Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

“Nico will tear the city apart looking for her.” “Good.” Water drips from my hair onto Aleta’s pale face as I carry her toward the car. “Let him suffer not knowing. We’ll decide our next move after Moretti examines her.” Dawn breaks through rainfall as Dr. Moretti steps out of his private examination room in the brownstone that serves as both his home and discrete medical practice for people in our walk of life. His weathered face reveals nothing as he removes latex gloves, one finger at a time. “Concussion, three broken ribs, numerous contusions.” His Italian accent thickens with fatigue. “She’s fortunate to be alive.”

“I’m not the man you think I am. I’m a liar, a criminal and a deceiver. And something tells me my past is catching up to me. Sooner or later, he’s going to find me. And when he does, I can only hope that you will be as far away from here as possible. I have taken precautions to make sure you will be safe even after I’m gone, and I hope they will pan out. Well, I guess it’s time to stop beating around the bush.” He cleared his throat, sat up straighter and said, “My name is Lorenzo Moretti, and I am a criminal. For about seven years of my life, I have served under the Giordano cartel, mostly as their financial advisor. I have helped Marco Giordano to bury more bodies than you can even imagine

Mathilda Armstrong stepped out of her office and that was what made me actually look, because Mathilda Armstrong did not step out for anyone or so Andrea said. He was already in conversation with someone senior, unhurried, a slight curve at his mouth. Tall. Dark-haired. Handsome in a way that was almost inconvenient, structured and certain, like everything else about him. “Cassius Moretti,” Andrea said quietly, eyes back on her screen. “Who?” Andrea glanced over like I’d said something mildly surprising. “Moretti. As in the Moretti family.” She left it there, like the name was supposed to finish the sentence itself.

Maddie and I locked eyes, then bolted to the edge of the pool in perfect sync, leaning over to look down at the private golf lawn below. A lean figure stepped out of a supercar. Luis Moretti. Golden Boot winner this year. Thirteen straight goals in the playoffs. The man they call the “Killer Whale” on the field. Basically, if you had internet access, you knew who he was. The women around him instantly lost it and flooded toward the lawn. He was hot. No question. But I’d just been in that man’s arms five minutes ago, and right now? Even Moretti wasn’t exactly doing it for me.

I don’t know what that means, but it makes Mia’s grip on my wrist tighten. “Who let you back here?” she demands. “Security is—” “Works for me tonight,” he says, not bothering to hide the impatience. “As does your primary sponsor. And the company that owns your jet.” My throat goes dry. Mia swears under her breath. “You’re Moretti Holdings,” she whispers. “Like… *that* Moretti Holdings.” He tips his head slightly, like she’s finally catching up. “And you,” he says to her, “are currently blocking a hallway we need to walk down.”

Vivienne loomed on the screen, and she was there, graceful and dignified and entirely believable. “I’m offering ten million dollars to anyone who can help find Caelum Morano and his crony Celine Moretti.” Ten million dollars. Enough to turn anyone against us. "Miss Moretti is a threat and an embarrassment. My son may have manipulated her, she might even find herself there under duress. "Anyone who has seen them, or may have information about their whereabouts, is urged to contact police.”

“Miss Carver… there’s someone here to see you.” Liana sighed, rubbing her temples. “If it’s Draven, tell him—” “It’s not him,” the girl said quickly. “It’s… Mr. Moretti.” Her heart dropped. Viktor Moretti. The mafia lord her brothers despised. The man who had once filled her doorway with danger and temptation. The one who still haunted her thoughts in ways she couldn’t explain. She hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “Send him in.” When he entered, the air shifted instantly.

My father had modernised the interior: bulletproof glass, biometric locks, a command centre that would make a general staff envious, but the exterior remained medieval, a deliberate reminder that the Morettis had outlasted every rival, every informant, and every government that had tried to topple them. When my car passed through the gates, I saw him waiting on the portico. Antonio Moretti was seventy‑three, with silver hair cropped close to his skull and the kind of stillness that came from decades of deciding life and death with a nod. He did not embrace me. We had never been that family. But he inclined his head and said, "You look thin." "I've been eating Vassari cooking," I replied. "It

“I know. Keep watching.” I set the phone face down and went back to the ceiling. Vincent Moretti had survived in this city for thirty years by being exactly what he appeared to be — patient, opportunistic, and completely without sentiment. He had watched me build and expand and push into territory adjacent to his for a decade, and he had waited. Not because he was weak. Because he was the kind of man who understood that the right moment was worth more than the first moment. David had handed him the right moment on a plate.

The orange hazard marker on a support column, sitting on the far side of a chain-link fence. She was on the wrong side of the fence. He was already out of the car. Taller than he had looked through the window, moving with the unhurried certainty of a man who had never needed to be anywhere before he was ready. He looked down at her with the measured assessment of someone accustomed to making decisions about people, and accustomed to those decisions being final. "My name is Dante Moretti."