Louie Morelli's Daughter

By Patricia Bellomo

In Bellomo's third mafia thriller, Louie Morelli's beautiful daughter is kidnapped, sending him on a mission of rescue and revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780984630516

Book preview

62

Chapter 1

Diana Caruso popped the Valium that Johnny Romano provided and tried to still the trembling in her hands. She didn’t want Johnny to know how scared she really was, but he knew enough to show up with the sedative, sweeping into her hotel room as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Nothing could be further from the truth. Johnny was on the verge of losing his wife, if not actually his life. But Johnny was a gambler, and the thrill of pursuit was worth more than the win.

Diana was not a gambler, which made her wonder what she was doing in a hotel room with Johnny Romano. She sat nervously on the edge of the bed and gazed up at him, feeling a twinge of alarm at the blaze of excitement reflected in his golden-brown eyes. Johnny stood over her, holding a glass of water to her mouth. He said, Be cool, Diana. You can do this for me, I know you can.

Diana swallowed too much water with her pill and started to choke. Johnny clapped her on the back, and she caught her breath and said, "That’s easy for you to say, Johnny. You’re not the one committing fraud. If we get caught, I go to jail."

No one is catching us at anything unless you give up the game, said Johnny cavalierly. Let’s not make them suspicious, babe. You can’t go in the bank looking scared.

But, Johnny, I am scared, she said. I don’t know if I can go through with this.

Johnny sighed loudly. Setting the glass of water on the nightstand, he studied her a moment, seemed about to speak, but decided not to. Revising his tactics, he sat on the bed and slipped an arm about her waist. He gave a little squeeze. You promised me, Diana. For old times’ sake.

Diana had promised him. To say she regretted it now was an understatement. Too timid to refuse him at this eleventh hour, Diana deliberately turned away. Her eyes automatically drifted to the glass sliding door that provided what was supposed to be a spectacular view of Deerfield Beach. But the sodden strip of sand across the street from the Howard Johnsons was a disappointment. Having checked out the hotel on-line, Diana had anticipated blue skies and a glistening sun-kissed Atlantic. But the turquoise waters seen on the website were grey, and the pale, powdery sand was flat and brown in an unending deluge. Except for a group of serious surfers, the beach was deserted.

Opposite the hotel and slightly to the left of Diana’s vision Deerfield Beach’s pier was abandoned. Five floors up Diana could hear angry squalls pounding the beach. But she had bigger problems than the inclement weather. She turned her gaze from the dismal vista, fingers absently plucking at the blue-plaid bedspread. She had been delighted with the room’s tropical décor of white woods and soft blue carpet. Now, it didn’t seem to matter.

She turned back to Johnny, saw he was studying her. He had always been able to charm her. It didn’t help that he still looked like the teenage boy she had fallen in love with. He was too handsome for his own good, with closely-cropped brown hair, and only a hint of a thickening waistline in his slim designer jeans. You need the money as badly as I do, babe. Isn’t that what you told me?

Diana was flat out broke. You know I haven’t worked in a year. But this is stealing—

Don’t be so dramatic, he said, exasperated. It’s my house. I own half—

It’s still fraud, said Diana. I was reading about mortgage fraud on the internet. She looked into his eyes. It’s a federal crime, Johnny. That’s what it is: Federal.

Oh, Jeez. Give me a break. I’m the co-owner of the house. I’m not even taking out a full mortgage. It’s more an equity loan—a frigging one-hundred thousand on a half a million-dollar house. Trust me, Stella will never figure it out. She’s a rich girl, doesn’t know how to balance a checkbook, never paid a damn bill in her life.

Then why don’t you ask her for the money? Diana asked pointedly.

Hah, he laughed shortly. Stella has more money than she knows what to do with, but she thinks I’m irresponsible and won’t give me a dime.

Diana considered this. Johnny was her heartthrob and she felt seriously disloyal siding with his wife, but she reluctantly conceded Stella’s point. Johnny’s gambling was out of control. His latest crisis involved a large sum of money he owed two losers from back home, complaining to Diana that they were threatening him. But what did he expect?

Johnny must have sensed her disapproval. He stood abruptly, hands on hips, and gazed out the glass door. Rain was coming down sideways, flattening the tops of the palm trees that lined the street. Surfers were trudging up the beach with their boards. It’s a bitch about the weather, he said. It was eighty degrees every day last week.

Projecting a chic, Metro-sexual façade, Johnny wore a purple silk shirt with yellow polka-dots. He was five-ten to her five-six, stood there with his shirt untucked, his open collar displaying no trace of the chest hair she remembered from his younger days.

Despite his criticism of Stella, Johnny wore a diamond-studded wedding ring. He caught her looking and held up his hand to the light, fingers splayed. If I remove the ring, Stella’s old man will take my hand off at the wrist. At Diana’s look of surprise, Johnny continued. You think I’m kidding, huh? He snorted. I marry into the goddamn family thinking Louie Morelli is all legit, a regular real-estate mogul, and what do I find out?

What?

That prick used to be the top guy in New Orleans. And I mean the top. Ran the whole fucking town, him and his cousin Anthony. Get this: Louie’s father is the guy all those conspiracy theorists have been blaming for JFK’s assassination. And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Louie plays all nicey-nice and Stella thinks he’s a fucking God, but I know better.

Hmm, she murmured. Johnny’s discordant relations with his father-in-law were not new to her. In previous conversations Johnny had referenced him as a condescending prick. Diana thought she detected a note of envy beneath the animosity, and she wondered about this. She knew Stella worshipped her father.

But who wouldn’t worship a father who bought you a mini-mansion for a wedding present? Diana wished she could be so lucky, and she couldn’t help but think of how spiteful and nasty Johnny sounded. She realized he must have changed in the six years since he had dumped her, but still, this angry young man didn’t resemble the Johnny she knew and still yearned for.

Diana felt suddenly calmer, crediting the Valium. She stood, smoothing her black crepe trousers as she stepped to the wood-framed mirror above the dresser. Adjusting her shawl-collared fuscia blouse, Diana eyed herself critically. She looked okay, if not a trifle pale, brown eyes lined with olive, straight reddish-brown hair cut bluntly at her shoulders, with a tapered bang across her forehead.

Her hair was wrong. Diana lifted Stella’s Florida driver’s license and noted the glossy black hair and perfectly arched brows, the inky black eyes. Stella’s face was thinner, her lips fuller. Diana had met Johnny’s wife on two occasions and knew Stella was an inch shorter and thirty pounds lighter. Diana’s figure was full; Stella was slender and lithe as a dancer. Even in her DMV photo Stella looked privileged with her shiny hair and expensive smile.

Diana jutted her face toward the mirror and bared her teeth, her upper right incisor recently chipped and no dental insurance to fix it. Watching her, Johnny said, You look fine, babe. What’s the matter?

She loved it when he called her babe, felt a resounding tingle in her spine. Diana turned away from the mirror, regarding him from across the room. I’m not pretty enough, Johnny.

Jesus, Diana, it’s not a beauty contest. Just act cool, like you’re my wife, and nobody will be the wiser. Come on, babe, he coaxed, while glancing at his watch. You can’t back out now. We’re due at the bank in thirty-five minutes.

You’re sure no one at the bank knows what Stella looks like?

Positive. I chose a branch in West Palm for this reason.

Diana stole another glance in the mirror. She chewed nervously on her lower lip. "But I really don’t look like your wife, Johnny."

You look enough like her. You’re the same height. Trust me; they won’t even look at Stella’s ID. It’s just a formality. Johnny’s eyes swept the room, lingering on the night table where a notepad with Stella M. Romano written repetitively on a lined page was displayed like a grade-school grammar lesson. Christ, babe, what the fuck …? You can’t leave this lying around. Make sure you rip it up.

Diana bit her lip, resisting the tears pressing against the back of her eyeballs. She reached for her handbag, an old Coach bag Johnny had bought her one Christmas, and she half expected him to remember this. He did not, regarding her without sentiment, as though he had forgotten their mutual past. Diana, who thought of Johnny every day of her life, felt his indifference like a slap in the face. After the promises he made on a recent visit in Michigan, Diana expected so much more from Johnny Romano.

Yesterday, arriving in Fort Lauderdale with a suitcase crammed with sun-dresses, Diana departed the terminal to find Johnny waiting for her. He kissed her cheek like an old friend and hauled her luggage to his Lexus. Two problems immediately identified themselves: The first of these was the weather, south Florida skies gloomy and thick with rain clouds, a choppy sea, and a beach, deserted except for the surfers. The second problem was Johnny. Diana anticipated overtures, and had spent her last unemployment check on a Wonderbra and overpriced panties. But after driving her up to Deerfield Beach in a pouring rain, Johnny parked in front of the Howard Johnson and said, I’ll call you in the morning.

Aren’t you going to come in with me?

What for? I made the reservation in your name, paid for two nights. It’s a great hotel, a real party spot. You’ll love it.

Oh, said Diana, crushed. I thought you wanted to visit with me.

We’ll catch up tomorrow, babe. I promised Stella I’d be home tonight.

Johnny was right about the Howard Johnson being a great hotel in a prime spot. But the trendy, seaside village of Deerfield was waterlogged and eager snowbirds darted in and out of shops. After checking into her room, Diana walked around the corner and bought a sweatshirt in a souvenir shop. She ate a burger while huddled at the bar in Flanigan’s, trying to be inconspicuous as her expectations of a romantic evening were dashed by the reality of being a stranger in a strange place. Diana had never felt so alone in her life.

Diana was so hot for Johnny she would do anything for him, including commit fraud so he could mortgage the mini-mansion Stella’s father had so generously provided. The Boca house was Johnny’s cash cow. He was going for a one-hundred thousand dollar loan. Dina’s cut: ten grand. A lot of money when your meager savings are spent and your unemployment benefits expired.

Johnny had been a level-headed kid, a really nice young man, high-school athlete and honor student. They grew up in Clinton Township, a burb of Detroit where a majority of the surnames ended in a vowel, a community where Italian bricklayers and builders and auto-workers and small business owners raised their families and where the Italian restaurants and bakeries and fruit markets outnumbered the gas stations and big name grocery chains.

Johnny’s family did road construction in Michigan, Ohio and Florida. Diana’s father was a tool and die worker, and her mother was a beautician. Despite her very Italian last name, Diana had more German and Irish blood than Italian, which was not the case with Johnny. The Romano’s were quintessentially Italian, warm, gregarious and welcoming. In the six years since Johnny broke her heart, Diana had seven dates and lost her job to the recession. Johnny got married, moved to Boca Raton and became a father.

Johnny flew into town during the holidays. Making his rounds of the local hangouts with his cousins, he looked like a movie star. He cornered her in a castle-booth at Luciano’s Restaurant and spent two hours gazing into her eyes, alluding to the possibility he might have jumped the gun by marrying Stella. He referred to Stella as a prima donna, indifferent of his needs after giving birth to their daughter. Johnny told her marriage was overrated. He missed Michigan, he said. He especially missed Diana.

Two weeks later Johnny called and asked if she would consider impersonating Stella so he could take out a small mortgage on their house. Diana should have told him to fuck-off. At the very least she should have slammed the phone in his ear, but tender feelings flooded her, and she said, Yes, Johnny, of course I’ll do it.

Stepping onto the hotel elevator, Diana’s feelings for Johnny were stronger than ever, but Johnny’s recklessness stunned her, and she was beginning to question her sanity. Surrounded by strangers, Diana felt guilty. She absently smoothed the pleats in her trousers and tried not to think of the fact that they pinched her waist, a sure sign she had been consuming too many adult beverages.

As they stepped off the elevator, Johnny took her arm. The lobby was un-crowded, the patio bar hustling, and Diana had a sudden urge to resist and make a beeline for the bar and order one of those adult beverages she had so recently disdained. But she followed Johnny out of the hotel and took a deep breath, breathed salt-air and South Florida rain.

Disappointed sunbathers jammed the shops and restaurants. Sand and debris gusted across the sidewalk, and Diana shivered, wishing she had thought to pack a warm jacket. Johnny’s silver Lexus was parked at the curb, and Johnny handed the attendant a five. Johnny’s family had money, but not Lexus money. This baby was courtesy of his wife’s rich daddy.

Diana slid into the car and looked wistfully at the beach, watching surfers in wet suits emerge from the sea. She knew what she was about to do was wrong. It was morally, ethically, and legally wrong. But it didn’t seem to bother Johnny, and this bothered Diana. She glanced at him, muttering under his breath because the traffic in Deerfield was bottlenecked and it was a snail’s crawl escaping the inlet. The drawbridge was up over the Intracoastal and this cost them ten minutes. When they got to Federal he swung right, began to speed, and Diana sank into the plush upholstery and said, Johnny, I’m going to need another Valium.

Chapter 2

Some people had trouble parallel parking. Nathan Roth was not one of them. He expertly squeezed his Lincoln MKS into a narrow space on Atlantic Avenue and exited the vehicle. Nathan had gotten lucky with the spot. It had been a high SPF day and downtown Delray Beach was mobbed with people, the trendy village street congested with traffic.

Mirrored sunglasses shielded Nathan’s dark brown eyes from the sun’s bright glare, but he preferred it hot and welcomed the warm, salty breeze that blew in off the Atlantic. Noticing the crowds on the street, Nathan reflected that springtime in South Florida was spectacular, so long as one had patience.

Nathan had patience, tons of it, the kind instilled by hours of intense military training. He was forty-three years old, and though it had been years since he squatted in the desert sun or stalked his enemies on rooftops, he retained a hard, military physique he had perfected with Herculean workouts. Many of those workouts were conducted out of doors, and his olive skin was permanently tanned. He kept his dark hair trimmed short and combed almost boyishly to one side.

Yesterday, Nathan had been sitting behind the desk in the air-conditioned office above the garage of his Coconut Grove home when Louie Morelli’s summons arrived. It wasn’t even Louie who called him. It was Victor, which meant this was business. Victor said, Lou wants to see you tomorrow. Tramonti’s at six o’clock. Can you make it?

Nathan was aware of several people who might get alarmed at such a request. These people knew Louie well. Those more casually acquainted would be charmed by the invitation to join the entrepreneur at his table. Nathan was neither worried nor impressed. He was on equal footing with Louie, the closest he could possibly be without the benefit of blood.

Parking two blocks east of his destination, Nathan navigated the crowded sidewalk. Outside of Tramonti Italian Ristorante the crowd thickened and formed a line that extended toward the curb. The stepchild of Little Italy’s famed Angelos of Mulberry Street, Tramonti was an Atlantic Avenue hotspot with striped canopies fronting the bustling downtown strip. At a quarter past six on a Tuesday every table on Tramonti’s patio was occupied and people were three deep at the long, curvy bar that took up one end of the fashionable eatery.

Tramonti was Louie’s favorite restaurant and Nathan frequently met him at the bar, both men preferring to dine here, but this evening Louie was playing host at a round table tucked below the gauzy swag curtains framing the back wall. Teak boxed-wood pillars and faux marble decor enhanced the restaurant’s Italian ambiance.

Louie sat with his back to the wall, his muscle Victor to his left, and the conservative radio talk show host, Buddy Shuler, sat opposite. When Nathan arrived, Louie’s favorite waiter, Giorgio, was uncorking a second bottle of Ruffino Riserva. The silver wire basket of bread on the table was empty, individual bread plates were dusted with crumbs and olive oil, and Victor was sopping up the last piece of crust as Nathan claimed the space on Louie’s right.

Louie was giving Giorgio instructions in Italian, but now, as the waiter departed, he greeted Nathan with outstretched arms. He introduced Buddy Shuler, who was thin and angular, with sharp blue eyes and reddish-gold hair that was slicked back off a high forehead. Shuler stood, six-three and lanky, and reached across the table to shake Nathan’s hand. His freckled forearms were dusted with the same reddish-gold hair as on his head.

Schuler was a conservative commentator. Not quite in the Limbaugh category, his syndicated and sometimes controversial show was broadcast on three hundred radio stations. Several books had become bestsellers. Coincidentally, Shuler lived in the same neck of the woods as Limbaugh and frequently met him on the greens. Nathan was surprised to see Shuler with Louie, who was non-political, donating to politicians who furthered his cause regardless of their ideology or political party.

Louie and Victor’s accents were pure New Orleans working-class. Wolfing down the last of his bread, Victor half rose and extended his hand, Hey, Nathan, good to see you.

Victor was in his mid-forties and ten years younger than Louie. A big guy and solid with muscle, Victor had pleasant hazel-green eyes and bushy brown hair that was given to frizzing. He sometimes wore a diamond ear stud, but Nathan saw no trace of it today and wondered if this was out of deference to Louie, who never hesitated to tell Victor the earring made him look like a finocchio.

At five feet eight and a half inches, Louie was an inch shorter than Nathan. But whereas Nathan was stocky and hard-bodied, Louie was slender and dapper, attired in a charcoal suit and ruby-red patterned tie. Like his clothes—and Louie never wore anything but Italian designers—his features were distinctly Italian. Threaded with silver, Louie’s coarse black hair was showing his age, but, for all his vanity, he had not yet colored it. His eyes were his most telling feature. They were Sicilian eyes, absent of light and black at the center.

Tanned from the deck of his eighty-foot Hatteras, the Stella di Mare, Louie looked like an Italian movie star. He had a very powerful presence, exuding a charisma that drew the speculative eyes of his fellow diners as he stood to greet Nathan. He was very warm with his friends and, brushing aside Nathan’s extended hand, he hugged him.

Hitching up his trousers and claiming his seat at the table, Nathan reflected on how expertly Louie’s glamorous persona masked his ruthlessness. Not so very long ago Nathan had seen Louie slit a man’s throat. Of course, it was Nathan who had weighted the man’s body with chains so that when they threw him into the Gulf of Mexico he would sink to the bottom. And Nathan had been of the opinion that his crimes were so heinous he deserved drowning. Thinking back, it occurred to him that Louie had acted mercifully.

Nathan wore suits often enough, but the difference between him and Louie was his preference for comfort. Tonight, decked in casual grey slacks and a black sport shirt, Nathan’s one extravagance was the complicated Swiss watch he wore on his left wrist. A plain gold band decorated his ring finger. Unlike his host, Nathan took his marital vows seriously.

In fact, Nathan’s wife, Tara, used to be Louie’s girl, and in an odd twist of fate Louie’s bastard love-child was Nathan’s legitimate son. It was a situation some men might find intolerable, but Nathan had loved Tara from the moment he laid eyes on her. When Tara became pregnant, and it was obvious Louie was not going to leave his wife, Nathan proposed. Hell, Nathan even named the boy after his biological father. The weird thing is: Louie accepted the inevitable and brooked no interference. Even weirder, the friendship between the men deepened into a brotherly bond. They did not see each other often—that might have complicated things—but when they did there was genuine affection between them.

They were different types of men, Louie flashy and sociable, Nathan more studied and serious, but there were similarities at the core, and they understood one another. Their early lives couldn’t have been more diverse. Louie was an underworld prince, firstborn and only son of the man most commonly assumed to have masterminded the 35th President’s assassination. Nathan’s father had been an engineer, his mother a nursery-school teacher.

Destiny determined Nathan’s future when the PLO stormed a Tel-Aviv café and slaughtered every man, woman, and child. If Nathan had not gone to the john two minutes before, he would have been murdered alongside his family. Instead, he huddled with an old man who had a gun and showed it to Nathan. When one of the terrorists discovered them, the old guy froze and Nathan shot him. He was ten years old.

By the time the Israeli military snagged him he had developed his ferocity and was a candidate for special-forces. But his unique talents were better suited to covert ops, and he became an agent of Mossad. When a bureaucratic snafu exposed him, he emigrated to the states and settled in Miami, meeting Louie through a mutual friend.

Today, Nathan operated a private security firm from the garage office of his Coconut Grove home. Occasionally, he freelanced for his contemporaries at the CIA, and these side jobs took him to exotic locales in Central America and the Middle East. The freelance work he did for Louie rarely took him further than twenty miles from his doorstep, although there were and had been exceptions.

After Louie introduced Shuler, he inquired about Tara and the boys. There were two of them, the elder, Joey, was Tara’s nephew whom they had adopted. It was a casual question and Shuler would think nothing of it, but Louie’s history was Victor’s history, and he took a keen interest when Nathan replied that the family was fine, the kids growing, and everybody happy.

Everything okay at the hotel? asked Louie: His former South Beach property bequeathed to Tara in lieu of eighteen years of child support; a guilt legacy.

Nathan said, It’s thriving.

Giorgio arrived with a platter of calamari and another basket of bread. Giorgio was young, handsome, and very attentive to Louie. He almost always ordered for him. Today, Giorgio ordered for all of them, the appetizers a precursor to the linguine vongole pasta followed by scallopine filet mignon and veal sorrentina, Presented on pretty platters the aromatic meat was mouth-watering, and Nathan realized he was starving.

The men forfeited small talk to partake of the food, and the conversation was reduced to one word adjectives describing the delicious flavors. Giorgio made his rounds, refilling their wine glasses and uncorking a third bottle of Chianti. It wasn’t until their plates were cleared that Louie got around to the purpose of the dinner. He explained his connection to Buddy Shuler, who had started as a sportscaster based in New Orleans, covering the Saints. Louie used to have a private box at the Dome—still had it as far as Nathan knew, although he had turned over the day-to-day operations of his city to his cousin, Anthony.

Louie claimed to be retired from his former life, but Nathan knew better. He supposed Shuler did too, because despite the fact that Louie presented himself as a real estate investor and speculator, actually making a killing in these depressed times due to his abundant cash reserves, Shuler wasn’t there to buy property or build a shopping mall. Shuler was at Louie’s table because he was being stalked by a nut job.

Shuler explained. It had started two years ago with run of the mill death threats and creepy emails. The nut was a twenty-nine-year-old grad student named Benjamin Jones, a rich white kid who was supposed to be studying philosophy at the University of Miami, but who had a habit of appearing wherever Shuler was. Jones tried to breach the security of the private club where Shuler golfed, and he was often spotted outside his studio on Las Olas Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale.

The police were aware of Jones’ obsessive behavior. He had been arrested for vandalizing Shuler’s vehicle, and he pled guilty to the misdemeanor. He was under court order not to come within a thousand feet of Shuler, but he habitually disregarded the protection order. He had a zealot’s rage for Buddy Shuler, and lately his crazed notes ranted about insane homicidal acts.

If it was just me, I could take it, said Shuler. But he’s starting to target my loved ones. I’m divorced and I don’t have kids, but I have a twenty-year-old niece at the University of Florida that I’m really fond of. I have no idea how this Jones character connected Mary Beth to me. I’m a controversial figure, so I make it a point to protect my loved ones. Mary Beth has never revealed me as her uncle to her lib friends on campus.

Nathan said, So Jones discovered Mary Beth is your niece?

Yes. And it’s very disturbing. He’s sending her hate mail, showed up outside her dorm one day, nearly scared her to death.

The plates and platters were removed. Victor finally set aside his napkin. Giorgio set a bottle of Hennessey Paradis on the table, gave each man a cognac glass. Shuler waited until Giorgio was gone then took a sip of Hennessey and nodded appreciatively. He said, I’ve been divorced for ten years, but I have a girlfriend. We are just starting to get serious, and I don’t need this kook scaring her away. This shooting incident is as disturbing to Rachel as it is to my sister and her daughter.

Louie got a phone call and stepped away from the table. Victor got up to go the john, closing his sport-coat over his midsection. He caught Nathan’s eye and gave a little wink. Nathan knew Victor was packing, as, most likely, was Louie. One of the reasons Nathan preferred loose shirts was so he could holster his Sig P250 beneath his clothes.

Idly, Nathan wondered if Shuler knew how much firepower surrounded him. He wondered if Shuler was carrying, but he doubted it, although Shuler had confessed to being an antique gun collector, but admitted he was no marksman. Shuler was saying he was scared because this Jones character was stalking his niece now too.

Last weekend, Mary Beth and her mother had visited Shuler’s Palm Beach estate. Shuler had top notch security, but Jones had somehow disarmed the electronic gate and shot through the picture window on the ocean side of the house, almost hitting Shuler’s sister. The alarms went off, and the police came in record time, but they didn’t get Jones on the property and they couldn’t prove he

Reviews for Louie Morelli's Daughter

[tarenn_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

LOUIE MORELLI'S DAUGHTER by Patricia Bellomo is an interesting thriller set in Palm Beach,and travels from Detroit to Acapulco and New Orleans.It is the second in the "Louie Morelli" series,but can be read as a stand alone.Book 1 "Stella Di Mare".It is a fast paced thriller from beginning to end with characters who are engaging,challenging and have nothing if not for determination.When Stella's husband Johnny,gambles with unsavory characters he not only loses money,their mini-mansion but also causes Stella to be kidnapped by these unsavory creditors. After Stella is kidnapped her father,Louie,steps in to rescue her with the help of a friend. This story is action packed with murder,power,sex,money,violence,and the mob.It is a roller coaster of a ride that will have you coming back for more.It is filled with twists and turns.A must read for any thriller/suspense readers. This book was received for the purpose of review from Newman Communications,Inc. and the publisher and details can be found at Liberia Publications and My Book Addiction Reviews.