but when it seems that he has taken notice she finds herself unable to avoid him any longer. The story the ensues was a action packed, and thrilling ride. From the start I was leaning toward a prediction for the ending, and it turns out I was correct. Mobster’s Girl is a very short story, and in no time readers will find themselves craving more to the story. Book one appears to build up the entire story, but dropped at a cliff hanger. To find out the ending I will have to continue the series with Awakening the Mobster. The story is told in somewhat of alternating chapters been Megan and Antonio. The author did such a splendid job of detail with this story that truly gives light to the Mobster world. I felt the attraction between our main characters throughout the story, but regretfully I wish the detail would have built the relationship more thoroughly. I also must tell readers that the cover of this novel was not much to look at. I was a little deterred by the cover, but what I found within the pages defines a diamond in the ruff. This is a great story, and excellent beginning to the story. I am eager to see what is to come in book two. ~BookWhisperer Reviewer JO~
Book preview
Mobster's Girl - Amy Rachiele
Chapter 1
Medigan (meh-di-ghan): a seriously non-Italian person.
Megan
Megan!
I hear my mother call with her slight Irish lilt. My mother and father wanted to fit in when we came to New Jersey after Gram died, so they tried their hardest to lose their accents. Clearly, they didn’t try hard enough.
I’m not really sure why we had to move to America, but leaving my beautiful Irish cottage behind was hard. Erin was two and I was five when we moved here. Unlike our parents, Erin and I have authentic semi-Jersey accents. That would have helped us fit in to this all Italian neighborhood except for our flaming red hair and milk pale skin. We stick out like firecrackers exploding on a hot July night.
Megan! I’m not calling you again!
my mother yells.
Coming!
I jump down the stairs two at a time and scamper past my sister, who sits on the couch watching TV in the living room.
Mom wants you,
Erin tells me, never taking her eyes off the screen.
Yeah, thanks, I heard,
I quip sarcastically. As I cross the room, I brush my hand across the strings of my harp that sits patiently waiting for me day after day. The only time I feel complete and content is when I’m seated securely behind it.
In the kitchen, my mother is standing by the sink peeling potatoes. It’s almost too cliché. I catch myself before I can let out a giggle.
I need you to go to the store for more potatoes and eggs. The O’Connells are coming for dinner tonight, and I don’t have enough for all of us.
Okay.
The O’Connells are another Irish family that we spend time with. My mother met Mrs. O’Connell at a church meeting. They don’t live in our neighborhood. They live a town over. They have two sons: Connor is Erin’s age, fourteen, and Troy is a year older than me, eighteen. He graduated last year. Me? One more year, thank God. Knowing school is almost over is enough to keep me going. Notre Dame, here I come. I received an early acceptance.
I grab Erin’s old red wagon that she used to cart dolls around in when she was younger. I always take it to the store when I go for my mom. I know it’s stupid to drag around a kid’s play cart, but I really don’t want to carry the groceries four blocks.
We only have one car—an ancient minivan—and it’s my dad’s. I’ve been trying to convince him to get a second car, but he keeps saying no. My mother doesn’t drive, and I’ll be headed to college soon. He says it’s not necessary.
I pull the old wagon out of the tiny garage and onto the city sidewalk. There’s no grassy buffer between our house and the cement walkway. It’s just our house, sidewalk, busy street. There’s no breathing room. Not like Ireland. When I was young, my mother and I used to walk half a mile just to reach a road. I remember being small and holding her hand as we strolled through lush green groves. Then we came here to cement, exhaust fumes, and a culture we’ll never fit into.
Block one down. I pass the pastry shops making tiramisu and cannolis. Then the bakeries making breads, pizza, and rolls. It’s a hot August day. All this stuff would smell great if it wasn’t for the smog and bus exhaust. The wheels of the wagon rumble along the lines of cracked cement.
The thumping of a heavy base line echoes thickly through the air as a shiny black Cadillac with darkly tinted windows bowls up the street. The car slows down and crawls along next to me. My heart races nervously, and I start walking faster.
A tinted window slides down to reveal a guy I recognize from school. He has a dark complexion like most people around here. He’s handsome, in a mischievous way. I can’t remember his name, though. Quedo, Zito, Lito….
Hey, Red…
He grins, looking me up and down. I cringe inwardly. "Looking mighty fine pulling your little red wagon. How about I let you pull on something else? I got what you need right in this car."
There must be more people in the car because I can hear them snickering. I ignore him and keep walking.
What’s the matter, baby?
he croons, his voice suggestive. "Come on, I’ll give you a ride." His words are laced with double meanings.
Leave her alone, Vito!
a female voice calls from the backseat. "Andiamo!"
Vito laughs wickedly and hits the gas. They spin away, and I make it to block three. Sweat is gathering on my forehead from the August heat and the run-in with the senior hoodlums.
The grocery store is packed as usual. A lot of Italians in the neighborhood like to get their groceries fresh almost every day.
Concetta, the cashier, totals my food. That’ll be nine fifty, Megan.
I hand her ten dollars. You getting ready for school to start?
she asks, bagging my food. She always has a pleasant smile.
Yes, thanks.
I hook my hands through the handles of the bags and head outside. Waiting patiently is the little red wagon. I’m always surprised that it’s still there when I come out of the store. I’m sure one of these days someone is going to pilfer the rusty thing or throw it in the Dumpster because they think it’s trash.
I sip on the ice cold cola I bought at the register. It feels good on my dry throat. I flip the handle of the wagon into my hand and start back up the street. Block four down.
Block three coming up. I always count down the blocks like this. It makes the uncomfortable, lonely walk tolerable. Bakeries at block two. They’re in my sight—just a few more buildings to go. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice until I am steps from him. Oh no! I feel my chest tighten as I raise my head. No, no, no…shit, shit, shit. Antonio Delisi, Jr.
Shit!
If you are going to avoid anyone in this town, avoid Antonio Delisi, Jr., the mob boss’s son. I’ve managed to basically stay clear of him and his friends over the many years we’ve lived here. These moments don’t happen often, but when they do, they’re frightening. My mom says he’s got the devil living in him. She may be right—seeing him right now, he looks nothing like an angel.
I’m just going to keep walking. Maybe he’ll ignore me. My hand tightens on the wagon handle, slipping with sweat. I drop my soda bottle to my side, my steps planted with determination.
Antonio confidently pushes off from the cherry red Camaro he’s leaning against and flicks the butt of the cigarette he was smoking into the street. He steps right in front of me, glaring down at me, blocking my path. Shit!
I look down to the ground, face heating. He makes my heart race. Despite his devilish nature, he’s the most beautiful devil
I’ve ever seen. I try to step around him. He blocks me. I timidly glance up into his face. He stands a foot taller than me. Our eyes lock, and an unidentifiable emotion passes quickly across his face. His dark brown hair hangs slightly into his dark brown eyes. His mouth is sharply pulled into a half grin that reads either Don’t fuck with me or I’m hot and I know it. Goose bumps surface on my skin despite the scorching heat. His low-riding jeans and white sleeveless T-shirt hug his swarthy, muscled body.
He probably learned at the age of three how to kill someone with his pinky finger.
A couple weeks after we came to Jersey, my mom took me to the playground near the elementary school. She wanted me to play with the kids in the neighborhood. You know, get to know them.
I was in the sandbox letting the rough sand filter through my fingers. A little boy came over and sat next to me. It was Antonio. His skin was darkly tanned and smooth. Antonio made up a game in the sand called bakery. We made sand pies with buckets and pretended to make different kinds. Antonio was a cute kid. He even pretended like he was eating some of them. He kept saying, "Mangia, mangia." I remember laughing at the funny word.
My mom had Erin on her lap and was sitting on a bench talking to a pretty lady who had on lots of makeup. It was weird…one minute my mom was talking, the next she was at the sandbox grabbing my arm, trying to lift me out. I started crying that I didn’t want to leave. She dragged me down the street with Erin on her hip toward the house. I never even said good-bye to Antonio.
Five-year-old Antonio was cute; eighteen-year-old Antonio is chilling—beautifully scary, dazzlingly intimidating, heart-throbbingly gorgeous, and standing in my way.
A sharp voice pulls me from my trance and the vortex of Antonio’s striking eyes. Tonio!
An old grandmotherly woman leans out the window of the house next to us. I’ve seen this woman before. We talk sometimes when she’s sitting alone on her steps. Now, she starts gesturing with her arms and yelling in a Sicilian accent. "Tonio! Leave ta medigan alone! Come, mangia!"
A wolfish grin crosses his face, and he turns and climbs the steps two at a time. He looks back at me before heading into the house. I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and quickly pull the red wagon home.
Chapter 2
Mangia (mahn-ja): to eat, and eat, and eat more (even if you’re not hungry)
Antonio
I walk into Nonna’s apartment still thinking about her—Megan. I’ll admit I saw her coming and dragged out my cigarette a little longer than necessary. How could I not see her coming with that head of shocking, beautiful red hair? Ever since her family moved in, I’ve been fascinated with her, always silently checking my surroundings for her at school, at the movies, even in the streets.
Meatballs, tomatoes, and basil mix into an aroma that wafts through from the kitchen. Even when Nonna isn’t cooking, you can still smell the ghost of Italian food in the air and on the plastic-covered furniture.
Tonio!
she yells again. "You leave ta girl alone, capisce!" Nonna scolds with a ladle, waving it at my face.
What, Nonna? I wasn’t doing anything.
Nonna’s orthopedic shoes shift on the linoleum floor.
She harrumphs. I knew boys like you. I was young too, ya know! I saw yous lookin’ at her like she was strawberry gelato! You’re your father’s son!
Nonna, please.
I shake my head.
You gotta prove your worth!
You could always count on one thing with Nonna—yelling. It’s how she talks. When she’s quiet, you’re in trouble. Now set the table!
Nonna loads me up with dishes of food to take home to my ma. I place them all on the floor of the backseat of my car for the two-mile drive home. I kiss her good-bye like the good grandson.
My phone beeps with a text message from Vito:
Vito : Where r u?
Tonio: Jus leavin’ Nonna’s
Vito: Meet me @ the dock
Tonio: Can’t. Gotta meet Pop
Vito: K
Mom’s Beemer is there when I get home. I carry the food into the house.
Ma! Nonna’s got food for you,
I call out, heading over to the fridge to put the dishes in. While my head is still in the fridge, Mom comes around the corner.
Hey, sweetie.
She leans in to kiss me.
Hi, Ma.
I flip the door closed and pop a can of soda. Caramel-colored liquid sprays all over the front of my white shirt. "Ugh, fanabola!"
Hey! Don’t swear,
my mom yells and clips me with her hand on the back of my head. Her slap echoes in my skull.
Sorry,
I mumble as I strip my shirt off. I gotta change before I go see Dad.
I climb the stairs to my room. My room hasn’t changed much over the years. I’ve added some