Marcella Cortez Novels & Stories

He was recently married, his wife was a nice woman, whom I've only spoken to or seen a few times. "And this must be Elijah Camorra, Camila has told me quite a lot about you,Marcel Clair"Marcel says outstretching his hand. "Is that so?" Elijah asks looking down at me in amazement. "Lower your ego, just a tad bit"I offered, closing my index finger to my thumb. "It's an honor to meet you Sir, I've heard nothing but great things about you"Elijah says trying to get Marcel to let go of his hand.

Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper. “Marcella.” Silence. Dante scoffed. “That’s impossible. We killed her.” Ethan shook his head. “Then explain why she just sent us a message.” He clicked the file. A video loaded. The screen flickered, and then— Marcella appeared. Alive. Smirking. Her voice was smooth, taunting. “Miss me?” The Woman Who Wouldn’t Die The video continued playing. Marcella sat in an opulent office, her manicured nails tapping against a desk. Her hair was darker, her skin slightly paler, but it was her.

She’s uncertain about the world around her, like she’s waiting for it to bite. Marcella had been steel from the start; raised to understand the shadows that lived behind power. She didn’t flinch from them, instead she welcomed them. Promised to the future Capo, she wore that like a crown, not a collar. She was all fire; never fear. That woman stared down death and dared it to blink first.

The double doors of the manor swing open to reveal a small army of people in black uniforms marching in, carrying garment bags and rolling trunks that bear the logos of houses I’ve only ever seen in the pages of Vogue International. ​"What is this?" I whisper, leaning towards Thomas. ​"The gala is the evening where you shall make your first presence as the intended bride of the Shadow Alpha, Miss. Coralina. He doesn't want to leave any stone unturned to make you look your best." ​A woman with a sharp platinum bob and a measuring tape draped around her neck strides toward me. "Miss Coralina? I am Marcella. have two hours to find the perfect outfit for you. Shall we?"

I brought out my phone, clicking on a familiar chat room which belonged to Marceline. [Where's her next destination?] [Abandoned building, F-150 block B.] - She replied without a moment delay. I smiled briefly, finally getting the address before dashing out of the set room.

Couldn't disagree with that. "He was demoted eight times from Thalassa. I remember my Dad mentioning him many times, it was my favourite dinner time talk actually 'What has Nicolòs Jones done now?'. Your mother always stuck by him no matter what though. We knew her as Mara Megestanis, the sister of Milo Megestanis, Max's father." "Wait, wait, wait," I interrupted. "So surely that means I am related to Max," I then squinted my eyes in thought, "... He's my cousin!? How come you didn't think to tell me this?!"

“I’m a journalist, and I’m damn good at it. If you don’t want a weird little story about you starting to make the rounds, you’d better keep that poisonous little mouth shut... or you’re going to learn what power really looks like.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Marcella’s livid face was pure poetry. I heard footsteps outside. Stephanie straightened up, much taller than both of us. “So think twice before you put on another show like this. Victoria Greco... is untouchable,” she said, flat and final, with a level of arrogance I’d never even dared to feel. Marcella’s red-rimmed eyes flicked to her in fear, then landed on me, full of rage. The kind of hate that never leaves.

He said that was the best home domain as it wouldn't give Santiago the idea of where she was, he wouldn't believe Ace would let her stay elsewhere asides his mansion, Ace said he was setting a trap for him because he had his men dispersed around there in adequate disguise. I had to focus on getting the perfect dress for my movie night with Tom, opening my closet the first dress that welcomed my sight was the black shiny gown I had gotten a month earlier from Zaras collection before I left Nigeria, it was one of the few stuff I was able to get when forcefully relocating.

It was forbidden for the toys to go down the basement, it was for another work. "Pablo..." she said and a man handsome in black jeans and navy blue shirt along with a black leather jacket, his hair tied up in a bun as he turned around smoking a cigarette. "Oh, Blair... we got a problem with Giovanni..." he spoke in his seductive tone. "Pablo, handle this already. I have got a lot to do," Cliterella aka Blair Fernsby... she's the love therapist at day and mafia boss at night. She is said to the worst Irish mafia lady... the most fierce one of all.

She asked, hurling herself down the couch. Marcellus looked up midway, redoing the zipper on his pants and adjusting his robe. His brows creasing at her question. "I'm meeting up with a couple of friends downtown." He finally gritted out. She frowned, "downtown? Or the underworld? You and I know you have no friend. Be careful though, they say that voodoo queen is dangerous." Marcellus scowled, blurring towards her. His fist wrapped around her neck in a tight grip and she winced from his strong hold she tried to pull back.