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.

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.”

“Very ready.” Just then, a staff member appeared behind him, pulling a suitcase. Bianca’s eyes dropped to it. “You’re traveling?” Mr. Moretti nodded. “I’m heading to Chicago for a week.” His expression softened slightly. “It’s a special memorial service. I want to spend some time at your mother’s grave.” Bianca’s smile faded a little. “I wish I could come too.” Mr. Moretti gently squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I still don’t find any reason to say yes to you. I know nothing about you.” “We can change that right now.” He held his hand toward me. “Hi, I am Dean Moretti. Born and raised in an affluent family in Italy. I am in my family’s business after my father died in a car accident. My ma and two sisters still live in Italy, while I mostly travel back and forth.” “This is not enough," I sighed. “What else do you need? I painted the basic picture of my life.” He pinched his brows together. “You had a file in your office about me. Run multiple background checks on me before approaching my father and only offer the basics to me. That is unfair, Mr. Moretti.” I sighed.

Mark hit the concrete hard. His radio slid several feet away. Its screen flickered once. Then went completely black. He reached for it anyway. Pressed the transmit button. "Mia..." Static. "...I'm coming home." No one heard him. Not even Mia. Across the city, hidden inside a surveillance van, Moretti watched the battlefield through live drone footage. One of his men smiled. "They're completely cut off." Moretti nodded. Then looked at another monitor. It showed the Romano mansion. More specifically...