Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

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.

A simple neat but polished solution for the public, A bandage slapped over a bullet wound. Maybe that’s why, when I sit across from Dr. Celeste Moretti, and she looks at me with those sharp, soft eyes, eyes that don’t flinch, don’t judge, don’t avoid a part of me hates it. And part of me… God help me leans in. We reach the penthouse, and I’m already dialing Mikhail before my coat hits the back of a chair and he answers immediately. He always does! “What do you need?” Mikhail answers, his tone carrying that lazy, cocky drawl he reserves for me alone like he’s half-bored, half-amused, and fully ready to break a few federal laws before breakfast.

I shuddered, not liking the attention. Carlisle continued, gesturing toward a man with thick muscles and a face that looked like it had taken one too many hits. “Dante Moretti. He’s old-school mafia, no frills, just violence. His girlfriend, Rosa, is a bit out of place here, but she’s harmless.” I looked at Rosa, whose bright smile and bubbly demeanor seemed completely at odds with the grim faces around her. She seemed out of place, just like me.

“Wait. Moretti Moretti?” Riva frowned. “You know him?” “Are you—are you serious right now?” another friend asked, wide-eyed. “He’s Ares Moretti. That family runs half the illegal shit across borders. Mafia. Guns. Casinos. Black money. People disappear when they breathe wrong around them.” Riva’s stomach dropped. “You mean he’s like… actual mafia?” “Actual. Untouchable. Lethal. And you—” Nia looked her up and down. “What the hell did you do to end up in his car?”

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.