Union Of Death (Secrets of The Famiglia Part 2)

America, the place where dreams come true, and white picket fences are a must.

“Miss Moretti, your grandfather sends his apologies but he will not be coming to your birthday. He said to enjoy the evening.”

“Couldn’t he have just called and told me that himself,” I say to Ridwano, my 2nd bodyguard, or was he the first?

“Scusi Signorina.” Sorry, Miss.

I sigh but say nothing else, as the car continues to travel along the road of no real destination.

There is pros and cons that come with the title of Dante Moretti’s granddaughter.

Pro’s were far and few between because the con’s always slapped me right in the face. Today is no different, only today instead of wasting this chance I am embracing it.

“Can you drop me off at the hotel?”

The driver doesn’t question me and I don’t turn my face from the street lights and bustling cars of Washington DC. I’m 23 today. 1 year to add to my growing hate of my Grandfather and another year to add to the loss of my parents and brother.

We arrive at the hotel just before 8 pm and in a way, I am glad and relieved to just get inside. Sliding out of the Bentley, a standard car if your Grandfather is the Godfather of the underworld, I rush to the door.

“Miss Moretti, you are back early, did you enjoy your dinner?” The doorman asks me as he opens the door to lead me in. He is a short chubby man, around 50. He reminds me of someone I met on my trip to Alaska last September.

you. Do you have a bar around here?” My long dress is not

move toward the door he’s ushering me to and spot the dim

I signal the bodyguard which is closest to

a vanilla scent that hits my nose as I enter and make my way closer to the bar where I sit down. The bartender is a handsome

get for the

anything black will do, 16-years

designed in a pyramid of cherry wood finishes. Hundreds of bottles of alcohol are stacked around

the other end of the bar and my eyes fray to

manager or something?” I

hidden in a shade of light so it is hard to make out his face but his voice is deep, dry. He must be one hell of a

get off my chair and make my way toward him as my guards start approaching. I send them a signal with my fingers to relax. I don’t want them

see that coming.

to him and smile, he stares at me with dark

brings an English woman like yourself

man. And not that it makes an inkling of a difference to you, but I am actually Italian.” His face is clean-shaven. His head is cropped short and a tattoo is visible on his scalp but the dim lighting in this particular

side and as I take a much-needed sip my eyes stain his

Like what you looking at?”

still looking, I will let you

an ordinary Italian, you sound and look British, are you here for

my cousin, and he would be all smiles to