Page 4 of Sinful Obsession
Not possible.
Not unless I’d somehow lost three years of my life.
I backed away slowly. My stomach turned.
What the hell happened to me?
I couldn’t piece together how I’d ended up here.
I trudged back to the cabin, the loneliness of the woods pressing against me, the house looming like a ghost.
In the kitchen, still cluttered with Grandfather’s old pots and mismatched mugs, I made a quick meal—grilled cheese, the bread slightly stale, the butter sharp on my tongue.
I ate alone at the scarred table, my mind racing.
I needed a doctor. A scan. Something to explain the blank spaces in my head and why I’d woken up three years too late.
But Grandfather’s words echoed louder, insistent:Marry into the Moretti family.
I had questions.
Too many.
But one pulsed louder than the rest:
Why did my grandfather want me to marry a Moretti?
The spoon slipped from my fingers again. Clattered against the plate.
I stared at it. Hands trembling.
I wasn’t hungry anymore.
So I stood up and pushed into his bedroom, the door creaking on rusted hinges. The room was a shrine to his absence—dust motes dancing in the slanted light, his flannel shirts still hanging in the closet.
The space felt alive with his ghost, every corner heavy with an eerie stillness that made my skin prickle.
Why had he wanted me to marry into a family that thrived on blood? Grandfather never acted without reason, his every choice a calculated step. There was something he knew, something hidden in the shadows of the Moretti name.
The weighty oak door moaned as I shoved it fully ajar, and immediately, the scent hit me. A mix of old paper, mildew, and the faintest hint of cigar smoke—remnants of a man who once ruled a city, now reduced to silence and moth-bitten curtains.
I paused, chest tight, the floor groaning beneath my feet like it resented the intrusion.
This used to be his sanctuary.
Now it felt like a grave.
I moved slowly, pulling open drawers, scanning every shelf. Nothing looked touched. It was as though time had stopped the moment he died.
He’d once been a mafia boss feared by many. Until my father betrayed him—stripped him of his title, his wealth, and his dignity.
Since then, Grandfather had been exiled here in this forgotten cabin. And I? I was sent to live with him—discarded like trash because I was born a girl.
My father used to say women were weak like my mother. That she was cursed for birthing me instead of giving him sons.
So he kept my brother close—lavished him with riches—and threw me here to rot.
Still, Grandfather had given me what little strength I had left. Even in poverty, he carried himself with quiet pride.
