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.

My long dress is

and spot the dim lights and mirrored beams before

is closest to me to tip the

and make my way closer to the bar

I get

will do, 16-years

wood finishes. Hundreds of bottles of alcohol are stacked around

her a Jameson Jacob.” The deep voice comes from the other end of the bar and my eyes fray to the man who now holds my attention.

the manager or something?” I

is hard to make out his face but his voice is

fingers to relax. I don’t want them ruining an evening

that coming. I’ve never met an American soldier

next to him and smile,

brings an English woman like yourself to this fine dine,

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 area makes

over to this side and as I take a much-needed sip my eyes stain his handsome face with

Italians in a bar. What are the chances? Like what you looking at?” He asks me and a laugh

I will let you know when I

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

he would be all smiles to see me but I missed him. It seems like he left for London