Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

"I'm Dante Moretti. I assume you've heard of me." Moretti. The name sent a chill down my spine. Dante Moretti was no stranger to me. In fact, he was one of the most feared men in the city, head of the Moretti mafia, a ruthless, calculating leader. The kind of man who controlled everything from the shadows, his reach extending into every part of the city. I swallowed hard. This can't be good. "I'm not interested in whatever you're doing," I said, trying to sound firm, though my voice betrayed me. It came out shaky, as though my body knew this encounter was about to change everything. I tried to close the door off but he puts his palm against it.

Instead, he looked straight into her eyes, his golden-brown gaze meeting hers without any apology. Ava stood across from him, silent, with her arms rigid at her sides. She was tense, and her bright green eyes were locked on him, without blinking. “You want the truth?” Alex said at last. His voice was low, steady, but laced with something raw. “Fine.” He took a slow step forward. “I’m Alex Moretti, or as you’ve come to know… X.” The confession didn’t crack the air; it shattered it. “I’ve been running the Moretti Syndicate since I was twenty-two,” he continued. “Trained for it since I was a kid. Matteo Moretti, my father, groomed me to infiltrate the NYPD. To destroy La Rosa from the inside.”

The streets of Palermo pulsed with life—motorbikes weaving through traffic, vendors shouting in dialect, the scent of espresso and sea salt hanging in the air. But in a crumbling villa on the edge of the city, silence reigned. Alessandro Moretti stood in front of a mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt. His reflection stared back—sharp jawline, cold eyes, a scar running from his temple to his cheekbone. A souvenir from his first kill.

He quickly found it and passed it to me over the counter. “I’d like a Glock, a seventeen if possible,” Valentina chimed in, surprising Greg. His eyes widened as he looked at me for guidance. “Before you say something inappropriate about women and kitchens, Greg, I suggest you don’t. This is my wife and the Don of the Italian mafia, Mrs. Moretti,” I replied, keeping my gaze steady. Valentina smirked and nodded in agreement. Greg looked shocked and stumbled over his words. “Ah, sure. How many rounds would you like, Mrs. Moretti? ” I could see the excitement in Valentina’s eyes. “Two for now,” she said.

Dead. And someone thought I would just bury him and move on? No. The world owed me answers. I would tear it apart until I had them. The door creaked open. A tall man stepped in, trench coat hanging loose, hat low over his face. His eyes were sharp, restless, the kind of man who noticed everything and said nothing unless paid. “Dante Moretti,” he said, his voice gravel. “Sit,” I ordered. He sat. He didn’t touch the whiskey I poured. Smart man.

“Three numbers, all routed through shell accounts. One of them traces back to a private security firm that’s been drawing a salary from an offshore account under the name Arthur Moretti for five years running.” The room tilted. I gripped the arm of the chair to keep from sliding out of it entirely. “That’s not possible,” I said. “He’s a mechanic. He fixes cars. He drinks cheap beer and yells at the television during football season. He is not—” My voice cracked. “He is not a man who hires mercenaries to shoot up a mafia estate.” “He is exactly that man,” Lorenzo said, quiet and final, “and has been for longer than you’ve been paying rent on that apartment I sent men to search.”

“It wasn’t an accident.” My mother freezes mid-sob. Her grief turns into something colder. “Explain.” She says, her word full of steel. “Brakes were cut, Professionally.” Luciano’s jaw ticks. “He argued with Dante Moretti last week. Moretti said he’d be ‘collecting’ soon.” Dante Moretti. The name lands like a gunshot. Heir to the Moretti family and one of the most brutal Dons in the city. The man my father called a ‘snake in a Tom Ford suit.’

“She’s none of your business.” “Oh, but she is.” The words landed heavily wrong and dangerous, my jaw tightened instantly. “You have ten seconds before this meeting ends violently.” Romano ignored the threat completely. “Melissa Carter,” he said slowly. “Daughter of Elena Carter.” I said nothing, Romano’s eyes darkened slightly. “And Salvatore Moretti.” The name hit the warehouse like a gunshot, even Luca stiffened beside me immediately, it was Impossible. No. Salvatore Moretti was not just another crime lord, he was one of the most feared men to ever control the southern syndicates years ago before disappearing completely from public view, he was violent, Untouchable and legendary. Dead, ac

“Lia! You made it. Come, meet some people.” He introduced her to a few faces: a bookie, a money launderer, a soldier with knuckles like worn stone. She made small talk in smooth Italian, laughing at the right moments, her eyes constantly mapping the room. And then she saw him. Dante Moretti sat in a corner booth, a king holding court in the shadows. He was younger than she expected from the grainy surveillance photos, maybe mid-thirties. He wore a simple, exquisitely cut navy suit, no flashy jewelry. He wasn’t the largest man in the room, but he commanded its gravity. He listened to an older capo speak, his head tilted slightly, his expression one of polite, chilling attention. Then, as if s