Miles Moretti Novels & Stories

34 years old Luca Moretti, is the Santoro crime family’s most feared enforcer, he was tall, heavily muscled, covered in tattoos, with cold dark eyes and a reputation for making problems disappear quietly. He’s violent, dominant, and loyal only to the family. When a high-stakes witness threatens to bring down their empire, Luca is assigned to babysit the witness in a remote safehouse until the trial.

Marco's POV I was in my study, nursing a glass of whiskey that tasted like ash and lemons, when the phone rang. The call came at 2:17 a.m., exactly the hour when most men were either drunk or dead. I let it ring twice before answering, already knowing the voice on the other end would bring trouble. "Boss," my informant said, voice low and hurried. "Don Moretti is dead. Found in his hotel suite thirty minutes ago. Shot once in the leg, once through the hand, and once in the head. Execution style. Police are calling it a professional hit."

I wasn’t expecting what came out of that phone. A male voice came on with a slight Italian accent. “Childless? You think the Morettis are childless? Did you lose every brain cell you ever had over there?” “Adrian Moretti has a son. Eighteen years old. Hidden in a town called Bagheria outside Palermo, Sicily. Learning the old Cosa Nostra ways under one of the local Capos, finishing his undergrad in International Business at the University of Palermo. He runs the Moretti Family’s entire European operation: illegal real-estate laundering on one side, legitimate vineyards on the other. He’s the real heir to the Moretti Family.”

The orange hazard marker on a support column, sitting on the far side of a chain-link fence. She was on the wrong side of the fence. He was already out of the car. Taller than he had looked through the window, moving with the unhurried certainty of a man who had never needed to be anywhere before he was ready. He looked down at her with the measured assessment of someone accustomed to making decisions about people, and accustomed to those decisions being final. "My name is Dante Moretti."

“Unless you have something real to offer, I’ll be on my way.” I gave him the benefit of a moment, a heartbeat, to offer me something else, something I wouldn’t immediately refuse. But I knew he wouldn't. Moretti had made his fortune in drug trade; it was unlikely he’d reconsider. “Good-bye, Moretti.” I rose from my low sofa. “I consider our previous altercations to be ended. But should you pursue anyone under the protection of my family—including medical personnel—my retribution will know no limits.” He stared up at me, that muscle feathering his hard jawline again.

Alex coughed. “These people are crazy,” Alex shook his head, looking at me. “No, we are just protective, territorial if you will,” Mikali commented as he stepped out of the brush pulling his shirt over his head. Okay, he’s good-looking. His shaggy hair is the same chestnut brown as his wolf, and his eyes remain their honey color. It all played well with his sun-kissed tan. And do all werewolf men have six-packs? Logan looked fantastic without a shirt on.

“My men have been keeping tabs on him. He went to your hospital. He asked you for hope. For healing.” A soft hum followed, disturbingly patient. “And that is a problem.” Dr. Moses’ hand shook against the receiver. “Sir, he… he simply wanted a medical opinion. I didn’t—I didn’t know he was connected to you.” “Oh, he’s not connected to me,” Richard murmured. “But his survival interferes with something very important. You see, Damon Moretti is supposed to stay silent. Permanently.” His voice dropped, almost gentle. “You will ensure that.”

Running would mean admitting defeat and I did not think Mia was capable of that. Which meant she was still here. Still planning something. I drove to Four's estate to deliver the news in person. Manuel let me in and led me to the study where Four was reviewing business reports. He looked better than the last time I saw him. Stronger. Healthier now that Rachel's poison was out of his system. "Detective Rivera. I assume this is about the raids." Four set down his papers. "I saw the news reports. Marco Moretti arrested." "Along with fifteen of his top associates. We seized enough evidence to put them away for decades. The Moretti organisation is finished."

Hair perfect. I look like the ideal mafia wife. Polished and empty. The doorbell rings at exactly nine, and my heart launches into my throat. I open the door. Ocean Moretti is standing on my doorstep. Tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders filling out his dark suit. Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp features. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch. Gray. Storm gray. Looking directly at me with an intensity that sees everything. He's forty-nine years old. Twenty-six years older than me.

"Code Crimson. They’re bypassing intake. Bringing him straight to OR Three." I snapped my head up, water dripping from my elbows. Landing pad four? That was the private line for the untouchables. "Who’s the patient?" "Dante Moretti." The name sent a chill through the room that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. Everyone in the city knew the face of the Moretti Group. He was the man on the billboards, the billionaire "shipping magnate" who donated millions to the arts, yet whose name made even the boldest politicians lower their voices.