Marcello Mob Novels & Stories

Estelle asked, her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and Marcello clenched his jaw. “Don’t worry about it,” he dismissed, and I tilted my head as I heard a sound. “What do you mean, I shouldn’t worry? What is she doing here? Why do you look scared?” Aha, scared was the word I was looking for. That described his unsettled expression and his timid steps. He was scared. “Ay-ya-ya-ya. I’m Marcello Marcelli, no le tengo miedo a nadie!” He roared, and she scoffed. [I am scared of no one.]

, he knew I was checking him out. “You seem to find me really attractive Renee.” He teased. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I just remembered you didn’t tell me your name, I’m getting tired of calling you Military guy.” I lied, succeeding in changing the topic. He chuckled, “you are right. My name is Marcelo .” I furrowed my brows, “Marcelo?, that sounds like French.” He nodded, “it’s because I’m from France, well my mother is Italian, but my father is french.”

“Marcello.” The man carrying me, a brutish figure with a face like granite, stopped abruptly, nearly sending me tumbling to the floor. Marcello turned, his features etched with impatience, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “What is it?” Adriano leaned back in his chair, his posture radiating an air of complete ease, as if he had all the time in the world. “Accusing a woman of a boss,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “means you’re accusing the boss too.”

I was almost chewing my fingers when I was done with mine. Diego ordered the food for the main course. I'd asked him to surprise me and he seemed pretty proud of what he ordered. When the dish was served, Marcel poetically described the meal and the wine. "He's so kind and I love the way he speaks, the accent is just lovely," I said after Marcel left. "Marcel is from Colombia, he'd moved out for greener pastures as he always says. He met his wife Lilian here and they opened this place. They have a daughter who's currently in college" Diego explained, expertly uncorking the expensive-looking bottle of wine.

Emilio said, sidling closer, whispering loud enough for Lucien to hear, “have you employed a bodyguard? A very… impressive one, I must say. Obviously, for your protection… since I’m not always around to watch your back.” Lucien’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a smile line. Marcelo didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there, calm and imposing, Emilio stepped closer, voice teasing. “Seriously, Lucien, who is this guy? He’s… dangerous and attractive in a very quiet way. Is he supposed to scare me? Or you?” “Both,” Lucien said dryly, finally glancing at him. “This is "MARCELO VINCENZO.". He’s… necessary.”

On the third ring of his business mobile phone, Marcello finally picked up. He had a nostalgic feeling rooted from the time he had to be constant wait for Serena's calls whilst still a fugitive in Cameroon. He brought the device to his ear, scratching the side of his face with his index, a sign that he was nervous. "This better be a 'good news, I have found your son call' because if not, I do not see why you're calling me now?" "Where is the girl?" Serena's voice could be heard from the other line,

Before I could ask anything about their business or whatsoever, another voice got my attention as multiple armed men began to enter the hallway, " We meet again, Miss Stevens!" I whipped my head back, stunned to see that guy Marcello, standing a few steps away from me. His eyes held a mysterious, dark glint that shook me in horror. I spelled his name wondering, " Marcello...you.." He started with a smirk, shoving his hands into his pockets before coming towards me, "Let me introduce myself again. Marcello De Rossi, the elder son of Russian Don."

I offer him a half-hearted smile and slightly shake my head at him, wondering just how much he’s getting paid because there’s no way someone doing something like this is that happy. “Don Marcello!” Fabio abruptly exclaims in his thick Italian accent, my eyes snapping up to find Marcel emerging into the room in his usual dark colored suit with a hand tightly tucked into his pocket. “Come sta, signore?” (“How are you, sir?”) With a small smile, Marcel greets Fabio, offering him an amiable hug as he says, his accent almost as thick as Fabio’s, “Bene.” (“Well.”) So…he doesn’t just speak English and Spanish?

he speaks coolly as we stop in front of the bathroom door. I grit my teeth as my irritation spikes, "Do not underestimate me, Ravello. I may be a woman but I can stomach violence as much as any mob boss can." The bite in my voice doesn't go unnoticed and he chuckles. "Have you ever tortured anyone before, little girl? All you ever do is give orders." "Open the door, Ravello. Let's find out if this guy has a tracker before we get back to Sicily." He chuckles again as he twists the doorknob, "Oh so there's an us now?"

She moaned for effect, her eyes half closed and still on Eron as she grinded even more into Mikel. His breasts. His lips. His body. All on another man. He growled lowly in rage and was out of the room in no time, his head spinning. As soon as he got out, his fists began connecting with the wall countlessly, he couldn't believe he had just watched his woman get touched by another man. She loved it, he thought painfully. Get a grip, Eron. Get a grip. His subconscious kept telling him. A Mafia Lord shouldn't be this much of a pussy. Mikel had to die, he reasoned as his forehead rested on the wall.