Page 2 of Obsidian Devotion (Empire of Sin & Blood #3)

Sofia

I slide the crystal tumbler across the bar top, stopping it perfectly in front of the Wall Street executive who's been mentally undressing me for the last hour.

"Your Manhattan, sir." I keep my voice professional and my smile warm enough to ensure a good tip.

He leans forward, his heavy cologne invading my space. "When do you get off tonight, sweetheart?"

“That information is not for men who call me sweetheart." I wink and move down the bar, ignoring his indignant sputter.

Men. They’re all so annoying.

The Inferno Club is New York’s playground for the obscenely rich, and Isabella Bellanti runs it like the queen she is.

I've worked here for three months, taking my place behind this Italian marble bar top.

Three months of pouring drinks for criminals dressed in Armani, of learning the rhythms of this family, of waiting for him .

Lorenzo Bellanti.

I check my watch. It's almost midnight. The Bellanti siblings will soon fill the VIP room for their monthly gathering. Isabella, Olivia, Matteo, Angelo. All of them except him.

For the past three months that I have been working here, I haven't come across his shadow. But I suppose, as the enforcer of the family, he's got a lot of shit to do.

Dangerous shit.

"Sofia." Isabella appears at my side, her black cocktail dress hugging curves that have half the men in here ordering drinks they don't want.

Even after two children, she still looks super attractive. At twenty-nine, she's a striking presence with her long dark hair cascading down her back, the auburn highlights catching the club's dim lighting. Those sharp green eyes, the distinctive family trait, miss nothing as they sweep over me.

"You'll handle the VIP section personally tonight."

"Of course." I keep my voice steady, though my heart kicks against my ribs. "Any special requests?"

"The usual for everyone." She lowers her voice. "And Lorenzo prefers Macallan 25, neat. He doesn't like to ask twice."

My fingers nearly slip on the glass I'm polishing. "Mr. Bellanti is coming tonight?"

A flash of curiosity crosses Isabella's face. "Yes. First time in months. Problem?"

"Not at all. Just want to be prepared."

She studies me for a beat too long before nodding. "Good. You're the best hire I've made in years. Don't make me regret putting you in Lorenzo's path."

I smile, all innocence. "I'm just pouring drinks, Isabella."

"Honey, nobody's just anything around my brother." She pats my arm and glides away.

Nobody's just anything around my brother.

If only she knew.

—

The VIP lounge glows with amber lighting, imitating the vibe of the club.

I arrange crystal decanters on a silver tray, checking my reflection in the mirrored bar back.

My natural red locks—a gift from my mother's Irish genes—usually fall to mid back, but tonight they're pinned up. I smack my lips together, appreciating the way my red lipstick accentuates my amber eyes and cream-colored skin—the only thing I got from my father’s Italian side.

I've heard Lorenzo has a weakness for redheads, and I plan to use that to my advantage.

Two years of planning, of becoming someone else. Of learning how to move into this world. Now, everything hinges on making an impression.

Voices filter through the doorway before the Bellanti siblings sweep in.

Isabella first, then Angelo, with his easy smile.

Despite being the youngest at twenty-five, Angelo carries himself with the confidence of a much older man.

His sharp features mirror Matteo's, though his green eyes hold more warmth.

He perfectly styles his black hair, not a strand out of place, and his expensive suit proclaims old money and good taste.

Olivia follows, phone in hand as always. At twenty-seven, she commands respect with her professional demeanor and razor-sharp mind. Her straight, black, shoulder-length hair frames her face.

Her brown eyes glance at me from behind designer glasses, nodding slightly.

Matteo enters last, scanning the room like he expects an ambush. At thirty-five, he has finally become the Don of the Bellanti Syndicate.

Standing at 6'1", he cuts an imposing figure into his precisely tailored suit. His short black hair is meticulously cut, emphasizing his cold gray eyes and angular features. I notice the burn scars on his hands as he adjusts his cuffs—badges of honor from "work" that no one dares question.

I pour drinks. Champagne for Isabella. Negroni for Angelo. Gin martini for Olivia. Bourbon for Matteo. I gently place each one before its owner.

"You're new," Matteo says, eyes narrowed as he inspects me.

"Sofia's been with us three months," Isabella interjects.

"Three months?" Matteo's gaze is distant. "And I'm just meeting her now?"

"You'd know my staff if you bothered visiting more than once a moon cycle," Isabella retorts.

Angelo laughs, raising his glass. "To family dysfunction!"

I slip away as they bicker, arranging Lorenzo's whiskey on a separate tray. The bottle of Macallan 25 costs more than my monthly rent. I pour a generous measure, positioning the glass perfectly.

"Fuck, he's bleeding on my floor." Isabella's voice snaps through the room.

I turn in time to see him enter—Lorenzo Bellanti.

Blood streaks the side of his white dress shirt. His eye is swelling, split at the brow. But it's the way he moves that catches my breath—like violence barely contained in human form.

Photographs haven't done him justice. At 6'3", the second-oldest Bellanti brother dominates the room with his sheer physical presence.

His dark long hair, usually packed in a man bun, looks disheveled, partially obscuring green eyes that hold a disturbing intensity.

His muscular build is clear, even beneath his leather jacket and dark clothes.

I can see trails of ink peeking from beneath his cuff. Fresh marks layer over his bruised knuckles, adding to the old ones.

He is all sharp edges and icy beauty, dark hair pushed back from features that would make Renaissance sculptors weep.

But it's his eyes that stop my heart—green as forest shadows and just as dangerous.

Eyes that belonged to the last face my brother saw.

"What the hell happened?" Matteo demands, taking a sip of his drink.

Lorenzo waves him off. "Business disagreement." His voice is deeper than I expected, rough-edged but cultured. He spots me hovering with his drink and raises an eyebrow. "That for me?"

I step forward, every nerve ending alive. "Macallan 25, neat."

His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass, gaze assessing me from head to toe. "You're new."

"Sofia," I offer, letting my accent slip a little more than usual. Let him hear the Italian in my blood.

"Sofia," he repeats, testing my name like he's tasting it. "You always serve whiskey to men covered in blood?"

I meet his eyes steadily. "The job is the job.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, but something dangerous all the same.

"I like her, Isa." He doesn't look away from me. "Where'd you find this one?"

"Hands off, Lorenzo. She's the best bartender I've ever had."

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Bellanti?"

"Lorenzo," he corrects, swirling his whiskey. "And yes. Tell me how you knew my preference without asking."

“Isabella mentioned it earlier."

"Hmm, and if she hadn't?"

I allow myself a small smile. "Then I would have served you the Macallan 18. Second shelf, left side. The dust pattern shows it's favored by someone who doesn't visit often but has expensive taste."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Observant."

"It's my job."

"Your job is making drinks. Observation is a bonus." He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. "Or a sign of someone with ulterior motives."

My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression neutral. "The only ulterior motive in a place like this is a better tip, Lorenzo."

A commotion at the door saves me from his scrutiny. I excuse myself to check what's happening, heart hammering in my chest.

In the hallway, a red-faced man with a thick Russian accent is attempting to push past security. "I have business with Bellanti!"

I assess the situation quickly. The man is drunk but dangerous—thick neck, arms built for violence, and a bulge under his jacket that screams concealed weapon.

"Sir," I step between him and the security guards, "perhaps I can help."

The Russian snorts. "Get out of my way, pretty girl. Men are talking."

"How's Mikhail?" I ask quietly, leaning close like I'm sharing a secret. "Still meeting the Bratva rivals at the Brighton Beach sauna every Tuesday? I've heard some fascinating rumors about those meetings."

The blood drains from his face. He steps back, muttering something in Russian that sounds like a prayer.

"Perhaps another night would be better for business," I suggest. "When you're more... composed."

He backs away, nearly tripping over himself.

"That was impressive."

I spin to find Lorenzo leaning against the wall behind me, watching through hooded eyes. How long has he been there?

"Just doing my job," I say.

"Now you're lying." He arches an eyebrow. "How does a bartender know about Bratva internal politics?"

I shrug. "Men talk too much when they drink. Especially to women they underestimate."

He studies me for a long beat. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs—a low, rich sound that makes something warm unfurl in my stomach.

"I should keep you close," he says. "In case I need something more than a drink."

Before I can respond, Olivia calls from the doorway. "Lorenzo, stop terrorizing the staff and get in here. We have things to discuss."

He pushes off the wall, wincing slightly.

"Sofia," he says my name like he's filing it away for future reference. "We'll continue this conversation soon."

As he walks away, I allow myself to breathe again. First contact made. Interest was established.

Step one of getting closer to Lorenzo Bellanti is complete.

The satisfaction that washes over me is cold and sharp. No one sees the hatred simmering beneath my carefully crafted smile. No one knows that every step closer to him is calculated, measured in the beats of a heart that stopped caring about anything but vengeance two years ago.

Because revenge is a drink best served neat—no dilution, no sweetener, just pure, burning hatred.

And I'm going to pour until there's nothing left.