Texting Mr. Mafia – Text Me You Love Me Read Online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Insta-Love Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)

When I leave a note for the mafia don at his table, I beg for his help. I never expect him to text back or to tell me he wants something in return…
My dad’s got us into trouble again. His get-rich-quick schemes always mess up the family. Now, loan sharks are circling, and I’m unsure what to do.
When I see Elio Marino at the restaurant where I am a waitress, I almost lose it. My mind. My soul. I fall hard, but I have to be smart. This isn’t a fairytale.
He’s tall, way taller than me, ripped with muscle, mature, and brooding as hell. I know I can’t have what I want deep down, but I need his help to make the loan sharks back off.
When I give him my number, I never expect his texts to get steamy. I never expect him to demand my address—demand to see me. I know I have to be smart about this.
I’ve got no relationship experience. I’m a curvy virgin. I just want to save my family.
His texts are getting more and more possessive. The loan sharks are gaining on us. Somehow, Elio is tied up in it all. I know I should listen to my head, but my heart is so damn loud.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



It’s hard not to feel like a kid when my parents argue. Our bedrooms are jam-packed together, just like every room in this apartment, the walls barely thick enough to separate them, let alone block any noise. I’m sitting on my bed, like when I was a girl, my hands pressed against my knees. I’m nineteen. I shouldn’t have to feel like this anymore.

“Then why did you borrow it?” Mom screams.

“I wanted to give us a better life,” Dad roars back. “Why is that so goddamn hard to understand?”

I close my eyes and imagine I’m somewhere else, but my imagination doesn’t go very far. Singing usually helps with feelings like these, not that I’m good. But focusing on my voice—blocking out everything else—often makes things easier. The issue is I’ve been crying, and my throat is raw.

“Loan sharks,” Mom says in a quieter voice but still loud enough for me to hear, obviously, since we can hear everything in this apartment. That means Mom and Dad might’ve been able to hear me crying when they first started arguing, and they didn’t care.

“Loan sharks,” Mom repeats. “Jesus Christ, Philip. What were you thinking?”

“We’re going in circles, Jessica,” Dad snaps.

“Maybe I want you to explain it to me one last time.”

Opening my eyes, I stare across my small bedroom and my tiny desk with the chipped paint. We didn’t always live in a rundown apartment. When I was younger, we had a three-bedroom house in the suburbs, a white picket fence, and birds singing in the morning instead of people screaming at each other. That was before Dad started his get-rich-quick schemes, which inevitably always became get-poorer-quick schemes.

“It was a sure thing,” Dad says. “That butcher has been in business for decades. How was I supposed to know there’d be a black-market meat scandal the day after I bought in, huh?”

“I remember our old bed linens. They were so soft. This stuff makes my skin crawl, and you stink of booze.”


“You reek of it. Stop pretending this is all about business. I bet you never even bought into this silly butcher’s. It all went on liquor, didn’t it?”

I’m relieved when my cell phone rings, Charlotte’s name appearing on my cracked screen. Charlotte’s the only friend from our old life who still bothers to stay in touch with me. Not that I can blame anybody else. They’ve got college and relationships and life to keep them busy. Charlotte and I have always been Char and Scar.

I leave my bedroom and go into the bathroom, the furthest room from the argument. “Hey,” I say, sitting on the cold toilet seat.

“Howdy,” Charlotte says, her voice upbeat despite the circumstances. “I wanted to check in about the you-know-what.”

Charlotte knows all about Dad’s latest scheme. “He lost all the money. They’re arguing about it now. Apparently, loan sharks will be kicking down our door any day now.”

My voice sounds way too flat, way too resigned. It’s like I don’t even care, but that’s not exactly it. It’s just that I’ve been through this too many times.

“Are you… angry?” Charlotte asks.

“I don’t even know,” I tell her. “It just is what it is. It’s like the color of the sky or grass. It’s like the fact we breathe oxygen. Dad borrows money. Dad loses money. We move to a cruddier neighborhood, but I’m unsure how much further we can slip.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Charlotte whispers.

“You’re helping just by calling. Believe me. Anyway, it’s not like you can fly over here and fix everything. How’s college?”

“It’s… fine, yeah, okay, not great.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to pretend just because I’m stuck here. Be honest.”

Charlotte sighs and then starts telling me about her latest assignment. I try not to get jealous or let my mind fill with foolish visions of having the time to pursue my own dreams. Not that I think I’ll ever become some majorly successful singer. Maybe a backup singer or part of a choir, anything that gives me that beautiful feeling of disappearing and not having to think.

Slam. The argument is spilling into the living room.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell Charlotte.

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and go into the living room. Dad has his suitcase open on the coffee table. Mom is in the doorway, throwing clothes at him. Dad catches them and shoves them into the suitcase. My chest tightens, my heart aching when I notice Dad purposefully not looking at me.

He zips up the case, then finally glances at me, only for a second. He’s fifty-four, bald, a little round around the middle. His features are tightly lined, and his eyes are bloodshot from the booze. I’ve never felt truly loved by him. We’ve never had a real father-daughter bond. It’s sad, but I can’t linger on it. Otherwise, I’ll go crazy.