Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

"They’re coming." The glass doors slid open. Dante Moretti walked out first. He was older than the photos in the dossiers, but he looked like he’d been carved out of the very skyscraper he owned. He didn't look at us. He didn't need to. He moved with the terrifying, relaxed confidence of a man who knew that every person on this roof would die for him without hesitation. But it was the man beside him who held my breath in my throat. Julian Moretti.

I lay propped against the pillows, my eyes heavy, my heart pounding with an ache I couldn’t name, a voice echoing in my skull—Butterfly, don’t leave me—a man’s face flickering, dark eyes sharp, jaw carved, his touch a ghost I couldn’t grasp. The TV flickered on the wall, its light harsh, the news anchor’s voice slicing through the haze like a blade. “Lucian Moretti appeared in court today for his third hearing, steadfast in his guilty plea for the murder of FBI agent Ethan Caldwell, alongside charges of drug trafficking, human trafficking, and money laundering…”

Yes, he is here. Moretti, Luca. Eight. The first-line right-wing and ultimate arsehole for the Bears. You best know I mean it when I say "arsehole extraordinaire." The man is a complete jerk who, for reasons I've never been able to comprehend, chose to make me his archrival when we were only young children. It's one of those strange, bothersome things that the media discovered and exploited. Moretti plays up to it.

Carlos said as I recognized Mr Moretti. No it wasn't just Mr Moretti. It was Antonio Moretti, one of the most feared mob bosses in this city. He carried himself like he had all the time in the world or at least he should there was a dagger in his hand, a dangerous glint of the edge of it from the artificial light hanging above, he was surrounded by other men and women and at the center of all that attention to was a man strapped to a chair bound both hands and feet and with a dirty rug shoved into his mouth.

Even from behind, something about him felt oddly familiar. "Mr. Moretti, Ms. Sassi is here," the assistant said respectfully. He turned slowly. My heart thumped at the sight. He was so striking it felt unreal. His deep-set eyes held a smile with something dangerous underneath. So this was the guy? Marco Moretti? Rumor had it he was heir to the Morettis, the biggest Mafia family around. He was decisive and ruthless, and even Stefano considered him his toughest rival.

“Seems I guessed wrong. You’re not someone important.” George laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And you? Some gutter boy?” Ryan smiled and extended his hand. “Ryan Moretti. Nice to meet you, Mr. Nobody.” George froze. Ryan… Moretti? As in Lorenzo Moretti’s grandson? And world-class racer? Surprise flickered across his face and he glanced at Mirena with barely controlled shock. How the hell did she get connected to Ryan Moretti?! However, as shocking as that was, that wasn't the main issue at hand.

[Victim: Isabella Moretti Age: 22 Cause of Death: Excessive blood loss, severe burns, numerous stab wounds and abrasions. Distinguishing Marks: Healed fracture, left little finger, resulting in a slight bend.] He stared at the report, shaking his head in a frenzy. "Impossible... How could she be dead? How can she be dead?" He shot to his feet and sprinted to the morgue, where my broken, ravaged corpse lay. Through the ring, I watched my brother collapse to his knees, his trembling hand reaching out to touch my face, which was now a bloody, unrecognizable ruin of burned flesh.

Dino rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward just enough to look Bianchi directly in the eyes. — I want Moretti off the map within the next forty-eight hours, —he said firmly—. I want his people gone, his businesses erased. I don’t want a trace of him left on this planet. Bianchi smirked slightly, like a wolf watching a pup who thought himself an alpha. — That’s not how things work, Dino, —he murmured, raising his glass carelessly—. Patience is an art… revenge is a masterpiece. Dino didn’t contradict him, though he disagreed. Alejandro Moretti was no ordinary enemy. Every second was an advantage given to him.

I’d told Victor Reyes, to meet me here, and I waited, my jaw tight, my thoughts sharp. A man in a dark hood approached, moving quickly through the market stalls. He glanced around, nervously before slipping into the backseat. Nico tensed, hand on his gun, but I waved him off. It was Reyes. He pulled off the hood, revealing a sweaty face and thinning hair. He smiled, trying to look confident, but his eyes darted, showing fear. “Dante Moretti,” he said, his voice loud and eager. “It’s an honor. Your success in the green side is impressive. You’re a legend. Thank you for giving me this chance to meet.”