Sinful Obsession: Chapter 4

I stood tall, chin lifted, even as my knees threatened to buckle under his stare. Maybe I didn’t stand a chance. Maybe he’d snap my neck right now, and I’d die not knowing what I’d done to deserve it.

But death isn’t what he wants. Not yet. Not for me.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, his eyes never leaving mine. The cold, dead blue of them felt like drowning.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Are you still coming?” A woman’s voice crackled through.

“We are,” he said, his voice clipped, ending the call with a flick of his thumb.

He pocketed the phone, his gaze unrelenting. “Bath and get dressed. We have somewhere to be in an hour.”

“We?” I echoed, stepping away from his suffocating heat, his presence doing strange, unwanted things to my traitorous body. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what I need to know. What happened in the last three years? Or at least give me a guarantee that you’ll explain—”

He crossed the space between us in one impossible step.

Before I could flinch, his hand gripped the front of my smoke-stained uniform—and ripped it clean down the middle.

I gasped.

The green fabric hit the floor, my arms flying to cover myself, heat flooding my face.

“You—how dare you assault me?” I snapped, my voice trembling with rage and shame.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip iron, and spun me away from him, shoving me toward the bed.

I stumbled, falling onto the plush mattress with a bounce, my heart racing as I scrambled to face him, my resolve fracturing. “You monster,” I spat.

“Are you going to rape me now?” I demanded, voice shaking.

I scooted back, my hands clutching the sheets, my body screaming to flee. “Stay the fuck away from me,” I hissed, my voice raw with fear.

Cassian stood at the bed’s edge, his silhouette dark against the window, his eyes glinting like a demon’s.

“It seems,” he said coolly, “you really have forgotten who I used to be.”

A memory crashed into me—my eighteenth birthday, a night of terror when two men’s hands had pinned me, their breath hot with threats.

The clarity of it gripped me, my breath catching as I wondered if Cassian was about to repeat that nightmare. “Please… don’t come closer,” I whispered, my voice breaking, my chest heaving with panic.

“Scared of getting fucked bloody, huh?” he taunted, his words a cruel echo of that night.

My resolve broke completely. I curled in on myself, body trembling.

He watched, unyielding, his face a mask of cold amusement.

“Get in the bathroom,” he ordered, striding to the wardrobe and yanking open a section to reveal a row of dresses.

He pointed to a black outfit—sleek trousers and a matching top

“Change into this.”

I didn’t move.

“You have thirty minutes,” he said. “Any longer, and I’ll make those fears of yours come true.”

Then he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him with terrifying calm.

I collapsed against the bed, my hand clutching my chest, my heart pounding as if it could burst through my ribs.

The Morettis were brutal—I’d known that—but this? This was a new kind of terror, a personal vendetta I couldn’t understand.

Why hadn’t he mocked my chest, my scars? If we were married, as the wedding card claimed, had he seen them before?

The thought that he might be unbothered because of a shared past drove me to the edge of madness.

I needed answers—about Elodie, about our marriage, about the three years stolen from me.

I forced myself up, my legs unsteady, and stumbled to the bathroom.

I bathed quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the dread.

The black outfit stared at me from the wardrobe, but defiance sparked. I chose a pink set instead, a signal that I wasn’t his to control.

I need answers. I’ll find a doctor. Get my memory back. Because none of this will make sense until I know what the hell happened to me.

I stepped outside, the estate’s grandeur a stark contrast to the House of Devils’ iron hell.

The air was scented with roses and fresh-cut grass, the driveway lined with sleek cars and a single black motorcycle that sparked a flicker of memory: me, clinging to its seat, wind whipping my hair, a man’s voice. Was it Cassian’s?

The image dissolved, leaving me grasping at shadows.

Cassian leaned against the bike, his dark suit tailored to his frame, his head lowered, hair glinting in the sunlight.

When he looked up, his eyes narrowed, “I told you to wear black.”

“I think pink suits me better,” I said evenly.

He doesn’t get to command me like I’m his subject. And when I uncover the truth about the three years I can’t remember—I’ll decide whether to run… or to destroy him.

His jaw ticked. “You chose to defy me this early?”

He checked his watch with deliberate slowness, then looked back at me.

“Take off your pants.” A pause. “Right here. Now.”

My eyes widened.

I glanced around—the estate was isolated, woods and distant houses shielding us from view, but the demand was unthinkable. “I can’t do that,” I said, my voice trembling.

He pushed off the bike, that wicked, soul-curdling smirk stretching across his face. Every step he took toward me was slow, deliberate—like a predator savoring the fear.

I backed away, pulse thundering.

Then my back hit the wall of the house. No escape.

“I’ll just… I’ll go change into the black,” I stammered, voice cracking, panic rising like bile. I wasn’t ready to be crushed by him—not like this.

“Too late,” he murmured.

His hand clamped around my arm. A brutal, effortless grip.

His strength was suffocating.

He leaned in, his frame closing in around me like a prison. The scent of something darker filled my nose. He didn’t need to touch me; my body had already betrayed me, trembling, retreating.

“Please…” I breathed. “Don’t hurt me.”

He dragged me from where I stood and slammed me against one of the sleek black cars in the driveway.

Metal met my chest with a harsh thud.

His hands moved with brutal precision, yanking down my loose pink trousers and tearing my underwear away in one swift motion.

The fabric ripped, the sound sharp in the quiet air, leaving my lower body exposed.

I thrashed, my hands clawing at the car’s surface.

“No—” I struggled, but his body caged mine, his hand pinning both my wrists to the hood like I was nothing. My ass was exposed. Shame burned hotter than fear.

“Let me go!” I cried, my voice breaking as his hand struck my bare ass, a stinging slap that forced a moan from my lips—not of pleasure, but of pain and humiliation.

Another strike followed, the burn spreading across my flesh, and I gasped, “Stop!” My plea was desperate, but he struck again, the third hit leaving my skin raw, my cheeks undoubtedly red. “Please—” but he didn’t listen.

My skin stung and burned. I could feel the heat radiating from the welt.

Then I heard the belt.

No. No. No.

“Please don’t,” I pleaded, panic spilling out of me in broken sobs. “Please, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”

I trashed beneath his grip, struggling with more than just him—struggling against the blackouts, the memories flashing like lightning in a broken sky.

The past bled into the present, and I couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, he released me.

Just like that—he stepped back.

I staggered, breathless, turning around in disbelief. My pink trousers hung limply around my ankles, my torn panties barely clinging to me. Only my top remained untouched—mocking in its modesty.

I looked like a slave from a forgotten century, stripped of dignity, exposed to his mercy.

He didn’t blink.

“Go inside and wear the exact clothes I told you to wear.” he said, his voice a low growl. “You have thirty seconds.”

This time, I didn’t dare argue.

I yanked up the trousers, ignoring the sting, and stumbled inside like a scolded dog.

Bold of me to think I could defy a demon like him, I thought, shame burning hotter than my skin.

I rushed to the bedroom, stripping off the pink dress and pulling on the black dress he’d chosen, its sleek fabric clinging to my frame like a second skin.

The thought of him taking me by force still clung to my skin like soot. I hated how scared I was of it.

I hated more that some part of me wondered what it would’ve meant—if it would’ve answered something.

I’m sick. I have to be.

I stepped back outside, knees still weak. He stood waiting, sunglasses hiding his expression.

Then—

“Take off your panties.”

My heart stopped.

“But… I already changed—”

“I said. Now.”

I didn’t move at first. But the warning in his voice was enough to remind me what he was capable of.

With unsteady fingers, I unfastened my black trousers, slid them down my hips, and stepped out of them.

The air against my skin felt cold, invasive.

Then, slower, almost reluctant to let the fabric go, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my black panties and drew them down my legs. I held them out.

He took them without a word, folding them once before tucking them into his pocket like a trophy he had every right to claim.

I pulled my black trousers back up, the fabric rough against my bare skin. My stomach knotted with revulsion, my skin crawling at the thought of going without underwear—exposed to his whims. What kind of man does this?

He tossed me a helmet, its weight heavy in my hands.

“Get on,” he said, straddling the bike. I glanced at the two cars, their sleek frames promising comfort. “My dress will get ruined,” I said, my voice small. “Can we take a car?”

He didn’t answer at first. Then—

“You don’t get to make requests.”

He straddled the motorcycle and revved the engine.

I hesitated, then climbed on, the bike’s vibration jarring my already unsteady body.

As it lurched forward, I instinctively wrapped my arms around his waist, my hands gripping his suit, the heat of his body stirring that confusing pull—hatred, fear, and something I couldn’t name.

I hated him, despised his cruelty, but my body betrayed me, craving the closeness, the memory of a time when his touch might have meant safety.

We tore through the streets, the wind whipping my hair, the city’s opulence unfolding.

The bike’s rumble drowned out my thoughts, but not the fragments of memory: his smile, my arms around him, a life I couldn’t recall.

We approached a gated estate, its iron entrance flanked by armed guards who didn’t blink as Cassian sped through, their silence a testament to his power.

He pulled into a sprawling garage, the bike’s engine cutting to silence.

“This is the Moretti penthouse,” he said, adjusting his tie with a fluid grace. “We’re attending a meeting with the mafia leaders. Your father and brother will be there.”

My heart stopped. My father? The man who’d betrayed Grandfather, stripped him of his title, and exiled us to that wretched cabin.

And my brother?

A memory crashed through the fog—Vincent, my younger brother, his boyish grin, our nights sneaking cookies before Mother vanished.

She had disappeared when I was ten, her absence a wound Father never explained.

He’d sent me to Grandfather after, severing my bond with Vincent.

Why hadn’t I remembered Vincent—or Mother—until now? My brain was a broken puzzle, pieces missing, and the realization hit like a blow.

“I need to see a doctor,” I said, my voice trembling. “My memory—it’s all fogged. I need to know how damaged I am.”

Cassian turned, his eyes boring into mine, their intensity overwhelming. I tried to hold his gaze, but it was like staring into a storm.

“No.”

“I can’t make sense of my past,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t remember Vincent, my mother’s disappearance, our marriage, Elodie—any of it. I need answers.” I swallowed, my chest tight. “Please. I’m your prisoner now, but I deserve to know who I am.”

He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “Don’t believe what anyone tells you there,” he said, dismissing my plea as if it were nothing. “No one is on your side.”

My fists curled tight, anger sparking hot.

He can’t gatekeep my past and tell me not to listen to others—but going up against a man like Cassian is a battle I’ll never win.

He was an unyielding wall, and I was trapped between his wrath and the jagged shards of memories I couldn’t piece together.

“Understood?”

I nodded.

“You answer with words when you speak to me.”

I swallowed hard. “I understand.”

I brushed past him, simmering with anger I had no safe place to put. Anger that could get me killed.

He caught up in a few strides, silent but always looming, and led me down a pristine hallway—first through a narrow antechamber, then into a sprawling living room dressed in brutal elegance.

Every corner glistened with cold wealth.

He guided me toward a long, circular dining table that could seat twelve. Ten of those seats were already filled.

Their occupants’ eyes locking onto me as we entered, And every pair of eyes turned to me like I’d walked in wearing a noose, their gazes sharp, dissecting, as if I were a ghost risen from a grave they’d dug.

I felt the hair on my arms rise, my skin prickling under their scrutiny, my blouse and trousers suddenly feeling like a spotlight.

I didn’t belong.

I wasn’t welcome.

Cassian pulled out the seat beside his and waited until I sat. Then he took his place next to me, radiating cold authority.

“Let’s begin,” he said, cutting the silence like a guillotine.

A man across the table—probably in his seventies, skin pale and waxy under the overhead light—leaned forward. His black suit was severe.

Everyone wore black. Everyone reeked of old power.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to New York’s first official meeting of the year,” he said, tapping on the iPad before him.

“As we discussed last session, the five ruling families must now appoint a single head to preside over New York. My family, of course, is among them. But let’s go over the list again.”

I barely heard the names at first—too aware of the weight in the room, too aware of my every breath. Then his words struck like gunfire.

“The Grayson family.”

My family.

I blinked. My father… was one of New York’s five most powerful mafia heads?

Good to know. Terrifying to know.

And yet—where was he?

Vincent too. I knew they were here, but I hadn’t dared meet every gaze, hadn’t dared risk what I might see in their eyes. Or what they might see in mine.

“The Moretti family,” the man continued. Of course. Cassian’s family was inevitable.

“The Vasiliev family,” he said next.

Russian.

That name pulsed with danger. I’d heard it before—somewhere in the edges of a memory I still hadn’t recovered.

“The other two families,” he went on, “have no suitable heirs or active contenders at this time. That leaves us with three viable candidates: Vincent Grayson, Cassian Moretti, and Artem Vasiliev.”

There was a moment of hush. Like the room was bracing for war.

“Would the candidates please rise for recognition?”

Chairs shifted. A man to my left stood. I turned.

Vincent.

I knew him instantly—same storm-grey eyes, same mouth I used to tease as a child. A flood of emotion crashed through me, too tangled to name. He stood tall, trying to look confident, but beside him…

A man with a bandaged left eye and a terrifying presence sat back in his chair, fingers steepled. The undamaged eye locked on me like a predator spotting prey.

I looked away, quickly.

Cassian didn’t bother to rise. He simply lifted a single hand and the room stilled. Power radiated from him, and not a single soul dared to speak.

And then the third man rose.

Artem Vasiliev.

Dark hair. Bone-cut jaw. Eyes like ice.

If Cassian was silent rage, Artem was calculated death. His stare didn’t search—it claimed.

Vincent, in comparison, looked like a boy forced to sit at a table of wolves. The youngest. The smallest. And, judging by the brutal energy radiating off Cassian and Artem, the one with the least chance of survival.

But he was my brother.

I’d forgotten him for years, but I remembered now.

The old man’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts, his tone resolute as he leaned forward. “These three will compete for leadership of the five families,” he said with finality. “We’ll discuss the structure and timelines at the next council. For now—let’s address the Grayson family’s recent… complications.”

My breath caught.

Complications?

“There’s no need,” Cassian said, casually, like he was volunteering for a chore. “I’ll take responsibility.”

What are they talking about?

The old man gave a brief nod. “Very well. Then we proceed. Cassian, Vincent, Artem—prepare yourselves. The five families expect a leader who can unify us, not fracture us further.”

The meeting shifted to logistics—territories, shipments, alliances—but my mind was a storm, thoughts colliding like shrapnel.

Eyes burned into me from every angle, their stares heavy, accusing.

Artem Vasiliev’s piercing blue eyes met mine, his burn-scarred face unreadable but menacing.

The one-eyed man beside Vincent—his right eye glinting with predatory hunger—locked onto me, sending a chill down my spine.

Why were they staring? Did they already know about Elodie—the woman Cassian said died because of me?

Or was it about a marriage I couldn’t recall?

The ring on my finger burned, a gold shackle tied to a past I couldn’t grasp.

I hated it. Hated not remembering. Hated that every word spoken in this room seemed to hold meaning I couldn’t reach.

My head pulsed with frustration, with a dread that something awful had happened in those missing three years—and they all knew it but me.

When the meeting ended, the old man stood and shook hands with a few council heads. Even Cassian gave a slight bow of respect before the old man was escorted away by two bodyguards in black suits.

Cassian turned to me. “Let’s go.”

I started to rise—but a shadow blocked our path.