Page 33 of Sinful Obsession
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.”
