روايات وقصص ضمن Klein Moretti Wiki

A man I didn't recognize, well dressed, mid fifties, photographed in what appeared to be an airport arrivals area. "Leo Moretti," Luca said. "Vincenzo's nephew. He landed in New Orleans this morning." I studied the photograph. Leo Moretti. The name had appeared in Nadia's documents twice, not Vincenzo's nephew specifically but a younger Moretti who had been present at two of the documented meetings and had been noted as behaving differently from the others, with what my mother had described as visible discomfort. "He was at the meetings my mother documented," I said.

"He added a personal note. He wants to speak with the designer directly. I told Léa to decline." "Why?" Elena said. I had expected agreement. The single word stopped me. "Because I cannot have K. Monroe's identity connected to anything that reaches Alex's network," I said. "Moretti has connections across the entire sector." "Yes," Elena said. "He does." A pause. "He also has connections that Alex Hayes has never been able to access and never will. The two networks are not the same network." She paused again. "Do you know why Dante Moretti built his company the way he did? The sustainable sourcing, the independent retail structure, the deliberate distance from the legacy luxury conglomerates?

Chapter forty-one— drunk ☆Micaiah's POV☆ "Moretti's here." Kieran's voice cut through the noise. I followed his gaze to the VIP section across the club where Vincent Moretti held court, surrounded by his usual entourage of yes-men and women who cost more per hour than most people made in a week. "Wonderful," I muttered. "We should say hello. Politics and all that." "I'd rather drink battery acid." "Come on. Five minutes. We need to know where he stands with this newcomer situation."

IMPORTANT PHONE NUMBERS, it says. Goosebumps rise on my hands. It’s so laughable it’s almost like he planted this here for me. What was he doing with celebrity numbers this early in the morning, and is it possible that Moretti’s number is in here? I flip through the book carefully, reading through the “M” section, fully convinced I wouldn’t see his name. But sure enough, there he is, Nicco Moretti, right under Darnell Moresa, the famous dancer who now owns a string of popular restaurants.

“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.

I entered the room, Moretti was already seated with one of his men next to him. Moretti was a middle-aged short stout man with a balding head and when he smiled, he had replaced three of his teeth with faux gold teeth. He wore a miserable excuse of a suit that the middle button was struggling to hold in even though it was fighting a war against his bulging stomach. I could smell the greed rolling off his body like a cologne, bastard, it was just like him to try and stab me in the back.

“You’re a stellar agent. You’ve been awarded twice in the last two years for your quick wit and excellent performances.” Medals. I have them hung above my college-issued framed certificate, so I look at them every night before I go to sleep. But I’ve never been asked to work on a mission this…important before. I go over the file I received a week ago, in my head. It had most of the details blacked out. Lucien Moretti. Assumed heir to the Moretti Industries, a conglomerate acting as a front for illegal operations. They had ties to the mafia, the Russian bratva, and a bunch of questionable groups around the world.

This boy had claws, and he liked using them. --- The meeting room was full. I walked in, Adrien right behind me, tablet in hand. “Gentlemen,” Adrien chirped, One man—Vercelli—stood to greet me, lips stretched too wide. “Mr. Moretti. Pleasure, as always.” He was older, slicked back hair, and entirely too confident. His eyes flicked to Adrien. “I see you’ve brought… entertainment.” Adrien didn’t flinch. “I see you’ve brought another generic navy suit. Bold.”