Teaser: Gun Moll - Coming Soon #MafiaRomance @ErinTheAuthor

Hey, all!

So, I figured since we released the cover of Gun Moll earlier this week, I should share another teaser with you. It is coming very, very soon. May 23rd to be exact.

I can't wait for you to meet Melina and Mac.

This is a Mac tease -- he is a good, old Italian boy through and through, and he loves his mother, even when she annoys the shit out of him.

Enjoy the tease.



Add to Goodreads TBR.


“James, come taste this for me.”

Mac beat back his immediate urge to correct his mother when she used his given name. She was the only person he let get away with that shit. “I’m busy, Ma.”


“Ma, I’m busy.”

James, come taste. Don’t make me tell you again.”

He was twenty-six-years-old, and all his mother had to do was use the fucking tone. Every good Italian child knew what the tone was. Age, size, or gender didn’t make a goddamn difference. When an Italian’s mother used that tone, they knew to listen, or get out of the way.

Sighing, Mac jumped down from the ladder he’d been balancing on for the last ten minutes. His mother needed her living room fan fixed and he still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what was wrong with it.

Needs a new one, he thought.

Mac knew that’s what it was. But Cynthia Bella Maccari wasn’t the kind of woman to ask for money or complain. He took care of his mother, as far as that went, but he did it without asking or telling her he was doing it. Sometimes that meant showing up with his Challenger’s trunk full with groceries, or sneaking her stack of bills off the table and taking them to the bank.

Cynthia never said a word.

Neither did Mac.

It was just too damn bad James Sr. didn’t get the memo.

Mac’s father was useless in all things—women, family, and money. Expecting him to handle his estranged wife’s business was like asking the doorknob to turn without touching it. It wasn’t going to happen.

James Sr. liked to think that because his wife had kicked him and his cocaine-abusing, women-running, asshole-self out all those years ago, that he didn’t have a responsibility to Cynthia or the two children they shared.

Mac took care of it all. Whatever his mother or sister, Victoria, needed, Mac did it.

“All right, Ma, give it to me,” Mac said, leaning in the kitchen entryway.

Cynthia turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. A thick, red sauce covered the tip as his mother blew on it to cool it down. She held it out for him to taste once she was close enough.

Mac hummed as the rich flavors soaked his taste buds in familiarity.


It tasted like home.

“Damn,” he groaned.


There was that tone again.

Crass language had never been acceptable in his home growing up. They’d been dirt poor and lived in a pretty shoddy neighborhood, but his mother always held some kind of standard for her children.

Mac never really learned to follow those rules.

“That mouth of yours, my God,” Cynthia muttered.

Mac winced. “Sorry.”

Cynthia’s brow puckered in her disapproval as she shook her head and dropped the spoon. “I know you run around on the streets going on like that, but in this home, James—”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he interrupted before she could really get started.

Apparently, that wasn’t going to soothe Cynthia’s temper.

“No, listen. What have I always told you, huh?”

“Bad language and acting like a fool isn’t going to get me a real job.”

Cynthia smiled. “And what are you doing for work lately, hmm?”


Mac wanted to get his mother off that topic and quickly. If his bad language had tripped her anger up, his choices on the job front really would. His mother wasn’t stupid, she knew he ran the streets like her estranged husband did. He made up schemes, worked with a crew, and brought in money however he could. Even if it was fucking pennies. It was work. The only kind of work he cared to know.

It was the one thing Mac had in common with his fuck-up of a father.

La famiglia.

The family.


Mac’s introduction to the Pivetti crime family had happened when he was just six-years-old. A lot of his younger years were spent in the passenger seat of an old Cadillac while his father collected money and watched the streets for his brother. Mac’s now-deceased uncle had once run the streets of Hell’s Kitchen as the top Capo in the family. Marco had been terrifying, and cold as hell. But then Marco Maccari met the wrong end of a bullet when a war broke out between rival New York families, and what could have been the Maccari reign in the Pivetti family ended.

James Sr. found his shame in white lines of cocaine, effectively ruining any chance he had of getting made in the family. It was embarrassing and undignified.

Mac wouldn’t be his father. He’d worked far too hard to separate James Sr. from Mac Maccari in la famiglia to let it be screwed up by something so stupid. Mac even went so far as integrating himself as a soldier for the Vasari crew in the Pivetti Cosa Nostra, while his father worked under the Audino side.

There was no need to stain himself with his father’s mess, after all. Appearance was everything to Cosa Nostra. A man’s worth was determined by his actions, honor, and loyalty. James Sr. had none of that.

But Mac couldn’t please his mother by being a wise-guy, either.

Double-edged swords.

Cynthia had never hidden her disapproval of Mac’s choices, regarding Cosa Nostra. If she chomped down on that bone, they would be glaring at one another all night. Mac had shit to do in the Kitchen in the morning, and he needed to be gone from Amityville before dawn broke.

“Ma, let’s not start in on that again,” Mac warned, hoping it was enough.

Cynthia sighed. “I want you to be a good man, Mac.”

When she used his nickname, Mac knew his mother was serious. Cynthia only did that when she wanted something from him, or she needed him to listen.

“I am a good man,” he replied quietly.

In all the ways that count, he held back from adding.

“Being a wise-guy—”

“I’m not James, Ma.”

Cynthia pursed her lips. “I know.”

Guessing by the way his mother dropped his stare, he figured the conversation was over. Sometimes, it was all about picking the right battles with Cynthia. Maybe she just wasn’t up for the argument that night.

God knew it would come on another.

“Sunday,” she said.

“What about it?” he asked.




“Ma, I’ve got some stuff to do this weekend and all that. Next Sunday, okay?”

Cynthia’s hands met her hips.

The tone was coming again. Mac knew it.

“Fine, Sunday,” he said quickly. 
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