Page 3 of Sinful Obsession

“Marry into the Moretti family, Charlotte.”

I blinked. That was the last thing my grandfather said to me before he died.

But why?

Why the Morettis—the most dangerous mafia family in New York?

I’d promised, not understanding why he’d tie me to the city’s most ruthless mafia family, their name synonymous with blood and power.

The rumors swirled in my mind—whispers of murders, betrayals. But that was years ago. Or was it?

I fumbled for my phone, always tucked beneath my pillow, but my fingers found only sheets.

Panic crept in like smoke under a locked door as I shuffled barefoot to the living room. There, on the old oak table, sat Grandfather’s ancient cellular phone, its screen glowing faintly.

I tapped it, my heart lurching as the date flashed:December 1, 2027. I froze, my breath catching.

My breath hitched.

No. That couldn’t be right.

I tapped the screen. It resisted, then opened the calendar app.

The date held firm: 2027.

Three entire years—gone. Slipped through my memory like sand through cupped hands.

My chest tightened.

I can still feel the moment Grandfather’s hand went cold in mine—the hospital bed, the sterile air thick with antiseptic, the machines falling silent one by one. His funeral came soon after.

That was in the first quarter of 2024..

Wasn’t it?

The contradiction clawed at me, my thoughts a jumble of half-remembered moments.

My childhood came in flashes—laughter, my mother’s braids, my father’s cold disdain—but the past three years were a void, a black hole swallowing everything.

Had I lost my memory? Been reborn? The thought sent a shiver through me, my shoulder throbbing in protest.

I pushed off the bed and stumbled toward the door, my legs shaky beneath me, one hand dragging along the wall for balance.

When I finally stepped outside, the sunlight hit me like a slap. I blinked against it, disoriented, and took a few steps forward. The gravel path stretched out ahead, familiar yet foreign.

Grandfather’s cabin sat in isolation, swallowed by a sea of towering pines. The silence was unnerving. The nearest neighbors were over a mile away.

I kept walking, unsure what I was looking for.

Proof I was awake? That time hadn’t cracked in half beneath me?

Finally, I spotted someone—a woman in her fifties, gray hair pulled into a loose knot, tending to a frostbitten garden near the tree line. She looked up as I approached, blinking in the morning sun.

“Excuse me,” I called out. “Ma’am? What’s today’s date?”

She gave me a strange look but answered kindly, “It’s the first of December, dear. 2027.”

The breath caught in my throat.