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

Lorenzo

F resh blood fills the surrounding air, and I inhale deeply, feeling my pupils dilate as the scent floods my senses. The fear emanating from the man strapped to the chair before me makes my skin tingle with anticipation.

This is why I love what I do.

"Last chance," I say, wiping my fingers on a handkerchief. "Where are they moving the weapons to?"

The soldier—some low-level Catalina family enforcer—spits blood onto the concrete.

"Fuck you."

My chest rumbles with laughter. “Thank you for making this more entertaining.”

I move to the metal table across the room and grab the pliers.

“W-w-h-hat are you doing?” The man splutters, and for the first time, I can see genuine fear in his battered face.

Ignoring him, I place the pliers in his mouth and wrench his teeth from his gums.

I watch his eyes bulge as he screams loudly, his pleas sending a wave of pleasure coursing through my veins.

"That was just practice," I whisper, dropping the pliers. "We haven't even started the main performance."

I select a scalpel from my custom leather case, holding it up so the overhead light catches the edge. The blade is German steel, perfectly balanced—a proper tool for proper work.

"You know what fascinates me?" I drag the tip along his forearm, not cutting yet, just introducing the metal to his skin. I can feel his pulse jumping beneath my touch. "The human body can endure so much more than the mind believes possible."

When I finally slice into him, the rush hits me like a drug. The scent of fresh blood blooms in the air, rich and metallic, and my body responds instantly—pulse quickening, every nerve ending electrified, cock hardening against my zipper.

This moment—life and death held in perfect balance at the edge of my blade—is better than any high.

"I can do this for hours," I explain casually as I carve patterns into his flesh, blood oozing out. "In fact, I hope you hold out. The ones who break too quickly... they disappoint me."

Thirty minutes later, when his leg cracks under my tools, he begs. His fear has changed, deepened into something primal and desperate.

By the time it reaches an hour, as I methodically separate his skin from his muscle, almost like peeling an orange, he's offering information.

Fifteen minutes later, we have our answer.

I send a quick text to Matteo: "The Russians. Working with the Albanians to push weapons through our southern corridor."

Then I send another text to one of my men, telling them to come dispose of the remains.

My phone buzzes with a text from our family group chat. Matteo sent a picture of his infant son sleeping. Little Leo, just three months old, was a perfect miniature of my cold-blooded brother.

The baby's eyes are gray, just as Matteo's. His tiny fists are curled against the designer onesie that Isabella undoubtedly purchased.

‘Little man's gonna be just like his daddy,’ the caption reads.

I study the image, still shocked by everything that happened in the past year.

None of us saw it coming—the day our ruthless, analytical brother fell for Elena, the single mother he saved from Massimo Caruso, a man who overstepped his boundaries. Elena somehow thawed the ice in his veins and made him more bearable.

My fingers glide over the phone as I reply: “50 grand, he'll grow up to be a playboy like Angelo.”

The responses are almost immediate. Angelo protests, Matteo curses me out, while Isabella and Olivia send laughing emojis.

I tuck the phone away and head to the roof. From here, I can see the whole of New York.

Beautiful and corrupt, just like my family.

This warehouse sits on the edge of our territory, a nondescript building that's witnessed countless confessions and blood spills.

My father built this empire from nothing. Paving the way with his blood and sweat.

Now, it's our responsibility as his children to protect it. To grow it. To ensure the Bellanti name strikes both fear and respect for another generation.

And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to interfere.

—

Peccato Noir, a/k/a Black Sin, pulses with sensual music when I arrive.

It's a recent business that I opened. It's a club that provides neither service nor entertainment. It facilitates desires, fantasies, and hedonism.

That’s a fancy way of saying, “what happens at Black sin, between two—or frequently over two —consenting adults, stays at Black sin.” The wealthy, powerful, typically connected mafia heads—their wives come to my house of ill repute to play how they like.

But always consensually, and with no money changing hands. There’s a membership fee, but that’s it.

This is important. One, because I’m not, nor have I ever once wanted to be, a pimp.

Those who come to play at Black Sin are here because they one hundred percent want to be—I know this because I personally and thoroughly vet every single member.

Black Sin is not a place for escorts, sex-workers, or anyone else who’s only here because they have to be.

Because Fuck. That.

I abhor any situation where someone has to participate in sex for money, and the Mafia shares that loathing. Or at least, they have a strong intolerance.

The Commission agreed almost thirty years ago to stop any involvement in the sex trade. As in: the Italians don’t pimp anymore. At all.

One, it’s morally reprehensible. But more than that, speaking in a purely business sense, it’s just not worth the bullshit involved.

Despite its appeal, Peccato Noir isn't open to the public. It caters to a very specific clientele: powerful men and women with deviant appetites who would pay anything to keep their vices private.

It also provides me with the opportunity to use these vices against them when necessary. The women and men here… They all work for me to get information when necessary for these clients.

Nothing works hand in hand with violence better than blackmail.

I go to my office above the main floor and pour myself a whiskey from the mini shelf by the window.

Taking a seat, I open the file on my desk.

Sofia Russo. Twenty-seven. Orphaned at sixteen. Worked her way through college tending bar at increasingly exclusive establishments. Perfect employment record. Glowing references.

Too perfect.

I study her photograph. That copper hair, those blue eyes. The way she handled the Russian—that was... Interesting.

I don't think she's just a bartender. No one is ever just what they seem, especially in my world.

I hear a soft knock at my door. Right on time.

"Come in."

Sofia walks in wearing just a silk blouse and jeans, her red hair let down and in waves.

"You wanted to see me?" Her voice has that slight Italian lilt that makes me wonder which region her family came from. If that's even her real heritage.

"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from me.

"Drink?"

"No, thank you."

I raise an eyebrow. "Bartender, who doesn't drink?"

"I prefer to keep my head clear." A hint of a smile plays at her lips. "Especially around men who ask as many questions as you do."

I laugh despite myself. "Fair enough." I close her file. "Isabella says you're the best she's ever had."

"I'm good at what I do."

"Which is what, exactly? Because I'm thinking it's not just mixing drinks."

Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "I handle difficult situations. I read people. I make sure everyone gets what they need without creating problems."

"Like our Russian friend that night."

"Exactly like that."

I stand, moving around the desk. "Walk with me. I want to show you something."

The lower level of Peccato Noir throbs with bass and red light. Different private rooms, each accessible by private elevator, to avoid any leaks about their patronizing the place, line the hallway.

I watch Sofia carefully as we walk through, noting how she observes everything.

"Not what they have at Club inferno," I say.

"Different clientele, different needs." Her eyes track a dancer getting into one elevator that is clearly off limits. "Though the power dynamics remain the same."

"Explain."

She turns those blue eyes to me. "Everyone wants something they can't admit to wanting. The more rich and powerful the person, the darker those desires are."

"Cynical view."

"Realistic one." She stops, facing me fully. "Why am I here, Lorenzo? I doubt it's for philosophical debates about human nature."

Direct. I like that.

"As you must know, this is a new establishment, and it's different from the usual clubs. This is more exclusive for people with more deviant sexual tastes. So, I need someone who can... manage delicate situations. Someone who understands discretion and control."

"And Isabella recommended me," Sofia comments.

"No. Isabella would never willingly give you up." I step closer. "I'm poaching you."

She doesn't back away. "Why?"

"Because you fascinate me." The truth slips out before I can catch it.

Her pupils dilate slightly. The only sign of my words has affected her. "That's not a business reason."

"Everything is business in my world," I counter. "Including fascination."

A server passes with champagne. I take one glass, but Sofia stops her, taking one for herself as well.

"I thought you didn't drink around questioning men," I say.

She takes the glass, her fingers brushing mine. "Maybe I'm willing to make an exception."

"Why?"

"Because you fascinate me, too." She repeats my words with a small smile.

I clear my throat, nodding at the man who's raising his voice at the hostess.

"How would you handle him?"

Sofia watches for five seconds, then says, "His wedding ring is new, but he's not wearing it proudly. He's rotating it constantly. First time cheating, feeling guilty. He's creating a scene to get thrown out so he can tell himself he tried to stay faithful."

I raise an eyebrow, impressed despite myself. "And your solution?"

"Have a female staff member approach him privately, say his wife called, looking for him. The fear will sober him up. He'll leave on his own, relieved to have an excuse."

"Not have security throw him out?"

She shakes her head. "For what? Violence creates witnesses, discussion, police reports. This method is cleaner. No one remembers the night nothing happened."

I smile. She understands one of the fundamental rules of our world: true power moves invisibly.

"The job is yours if you want it. Double what Isabella pays you."

She sips her champagne, studying me over the rim. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I've wasted a perfectly good glass of Dom Pérignon."

That earns me a genuine laugh, and the sound does something unusual to my chest. I want to hear it again.

"You're not what I expected," she whispers.

"What did you expect?"

She considers me for a long moment. "Someone who doesn't have to try so hard to appear human."

The words hit with surprising force. Not an insult, but an observation that cuts too close to truth.

I lean closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something subtle with notes of amber and vanilla. "What makes you think I'm trying?"

"Everyone's trying something, Lorenzo." Her eyes never leave mine. "The question is whether it's working."

I realize I've been watching her lips as she speaks. Full, perfectly shaped, still stained with that calculated red.

"Is it?" I ask.

"It is." She extends her hand. "I accept your offer."

I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I turn it over and press my lips to the inside of her wrist, where her pulse jumps beneath my touch.

"Welcome to the family business, Sofia Russo." I release her hand. "I hope you know what you're getting into."

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing," she smirks, her eyes never leaving mine.