Page 2 of Sinful Obsession (Broken Vows #3)

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.

That’s why I knew there had to be more to his final words—“ Marry into the Moretti family.”

There had to be a reason.

I moved to the old trunk by the bed—iron-latched and covered in dust. I cracked it open.

Documents. Hundreds of them. Crumpled folders, brittle pages, and leather-bound ledgers that smelled of rot and power.

I sat on the sunken mattress, brushing hair from my face, hands already caked in dust.

The deeper I dug, the stranger the papers became—contracts with no names, bank transfers routed through ghost accounts, maps etched in red ink.

Hours passed, the slanted light from the window fading to a bruised twilight, and my frustration grew, a tight knot in my chest.

I was about to give up when my fingers brushed something different—a single, dog-eared file buried at the bottom, its pages brittle and stained.

Unlike the others, it was written in shorthand, a cryptic scrawl that stood out like a warning.

My heart quickened. I’d learned shorthand as a teenager, a skill Grandfather had insisted on, and it was one of the few things the fog in my mind hadn’t stolen. Told me it was “ a dying language for dangerous truths. ”

To hide this amidst a sea of plain English meant it held secrets he didn’t want found.

I unfolded it carefully, the paper crackling, dust falling like ash onto my lap. At the top, in bold shorthand strokes, were the words: HOUSE OF DEVILS.

My breath caught as I began to read, deciphering the terse symbols with a focus that drowned out the cabin’s eerie hum.

The document revealed a chilling truth: Grandfather and the Moretti patriarch, once powerful allies, had built a clandestine empire beneath the surface—a brutal, underground secret competition known as the House of Devils.

Hidden far from the eyes of the law, it brought together heirs of the world’s most dangerous mafia families—Colombia, Mexico, Russia, Brazil, and beyond—forcing them to compete in a one-year, blood-soaked gauntlet.

The purpose? To create the deadliest men on the planet.

Out of over five hundred applicants each year, only forty males were chosen—one from each country.

The rules were simple: survive.

Only two could win, walking away with unrivaled wealth, influence, and the kind of power that could buy a small country.

The rest? They never left. Whether shattered by the trials or killed by each other, thirty-eight bodies were sacrificed to crown the victors.

Mafia clans knew the stakes, yet hundreds still vied for a chance at glory.

And then... I saw it.

A clause—written in my grandfather’s personal shorthand, wedged between legal jargon and financial arrangements.

“ By December 1st, 2028, if my granddaughter Charlotte Grayson is legally married into the Moretti family, the funds and winnings allocated to the second-place champion shall be diverted to her in full.”

I blinked. Reread it.

What?

This wasn’t about love. This was about money, power and survival.

The amount listed as “second-place reward” was enough to buy a country.

My grandfather had written me into the system—not as a participant, but as a loophole.

A backdoor into a fortune I was never meant to have.

But there was one catch: I had to be married to a Moretti before the competition ended.

No marriage, no money.

I dropped the paper, heart pounding. My skin crawled.

So this was his plan all along?

The implication was clear—he knew I, as a woman, couldn’t compete in the House of Devils , so he’d crafted a loophole to secure my future, tying it to a marriage I dreaded.

The Morettis were a death sentence in themselves, their sons—Cassian and Luca—whispered to be as ruthless as their father, their empire built on blood and betrayal.

I stood up, pacing, my bare feet leaving prints in the dust.

My chest ached.

But as I stared at the document, my gaze fell to my flat chest, a legacy of the cancer that had ravaged me, a body caught somewhere between what it used to be and what it now resembled.

A reckless idea sparked.

A thought so wild I almost laughed.

What if I didn’t marry into the Moretti family?

What if I disguised myself as a male and applied for the House of Devils?

If I won, I’d claim the money—my birthright—without chaining myself to a Moretti.

The thought was madness, a gamble with death itself, but it burned brighter than the alternative.

No silk dress.

No wedding vows.

No pretending to smile beside a man who saw me as property.

I could cut my hair.

Flatten my voice.

Move like the boys I’d studied in silence for years—sharp elbows, squared shoulders, eyes that didn’t flinch.

The femininity my father always mocked... I could shed it like skin.

My chest was already gone.

I could pass.

Not perfectly. But enough.

Enough to infiltrate the devil’s house.

Enough to win.

Or die trying.

My Grayson surname would give me an edge in the application, a nod to my grandfather’s legacy, though acceptance wasn’t guaranteed.

The one year training would be my crucible—hiding my gender amidst killers, surviving trials designed to break even the strongest men.

I sank onto the bed, my mind racing.

Since my mastectomy, I’d endured stares and whispers, strangers questioning my womanhood, their eyes lingering on my flat chest, wondering if I was male or female.

In the House of Devils , surrounded by men, I’d be free from that gaze, judged only by my skill, not my body.

But the risks were staggering.

If they discovered I was a woman in disguise—I’d be executed.

If I failed the trials—I’d die.

Only one or two would survive, and even then, I’d need to be the sole winner to claim the full prize, defying Grandfather’s clause and my father’s theft of our legacy.

I wouldn’t just inherit a dead man’s fortune—I’d earn it.

On my own terms.

The idea buzzed in my veins like electricity.

Dangerous. Insane.

But oddly... freeing.

Could I really survive it?

Could I win?

Marriage to a Moretti or death in the underworld—both were traps, but one offered a chance to reclaim what was mine, to strip my father of the power he’d stolen and honor Grandfather’s cunning.

My cancer had already taken so much; maybe this was my chance to fight back, to prove I wasn’t weak, as my father claimed. But what if I didn’t make it?

Either way, it was better than being someone’s wife.

Better than being owned.