Page 8 of Sinful Obsession
No law governed it.
No emergency line would save you. If you died here—and most would—your body would rot where it fell, your bones crushed beneath newer, stronger contenders.
This was where heirs of the most brutal mafia clans came to prove their worth. Where boys were stripped of comfort, pride, and mercy. Where killers were sharpened.
I chose the House of Devils—a one-year death match between mafia heirs—over becoming a Moretti bride.
At twenty-five, I was old enough to know what marriage to a Moretti meant—and smart enough to run.
I wasn’t sure which fate was slower: becoming their bride or entering a death match built to break monsters.
But if I survive—and win—by the end of the year, I’ll walk away with more than just power. I’ll have enough wealth and respect to strip my father of his title, rewrite my future, and never again be forced into an arranged marriage.
That’s the goal.
So yes, I signed up for this.
Even knowing I might not survive the night—let alone the year.
“Hey,” a voice cut through the dense, metallic air behind me.
I stiffened, fingers clutching my duffel as I turned.
The guy who approached was tall, maybe six feet, muscles bloated from steroids or rage. He gave me a smirk that didn’t touch his eyes.
“You’re...what, 5’5? Maybe? Shortest runt I’ve seen today.” He circled me like a predator sniffing weakness. “Tiniest too. Guess we just saw the first corpse.”
I swallowed hard but didn’t flinch. I’d prepped for this. I had rehearsed slouching my shoulders, stiffening my stride, deepening my voice.
I was Charles now. Not Charlotte. Never Charlotte. Not here.
I gave a tight-lipped smile. “Size isn’t everything.”
His grin widened—vicious, boyish, cruel. Then, without warning, his fist slammed into my face.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. Stars burst in my vision.
I staggered back, hitting the ground with a sickening crack. My nose throbbed. Warm blood poured over my lips.
Great. First hour in and I’m already taking punches. What’s next, a welcome stabbing?
I blinked through the pain, forced myself to breathe, and pushed to my feet.
He wasn’t impressed. “What mafia clan do you belong to, runt?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the space. Then—there—a rusted basketball pole leaning near one of the walls. I darted for it, grabbed it, and feigned a wild swing.
He dodged.
Big mistake.
I adjusted and slammed the metal rod up under his jaw with every ounce of rage I’d buried since the day my father called me a disappointment for being born a girl.
He howled and fell backward, clutching his mouth. Blood pooled from a split lip—or worse.
“You little—!”
“Enough.”
