Miles Moretti 소설 & 이야기

"Make the preparations. Double the guards at the mill. Dante wants a war? He'll get a funeral." ********* Miles away, Dante Moretti lounged in his study, the room a sanctuary of dark leather and gleaming weapons racks. The adrenaline from the warehouse raid still thrummed in his veins, his knuckles raw from the fight, coat singed from the flames. Liam stood nearby, coordinating with the crew via radio, his face etched with the weariness of endless operations. The phone buzzed on the desk, an anonymous number, but Dante knew. He snatched it up, opening the message: a photo of Alessia, her wrists raw from ropes, face pale but unbroken, with GPS coordinates pinned to an old mill on the city's f

"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."

Each one more determined. "Fine," I said. "Send me the information. I'll interview whoever you think is best." "I'm not giving you options to interview. I'm sending you the best. His name is Dante Moretti. Former Special Forces, now runs his own private security firm. He specializes in high-risk protection. He's expensive, he's intense, and he doesn't take no for an answer. He'll be at your apartment in two hours." "Marcus, wait—" "Two hours, Adrian. Be ready."

A second later, the screen lit up. A photograph appeared. A man in his early fifties, sharp eyes, expression unreadable. The kind of face that blended into crowds and vanished just as easily. “This is Lorenzo Moretti,” the lead investigator said. Sophia’s breath caught. “He’s Italian,” the man continued. “A professional assassin. Old-school. Known in underground circles for one thing, clean jobs. No witnesses. No loose ends. No emotional involvement.” He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.

And then I saw him… He stood by the window, shirtless, glass of bourbon in hand, watching the skyline like a god surveying his domain. And he didn’t even flinch when he spoke. “You’re late.” I froze. Did he know that I was coming? My finger tightened on the trigger. “Turn around.” He did. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world. My heart raced. Damian Moretti wasn’t just beautiful. He was unholy. His black hair was a mess, it seemed deliberately disheveled. Ink wound down his arms in brutal, elegant patterns, muscles shifting beneath them like coiled wire. A scar slashed across his collarbone and his eyes were like storm clouds, cold, unreadable, and dangerous.

**Meanwhile – Unknown Location** Moretti sat in a dimly lit room, his face still swollen, his ribs aching from the beating he had taken. But he was alive. And that was all that mattered. A man stood in the shadows across from him, arms crossed, eyes cold. “You should be dead,” the man said flatly. Moretti smirked, wincing at the pain in his jaw. “And yet, here I am.” The man didn’t look impressed. “You failed.” Moretti’s smile faded. Because he had failed. And now, he needed a new plan. A better plan. One that would destroy Damien Carter for good.

His hand was calloused and warm—a total contrary to her cold, delicate, and trembling ones. "Shan Moretti," he introduced himself, his voice deep and clear, his eyes locking onto hers. She couldn't help but to check him out. Shan Moretti possessed a commanding presence, standing tall with an air of confidence. His dark, tousled hair framed a chiseled jawline and defined features. His intense blue eyes held a depth that seemed to captivate anyone who met his gaze. His tailored suit accentuated his powerful build, exuding both intimidation and an intriguing allure.

He even had on one of his signature silver watches. He didn’t look at me when I entered. “You’re late,” he said “No I’m on time.” I contested and he gave me a faint smile. Alejandro Moretti was the kind of man who could have someone killed before breakfast and still make it to a charity gala by evening. To the rest of the city, he was a businessman.

"Bring Aaron in. Every man who touched the transfer, the safe house order, the conservatory. No excuses. No delays." The secretary answered quickly "Sir, one more thing. The court confirmed the divorce is clean. Miss Moretti's flight went to St. Clair Harbor." St. Clair Harbor. Moretti ground. The place I had left for him. Lucian lowered the phone and stood there for a long moment. At last, he remembered the way I had looked at him on Raven Street when I handed him those papers. Not angry. Not dramatic. Empty. Alberto watched him. "Regret won't buy you much now. Evelyn is Vito Moretti's daughter. She is not a spoiled little thing you can toss diamonds at until she crawls back into your lap."

** 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.