Burned Out Of The Moretti Name Novels & Stories

The photos. The recording. The report. Soon, all of it would reach Adrian. But not yet. Not here. Not while I was still close enough to be found. My assistant turned slightly in the front seat. “Ms. Vale, your flight boards in an hour. Should I shut down the old number?” I looked out at the fading line of New York and placed my hand over my stomach. “Yes,” I said. “Turn it off.” Scarlett Moretti died at her wedding. Stephanie Vale took her unborn child and her future with her. He deserved neither.

Every single one was returned untouched. His message was always the same: [You chose DeLuca. Don't use Moretti as a door when that house burns down.] Now the house had burned, and I had come back with smoke in my lungs. For two days, I stayed in the apartment and tried to gather enough courage to face him. On the third, I went to the Moretti estate. The iron gates were closed. The guard recognized me at once, but he lowered his eyes. "Miss, Mr. Moretti is not receiving guests today."

I closed my mouth. He chewed. Set his knife down. Touched his mouth with his napkin, folded it, and put it aside. It was all slow and methodical, the act of a man who had never been hurried by anyone in his life and had no intention of beginning. "This is done now," he said. "The back and forth, your feelings, your no all of it done. Luca Moretti will be the most powerful don in this country in five years. The Greco name and the Moretti name together do you understand what that means for your brothers? For everything I've spent my life building?"

The day I was diagnosed with leukemia, my first reaction wasn't fear. It was relief. I wasn't really a Moretti anyway. If I died, I wouldn't owe anyone anything. When I was six, Bianca and I fought over a stuffed bear. My mother dragged me into a corner and said each word slowly enough to make sure I understood. “You are not our biological child. Everything in this house is something we've given you out of kindness.” After that, I never asked for anything again. Bianca got new dresses. I wore her old school uniforms. Bianca took piano lessons. I washed dishes in the kitchen to earn money for breakfast the next morning. I lived like a piece of luggage someone had left in the Moretti h

She stayed away from the crowd the entire night, she stood away from everyone, didn’t touch a single piece of food, her champaign glass stayed most untouched. While everyone else tried to curry favour she stayed away from people who wanted to benefit from the Moretti wealth. People know the Moretti family for their winelands in Italy and they basically have their hands in every other field, media, art, fashion, real estate and electronics. Anthony Moretti has been trying to get his fingers into every field and buying out companies like a man looking for his next fix. He’s been constantly on the hunt for the next big buy for the last three years.

Antonio stood in front of him, expression unreadable, a silent executioner waiting for a confession. “Tell me, Moretti,” Antonio’s voice was eerily calm. “How much have you funneled into Nuovo Ordine?” Moretti swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wrong answer. BANG! A gunshot ripped through Moretti’s kneecap. He screamed, body convulsing from the searing pain. Antonio crouched in front of him, a smirk playing at his lips. “Let’s try this again.” “I—I’m just a middleman!”

Dante pours himself another glass. “Fuck,” Nico says, leaning on the armrest of his wheelchair with his hand in front of his mouth as well. Sylvana was the only one who looked confused. “How is this important?” She asks, not understanding the actual importance this information held. Dante takes a swig of his glass. “The Burning of The Muratori Heirs. It is a blemish on the Dragonetti name, an event that never should have happened and cemented me as an unfeeling bastard.” He finishes another glass. Nico and I looked at one another and frowned in confusion.

he says as he spits his anger. “Please, don’t do this. We can sort this out. We can …” “No, the Moretti name has become weak. It needs to move with the times. The Moretti name will be strong once more.” He says and I look at Antonio, and he is raging. “How long have you been planning the downfall of this family, Gianni?”

Shit ! My mouth fell open. The name Nicolas Moretti had echoed through the Famiglia for months. Known as the cruelest Underboss, he’d recently lost his wife, leaving him to care for his two young children alone. Rumors about her death were rampant: some said he’d killed her in a rage, others claimed she’d died from the stress of his rule, and the most chilling theory suggested she had taken her own life to escape him. None of it made me eager to meet him, let alone to even marry him. “He’s much older than me,” I finally said.

If I hadn’t flown back from Paris, if I hadn’t walked into this meeting with every ounce of conviction I had left, the Bennetts would have been swallowed whole. I stood, planting my hands firmly on the table. “You can back the Morettis,” I told them, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me, “but tell me, has Margot Moretti ever once led a company without tearing it apart from the inside? Have any of you ever profited from a Moretti alliance that didn’t end in blood and lawsuits?” Murmurs rippled through the room. Margot’s lips tightened, but she didn’t refute it.