Moriarty Novels & Stories

He grinned. “The girl is not here … now.” Hugo half turned his back to Aryadi and Burhan. The grin on his lips didn't disappear either. “But I'm not sure about a few seconds ago.” Burhan tried to argue and yell, but Hugo interrupted him loudly as if he already knew what Burhan was going to say. “You haven't forgotten who I am, have you? The reason why I'm called the Cursed?” Hugo hissed like a snake in the middle of a savanna whose calm was disturbed. But then his tone became jolting again. “I can smell them!”

"How can you forget Volkan? The pack's slu* who else? She even lied saying you pardoned her crime." "Who..who are you talking about Charlotte? I didn't have such orders!" "Oh really....she was a thin girl with boring brown eyes....her long hair were unusual..other than that she was average." Long hair ....brown eyes...no...it can't be! "What...what was her name...hmm something with T....yaa... Thora" I go still my grip on her loosening. The feeling...it was telling me this....it was Thora...it always was her....sh**!

Five minutes later, a petite blonde haired woman ushered him into the doctor's office. "Morgan Drake I presume? Thank you for coming. Please have a seat." Morgan sat down in a comfy single sofa. He glanced around the tastefully decorated room and finally settled his gaze on the doctor that sat across him. In spite of his age Doctor Seymour Moriarty had a full head of grey hair and a moustache that almost rivalled his head of hair in terms of volume and colour intensity. He wore a tawny brown two-piece suit, a white shirt, black-tie and black brogue shoes that were well polished.

It was like fighting a ghost who knew all my weaknesses because she’d once been close enough to see them. I picked up my phone, scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I needed. Daniel Morins. Private investigator. Discreet. Thorough. Expensive. I’d used him twice before. Once to vet a business partner who turned out to be laundering money. Once to confirm Vivian’s story about where she’d been during those years she was gone. He answered on the third ring, voice rough with sleep. “Moore. It’s three a.m. Someone better be dead.”

He'd become the kind of man I was still trying to be. Watching him face Morrison's revenge with dignity while I'd spent my own legal troubles lashing out and blaming others... it highlighted uncomfortable truths about character. That evening, I reviewed the information my private investigator had compiled on Heron Lewis. Morrison's former intelligence operative had disappeared to Montreal, living under assumed name in apartment near Old Port. She had the evidence—recordings, documents, proof of Morrison's posthumous scheme. But she wasn't talking, wasn't cooperating, wasn't offering the information that could save Blake.

He frowned deeply, “His body hasn’t been put down yet. Where are you off to?” “I needed some fresh air.” She responded wanting nothing more than to abscond the presence of the likes of him. Vincent’s frown deepened, “The ceremony is starting. You should turn around.” He didn’t look sad. Of course he wasn’t, she thought, he was Vincent Morano after all, also known as the viper of the mafia world. He was the ruthless and arrogant son of the Morano family, more or less the black sheep, an exact opposite of the angel which his brother was.

"The investigation into Webb's death is being handled by Detective Morrison from the supernatural crimes unit. He's... not particularly friendly toward our pack." I cursed under my breath. Morrison had a well-documented bias against powerful Alpha families, convinced that we all considered ourselves above human law, which was annoying to deal with, especially since his father was killed by an Alpha when he was a kid, so that was how he was exposed our world. Having him in charge of an investigation where we were potential suspects was like handing a loaded gun to someone who already wanted to shoot us.

Just quiet, precise movements — men who didn’t need to prove they were dangerous. At the center stood an older man. Pale face, gray hair slicked back, coat buttoned up to his neck. He didn’t smile when we approached. “Welcome,” he said in accented English. “You came.” “I’m not one for ignoring invitations,” Vittorio said dryly. The man nodded once. “I am Mori.” I felt the air shift around us. That name. I remembered it from Estella’s confession — the man who’d handled her, who’d made her pretend to be Fiorella.

It was almost comical, but then again, I wouldn’t expect anything normal from that guy. “You deranged motherfucker . . .” I murmur, crumpling the note in my hand. I should have expected this. He’s a Morozov—the head of Morozov. That unforgiving Russian Billionaire who got his eyes as a curse. They say it’s the color of every blood he drained off of his victim’s bodies—the only bad thing that revealed a murderer was behind that beautiful, godly face. I shouldn’t have become too reliant just because of a provocative lap dance, or how he carried me back home.

The undertakers have a strong sense of morals, a mysterious brotherhood with a code that involves using their underground businesses to take from the rich and give to the poor. As for what happens behind closed doors in their red bedrooms? I couldn’t care less. I have no intention of getting involved with any of them.