Three weeks after a tragic aviation accident, funeral services announced for the missing heir.
Dante Moretti, 23, heir to the Moretti business empire, is presumed dead following a private jet crash that occurred three weeks ago near Las Vegas, Nevada. The aircraft, a Gulfstream G650, experienced catastrophic mechanical failure shortly after takeoff from Henderson Executive Airport on the evening of March 15th.
No survivors were found at the crash site. The aircraft was completely destroyed on impact, with debris scattered across a two-mile radius in the Nevada desert. All four passengers aboard are presumed dead: Moretti; his associate Viktor Kozlov, 35; pilot Captain James Connor, 42; and flight attendant Sarah Gerald, 29.
Despite extensive search and rescue operations conducted by federal authorities, no remains have been recovered due to the severity of the crash and the subsequent fire that consumed the wreckage. The National Transportation Safety Board is conducting a full investigation into the cause of the mechanical failure.
“The Moretti family has suffered an unimaginable loss,” said family attorney David Roth. “After three weeks of hoping for a miracle, we must now accept that Dante and the others aboard that aircraft are gone.”
Memorial services for Dante Moretti will be held Thursday at 2 PM at St. Michael’s Cathedral in Oakmont…
I stop reading. Oakmont. Sixty miles from here.
After running three thousand miles to escape him, after taking trains and buses and walking for days to put distance between us, he’s going to be buried an hour away from the new life I’ve built.
Even in death, Dante Moretti is still finding ways to torment me.
But as the shock fades, something else takes its place. Something bright and fierce and overwhelming.
Relief.
He’s actually, truly, completely dead.
I laugh out loud in my empty apartment, then clap a hand over my mouth like someone might hear. But the laughter bubbles up anyway, mixed with tears.
For the first time in years, I’m completely, utterly free.
The newspaper crinkles as my hands shake. I read the article again, then again, making sure I’m not hallucinating. Making sure this isn’t some cruel trick.
I think about the last time I saw him—the way his breath ghosted against my neck as he whispered how good my pussy felt wrapped around him, how perfect I was made for him to fuck.
He liked it when I lay still and let him do whatever he wanted. When I let him push my legs apart and take me like I was some custom-built toy designed to fit him perfectly.
I thought that was love—to let him use me, to be grateful for every inch he forced inside me, for the praise-laced filth he whispered while emptying himself into me.
When he was done, he kissed my forehead and told me he had an emergency to attend to, that he’d be back in three days.
Now he’ll never find me. Never hurt me. Never touch me again.
The funeral is Thursday. Two days from now.
I want to watch them lower his coffin into the earth and know, absolutely know, that my nightmare is over.
I want to spit on his grave.
When night comes, I lie in my narrow bed and let myself remember the other man. The stranger who showed me what gentleness felt like, who touched me like I was worth something more than the sum of my usefulness.
My hand drifts beneath my nightgown, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my belly before sliding lower, parting my thighs without hesitation. I’m already wet—embarrassingly so—just from thinking about the way he touched me that night. Like it was just last night and not three fucking months ago.
I bite my lip as my fingers find my clit, circling slowly, teasing myself the way I imagine he would if he were here. If his broad shoulders were pinning me to the mattress, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers how fucking sweet I taste.
My hips lift, chasing my own touch, my pulse pounding as I remember the way his mouth claimed me—slow at first, like worship, then harder, hungrier, like he was starving for me.
He licked me like it was his only purpose, like he wanted to memorize every twitch, every breathless moan. His tongue flicking, curling, sucking me deeper into oblivion until I was trembling for him, gasping his name even though I never knew it.
I moan softly, my fingers working faster now, chasing the memory of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my thighs, the thick, heavy weight of his cock pressing against me as he slid inside for the first time, filling me so perfectly my body wept for him.
God, the way he fucked me—slow, controlled, but deep. Like he was savoring every single inch, pulling out almost completely before driving back inside, forcing me to feel all of him, to take every inch of him until I broke.
