Union Of Death (Secrets of The Famiglia Part 2) novel Chapter 1

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.

“I did thank you. Do you have a bar around here?” My long dress is not the perfect bar outfit but it is definitely me. A mafia princess

“Certainly, this way.” I move toward the door he’s ushering me to and spot the dim lights and mirrored beams before I enter the cozy place.

“Thank you.” I signal the bodyguard which is closest to me to tip the guy.

The place has 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 bulky man, maybe in his late 30’s.

“What can I get for the lady.”

“3-fingers-whiskey, anything black will do, 16-years or older.”

“Coming up.” The shelves surrounding the bar are designed in a pyramid of cherry wood finishes. Hundreds of bottles of alcohol are stacked around the expanse, catering to a truly wide variety of customers.

“Give 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.

“Are you the manager or something?” I am genuinely curious.

“Or something.” He is 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 man.