Page 10 of Sinful Obsession (Broken Vows #3)

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.