Burned Out Of The Moretti Name Novels & Stories

Then, without a word, we stepped out of the car and walked inside. Inside the Moretti Estate Adrian Moretti sat in a leather chair, swirling a glass of whiskey between his fingers. He was younger than Matteo, but just as dangerous. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp suit pressed to perfection. When we walked in, he didn’t stand. Didn’t even look up. “Luca DeLuca,” he mused. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Luca’s voice was cool. “We need your help.”

“Unless you have something real to offer, I’ll be on my way.” I gave him the benefit of a moment, a heartbeat, to offer me something else, something I wouldn’t immediately refuse. But I knew he wouldn't. Moretti had made his fortune in drug trade; it was unlikely he’d reconsider. “Good-bye, Moretti.” I rose from my low sofa. “I consider our previous altercations to be ended. But should you pursue anyone under the protection of my family—including medical personnel—my retribution will know no limits.” He stared up at me, that muscle feathering his hard jawline again.

Nevertheless, the part that made my throat tighten was the goring picture of his mouth sewn shut. This was a fucking punishment, and damn me that I knew exactly who he was. One of my victims had barely survived Jersey. The youngest scrawny bastard with a twitch in his left eye. I'd spared him, dragged him out of the wreckage myself. Told him if he wanted to keep breathing, he’d work for me as a spy. He’d agreed. So who the fuck found out? My frown deepened. “Moretti’s been dormant since Zurich.” “Dormant isn’t dead. And we ignored his last ceasefire renewal remember? The one he sent before the Munich summit?” Andrés hunched.

“Final to who?” Marcini hesitated. A mistake. Another soft click echoed as I pulled the hammer back again. His eyes bulged, panic forcing his tongue loose. “Moretti! It was Moretti’s! His collection...cars, prototypes, guns fitted inside. He’s been waiting for months....months!” The name dropped like acid. Dante’s jaw flexed, his teeth grinding audibly. “Carlos Moretti.” Nico gave a low whistle, amusement dripping from him like smoke. “Well, isn’t that poetic. Italy’s golden collector unknowingly being spoon-fed by a Russian dog.”

Then I walked out. An hour later, she was dead. My father came tonight. He didn’t say a word about Ava’s death. He just looked at me, his eyes cold. “You’ve ruined the family name,” he said. “You made us a laughingstock.” “I know.” “As of tomorrow, you are no longer a Moretti.” He threw a document on the table. “Your name, your protection, everything. It’s gone.” I didn’t argue. I knew this day was coming.

“The Morettis, Mr. Jameson?” “Yes, Amelia. Mr. Alessandro Ethan Moretti and his brother, Giovanni Aidan Moretti.” Suddenly, Millie’s mind spun. “Holy shit,” she muttered, barely aware she’d said it out loud.

Three years can change a lot. The Rossi-Torrino alliance was more successful than anyone had imagined. Julian opened up the European markets for us, and my knowledge of the Italian landscape made our expansion seamless. Our combined power had quietly eclipsed even the once-mighty Moretti family. "Ma'am, Dante Moretti returned to Verona today," my butler informed me as I ate my breakfast. My hand paused for a fraction of a second over my toast. "Oh? Is his term up?"

"Sean said they won't come back. You proved your point." "Moretti left because he is an old politician who calculates his risks," Christopher explained, his right hand moving to tap the desk where the broken wooden horse lay. "He saw a man who survived a cliff and a hit squad, and he decided the cost of Romano blood was too high for one night. But politicians change their minds when the wind blows. We survive by staying on our feet." He reached out, his large, scarred fingers picking up the front half of the broken carving. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb smoothing over the splintered edge where the wood had snapped during the crash.

He had received the news only an hour ago: the old Moretti mansion , Jeremi’s family house was on fire. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips as he replayed the words in his head. “A section of the Moretti estate was destroyed in a fire last night…” “Only a section,” he muttered under his breath, his voice smooth but seething. “They call that a tragedy? I call it a mild inconvenience.” He leaned back, taking a long sip from his glass before smashing it against the marble table. The sound shattered the quiet, echoing through the walls. His men flinched where they stood, but Jeremiah barely blinked. His fury, when it came, was as precise as it was dangerous.

He was like a wounded animal, mobilizing the entire Moretti family to attack the Ricci's businesses, trying to force Matteo to give me back. It was a suicide mission. A crazed Lorenzo was nothing but a petulant child against the calm and cunning Matteo. The war lasted three weeks. The result was bloody and predictable. The Moretti family was crushed in several key battles. Their territory was absorbed, their core businesses severed. The untouchable Don of New York was brought to his knees—not by a rival, but by his own capos and consigliere, tired of his madness. I heard he was kicked out of the mansion and was living alone in some rundown apartment.