Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

She watched as his expression shifted from irritation to something darker. “Where?” he asked, voice clipped. A pause. “Understood.” He hung up and turned to her. “We found Moretti.” Her breath caught. “Where?” His jaw tightened. “Not where. Who.” Isabella’s pulse pounded. “What do you mean?” Alexander’s blue eyes burned into hers. “Elias Moretti isn’t just some arms dealer, Isabella.” Her throat tightened. Jason had said Moretti played in the big leagues. That he was powerful. But she hadn’t realized—

Marco started to say something, but seeing Dante's state, he shut his mouth. In the Chicago underworld, Dante Moretti was a legend. Cold, ruthless, always in control. No one had ever seen him look weak. No one had ever seen him shed a tear. But now, the legend was on his knees beside a filthy puddle, as helpless as a child who had lost his mother. Finally, they found it. Alessia’s SIM card. Dante clutched it like a holy relic, thinking maybe, just maybe, it held a final message she wanted him to see.

** A War on Three Fronts** Paris, France – The Final Player Enters The black car rolled to a stop outside Marcella’s penthouse, its engine humming softly in the night. A man stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. His sharp blue eyes flickered toward the building, a smirk playing at his lips. Dante Moretti. A name that once sent shivers down the spines of men who thought they were untouchable. And now? Now, he was here to end Marcella Devereaux.

Then, without a word, we stepped out of the car and walked inside. Inside the Moretti Estate Adrian Moretti sat in a leather chair, swirling a glass of whiskey between his fingers. He was younger than Matteo, but just as dangerous. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp suit pressed to perfection. When we walked in, he didn’t stand. Didn’t even look up. “Luca DeLuca,” he mused. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Luca’s voice was cool. “We need your help.”

He wastched us both suspicously, then said, "Vince, I see you met my daughter." His name is Vince? "I'm Sofia. It was a pleasure to meet you." I indroduce myself to 'Vince'. "Vincenzo Moretti." He said in a deep voice. He had an accent. "Vincenzo is the Italian Don." My papa said to me. That explained his sexy accent. Did I just call his accent sexy? "Why are you having a meeting with the Italian Don?" I ask, confused. "I'll explain later, now come, your mama made breakfast." He answered.

" Maximo Santino is dead, you see it? " " We shouldn't jubilate yet Mattia. Just get the package and get done with the Italian underboss as well. He shouldn't be trusted. For a man who could betray his boss, he might so worse for you too " " You bet " Mattia disconnected at once and walk out of the conference hall and into his car which has been waiting with his chauffeur. Mattia brought out another cellphone and dialed Marco's number. The underboss picked after the second ring . " Hi Marco. You should probably put on your TV "

When I move my finger across the screen, another photo shows up, this one of him getting out of a car wearing black sunglasses. Moretti is in his thirties and is a good-looking guy, but he has a hardness about him that even sends chills up my own spine. There is the Mafia and then there is Moretti, the Mafia Kingpin. I know we are signing our death warrants by trying to take him out, but I will do whatever it takes to keep Aria safe.

She turned sharply. There he was. Ares Moretti. Dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins visible down his forearms. Hair still messy. Jaw shadowed. And eyes—those same eyes that watched her like a storm waiting to happen. “You—this place—” she stammered. He tilted his head. “You’re allowed to speak, Riva.” “You didn’t mention you were a f—” she caught herself. “A Moretti.” “You didn’t ask.”

What do they want again? "How sure are you?" "Ninety percent. We found shell casings at the scene that match weapons used in two other Moretti hits. Plus, one of the drivers survived long enough to give us a partial description." "Where is he now?" "Hospital. Critical condition, but stable. He says the leader had a distinctive scar on his neck." Salvatore Moretti. Isabella’s uncle is getting on my nerves. "There's more," Marco continued. "We ran those deeper background checks like you asked."

“I’m Amara. Mr. Moretti’s assistant. Please, follow me.” I followed her through a hallway that looked like something from a movie, gold lights, and art on the walls. Everything screamed money. We stopped at a large door. Carla knocked once and then opened it. He was there. Alessandro Moretti. Sitting behind a largedesk, wearing a black suit, looking like he owned the world. And he did at least it felt like he did. He looked up at me, eyes cold. “You came.” “I said I would,” I replied, trying to sound braver than I was.