Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

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.

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.

“Instead of giving me warnings and expecting me to understand, tell me what kind of man he is.” I stare at her for a long moment. Then I take a step closer. “You want to know who Nico Moretti is?” I ask. “He’s the kind of man who once slit a girl’s throat because she tried to run out on him during dinner. Left her body in the booth and finished his wine before walking out.” Jordyn blanches. I literally see the colour drain away from her face. I press in. “He traffics women across the Adriatic like cattle. Has a network of clubs in three cities. His money is soaked in blood and built on pain, and you, walking into that club wearing that outfit? You just became his next fucking obsession.”

My brother’s quieter voice, he spoke like he didn’t want to be a part of the conversation. And a third voice, oily, amused, dripping with Naples accent. I reached the dining room doorway and every hair on my body stood up. Matteo Moretti rose from his chair like a snake uncoiling. Thirty-two years old and dressed like money and violence had a baby: midnight-blue suit, no tie, his top was three buttons open to reveal a thick gold chain and the Virgin Mary tattooed over his heart.

I caught my boyfriend in bed with two women. That same night, I walked into Milan's most exclusive club and drank whiskey for the first time. The next morning, I woke up with a marriage certificate on my floor. My husband? Matteo Moretti. One of Italy's four identical billionaire brothers. When I arrived at their palazzo, four gorgeous, terrifying men stood before me. Same face. Same cold eyes. Same cruel mouths. "Drag this lying girl out," their father ordered. Then one brother stepped forward, his dark gaze burning slowly down my body. "You don't remember me, sweetheart?" His voice dropped low enough to melt bone. "Because I remember every sound you made." They called

mum said. “Why don’t you try hooking Joyce up instead?” I asked her. “She’s going on a date with Moretti on Sunday.” “Moretti as in Frank Moretti that lives a few blocks down?” “Yes, he’s a nice man,” she answered. “He’s thirty-five, he still lives his parents, he’s unemployed and has a criminal record, mum. How does that even sound nice?” “Mrs Moretti said he’s working on himself, he’s becoming a better man.”