Favor Owed by Marisa Calcara isn’t your typical mafia romance, and that’s exactly what makes it stand out. If you come into this book expecting violence, organized crime drama, or the usual brand of dark, seductive danger, you might be surprised—or even a little disoriented. Because this story doesn’t center on the mafia world; it centers on what happens when you walk away from it.
Angela Pines is a character whose whole existence hinges on reinvention. Formerly known as Angelina Pini, daughter of a New York crime boss, she once lived in a Manhattan penthouse, draped in designer clothes and surrounded by power she didn’t ask for. But Angela has seen too much, and one day, something in her snaps. She reports her father’s crimes—most notably, his involvement in a human trafficking operation—and disappears. That decision defines every moment of the life she builds afterward.
Now, in a dusty California town no one’s ever heard of, Angela is trying to pass as just another broke law student. She waits tables. She studies hard. She keeps her head down. She lives in a decaying rental house and goes by a new name—though admittedly, a laughably thin alias that translates her old Italian last name into English (Angela Pines from Angelina Pini). It’s one of the few moments in the book where I had to pause and suspend a lot of disbelief. If you’re on the run from the mafia and possibly the FBI, you might want to pick a name that doesn’t sound like your birth certificate went through Google Translate.
Still, Angela is doing her best with what she has, which, emotionally speaking, isn’t much. She’s cut off from her family. She’s completely alone. Her guilt over what her father did—and what she was willing to ignore for so long—is something she carries like a physical burden. And she’s determined to do something good with her second chance. She wants to become a lawyer, not to chase prestige or power, but to help people who don’t usually get help, especially victims of the kind of exploitation her father profited from. That thread alone gives the book more heart than many romance novels ever attempt.
Enter Brady McDaniels: smooth, charismatic, a little too nosy for his own good. At first glance, he seems like a classic love interest—the charming, easygoing guy with a tragic backstory and a smile that gets him out of trouble. But there’s more to him, and not just the predictable “he’s not who he says he is” twist. Brady’s father is sitting in jail, caught up in the same legal storm that brought down Angela’s family. And now Brady has enrolled in the same law school under the guise of a student, hoping to get close to Angela and find a way to clear his father’s name.
What makes Brady interesting isn’t just his secret—it’s his gradual unraveling. He starts off thinking Angela is cold, selfish, maybe even a little monstrous. He thinks she owes him. Owes his father. And for the first third of the book, he treats her with a sense of superiority and manipulation that’s genuinely uncomfortable. But as he spends more time around her, the lines between revenge and romance begin to blur. He sees her grief. Her fear. Her decency. And something inside him starts to shift. His mission becomes less about clearing his father’s name and more about protecting the woman he’s been lying to.
The emotional tension between Angela and Brady is handled well. There’s banter, friction, mutual curiosity, and the ever-present threat of exposure. Their chemistry isn’t instant. It builds, layer by layer, through shared vulnerability, frustration, and unexpected empathy. They’re both lying. They’re both hurting. And neither of them quite knows what to do with the bond forming between them. What starts as a game of secrets becomes a slow-burn relationship grounded in real emotional stakes.
One of the most impressive things Calcara pulls off is letting these characters grow. Angela isn’t just a “strong female lead”—she’s resilient in a way that feels rooted in trauma and grief. She’s trying to figure out who she is when everything that used to define her—money, privilege, family—is either gone or poisoned. She isn’t chasing a romantic partner. She’s chasing peace. She wants to feel safe, and she wants to believe that she’s more than the sins of her father. Brady, on the other hand, begins the book certain of his own moral compass and ends up questioning everything. His understanding of right and wrong is challenged, not just by Angela, but by the reality that people—especially parents—aren’t as clean-cut as we want them to be.
There are a few weaknesses in the book, and they mostly come down to pacing and believability. For a story that hinges on danger—Angela turning on a powerful mafia boss and then living in hiding—there’s surprisingly little tension around her being found. No shadowy figures lurking in alleys. No phone calls in the night. Her father’s presence is more theoretical than felt, which undermines the sense of urgency. And while I appreciated that this wasn’t a violence-heavy book, it also felt like some of the stakes were left on the table. When Brady eventually confronts Angela’s father, the moment passes with a surprising amount of calm, considering the gravity of what’s at stake. I expected more of a reckoning—some kind of high-stakes showdown. Instead, the story wraps up more like a compromise.
And yet, for all that, the emotional weight of the story holds. Angela and Brady both wrestle with generational guilt, moral ambiguity, and the idea that love—real love—can’t survive without truth. They get it wrong. A lot. They hurt each other. But they also reach for healing, and their romance feels earned because of it. One of the most poignant moments comes late in the book, when Angela admits that she knows she’s going to forgive Brady, even though he’s betrayed her trust. Not because he deserves it in that moment, but because she can feel that he’s becoming someone who might. It’s not neat. It’s not fairytale. But it’s real.
Calcara’s writing shines when she lets her characters be messy. There’s a softness to the way she explores trust and fear, especially in scenes involving family—both biological and chosen. Brady’s relationship with his mom is especially lovely, and the inclusion of the 9/11 subplot, while unexpected, is handled with care and gives the book added depth. It reminded me that grief, especially grief connected to national tragedy, is not always loud or cinematic. Sometimes it’s just a scar you carry into every relationship you try to build.
By the time the book ends, there’s closure, but also room to imagine what comes next. The happily-ever-after isn’t perfect, and the road ahead isn’t easy—but it feels honest. And in a story about lies, that’s no small thing.
A Favor Owed isn’t flashy. It’s not packed with mafia tropes or romanticized danger. What it offers instead is quieter, more vulnerable, and—at times—more powerful: a story about two people trying to figure out if they can love each other when neither one of them has ever truly been safe. It’s about survival, reinvention, and the long, hard road toward healing. And for that, it’s worth reading.