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.

“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.”

“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

Holding my latte. Living my normal, innocent life. “What the—” I choked out, hands trembling. Then I saw the line under it. Assigned to Execute: Damon Moretti. Deadline: One week. I didn’t breathe for a whole ten seconds. Damon Moretti. Even people who didn’t know the mafia world knew that name. He was The Wolf’s favorite weapon. The man who completed every job. No mistakes. No mercy. No survivors. A ghost with a heartbeat. A killer in a tailored suit.

"One of our guys in Monaco sent this thirty minutes ago. It's airport footage." I took it and pressed play. It was a grainy security video. A man in a dark coat walked through the terminal, shoulders squared the way only certain men carry themselves after years in our world. Dark hair now tinted lighter, almost blond at the roots, but the jawline, the walk, the way he scanned every exit, that was Dante Moretti. He was alive. My heart slammed against my ribs. "No. This can’t be.” Matteo zoomed in. "I thought the same until I saw this."

"Please. I’ve seen scarier men trying to flirt with me in elevators." Jesus Christ, her mouth. And yet it grounded me. The car doors opened in unison. Men in suits spilled out like ink blotting paper, all tall, muscled, eyes like loaded chambers. My father’s men. Loyal only to him. Then— He stepped out. Salvatore Moretti. Hair silver as the blade he once held to my throat. Black trench coat, dark blue suit. Wrinkles carved deep around his mouth like scars from every lie he never bothered to tell.

I had been in love with Damian Moretti for two full years. I knew how pathetic that sounded. Falling for your boss was already a bad idea. Falling for a man like Damian was practically a warning label in human form. He was the heir to the Moretti family, the CEO of Moretti Holdings, and the kind of man Upper East Side socialites watched the way people watched a loaded gun: with fear, curiosity, and terrible judgment. The Moretti name came with rumors. Private docks. Black Bentleys. Men in dark suits who appeared before trouble and disappeared before police did. None of that had anything to do with me.