Page 6 of Obsidian Devotion (Empire of Sin & Blood #3)

Sofia

" Y ou survived another night with us," Adriana says, her warm smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as she unties her apron. "One month in and you haven't run away screaming. I'm impressed."

I wipe down the last of the tables, my muscles aching from hours of carrying trays and dodging wandering hands. "Thanks for showing me the ropes. I'd be lost without you."

Adriana tosses her perfect black curls over her shoulder, the dim lights of Peccato Noir catching on her multiple ear piercings. "Most pretty girls like you don't last a week. The men here..." She shakes her head. "They can be animals."

"I can handle animals," I shrug.

She giggles as she grabs her purse from beneath the bar. "Listen, a few of us are grabbing drinks at Martino's tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just staff unwinding. You should come."

The invitation catches me off guard. Three weeks of playing the role, and I'd almost forgotten this wasn't real. That these weren't my friends. That I'm here for one reason only.

“I’d like that, but unfortunately I have plans tonight.” I let her down gently, feeling bad about the disappointment on her face.

Adriana smiles warmly. “That’s okay. There’s always a next time.”

She pats my back and leaves.

After Adriana leaves, I'm alone with the hum of the ice machine and my thoughts. I wipe down the bar methodically, each swipe bringing me closer to the end of another night with no progress. No sign of Lorenzo still.

"Working hard or hardly working?"

The voice makes me jump. Tommy Chen leans against the doorway to the back office, arms crossed over his chest, military-precise buzz cut and sleeve of Chinese dragons visible beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves.

"Jesus, Tommy. Make some noise next time."

His lips curve into a wide smile. "What's the fun in that?" He pushes off the wall and moves towards me. "You know, most people are running out the door at closing, not scrubbing like their life depends on it."

I shrug. "I need this job."

"What you need," he says, taking the rag from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately, "is dinner. With me. Tomorrow night."

His confidence would be charming under different circumstances. In another life, I might have said yes. Tommy Chen is exactly the man I would have wanted before everything changed. Before revenge became my only purpose.

"Dating coworkers is a no-go," I declared, taking my rag.

He lets out a laugh. "That's not a no. That's a policy. Policies can be changed."

Despite myself, I smile. "Not this one."

"Is it because of the boss?" Tommy asks, his voice dropping. "He has been around a little, but I've seen how he looks at you."

My pulse quickens. "Lorenzo? Don't be ridiculous."

"The way you just said his name tells me everything I need to know." Tommy sighs dramatically. "Fine. I'll back off. For now." He winks. "But fair warning—I don't give up easily."

After he leaves, I finish closing up, turning off lights and making sure everything is ready for the next shift in the morning.

It's past 3 AM now, and I'm exhausted. Working the late shift at Black Sin is grueling—Things pick up considerably at 11 PM.

When the regular clubs are winding down, but that's when our real clientele arrives.

I roll my shoulders, willing the ache away, but my mind keeps drifting to Lorenzo. Three weeks of planning my move, and he vanishes. Did he sense something off about me? Did I already blow my cover?

I step out into the cool night air, locking the door behind me. That's when I hear it—a rustle from the alleyway where the dumpsters sit. My hand instinctively reaches for the knife strapped to my thigh.

I round the corner slowly, careful to keep my footsteps silent.

And there he is. Lorenzo.

I stare at his unconscious form sprawled across the pavement, blood seeping through his side. My heart hammers against my ribs as I glance around the deserted alley behind Peccato Noir. No witnesses. No help.

Just me and the devil, him bleeding out at my feet.

I stare at his unconscious form, watching the blood spread across his expensive shirt. Time seems to slow as opposing forces war inside me.

This is it. The moment I've dreamed about for two years. Lorenzo Bellanti—the man who killed my brother, dying alone in filth, where he belongs. Poetic justice served on a silver platter. All I have to do is do nothing. Walk away. Let the night to finish what someone else started.

My legs actually twitch with the impulse to turn. To leave. To finally close this chapter.

But something holds me in place. Not sympathy—he deserves none.

Perhaps it's pride.

The cold, hard truth?

I want to be the architect of his downfall, not some unknown assailant in a back alley.

Or maybe it's something deeper, a need to look him in the eyes when he pays for what he did.

But I don't leave. I can't. I guess I'm not that type of monster.

I drop to my knees beside him, cursing under my breath. Blood warms my hands as I apply pressure to his wound.

"Don't you dare die on me," I hiss through clenched teeth.

His eyelids flutter, revealing those green eyes.

“Sofia? His voice is rough with pain. "What are you doing here? ”

I almost laugh at the irony. Two years of plotting his downfall, of dreaming about watching the light fade from his eyes, and now here I am, desperately trying to keep him alive.

"Don't talk," I order, pressing harder on the wound. The blood seeps between my fingers, stubborn. Just like the man himself.

Part of me—a dark, vengeful part I've nurtured since that night I saw my brother's mutilated dead body—whispers, "E ase the pressure. Stand up, walk away, and let fate take him. "

It would be so easy.

No one would know.

The alley is empty; the night is dark, and Lorenzo has made enough enemies that no one would question finding his body here.

My hands lighten their pressure for just a moment.

His breath hitches, and something primal in me responds. I press down again, cursing under my breath.

I want his blood on my hands—just not like this. Not in some dirty alley where he'll become another statistic, another casualty in a world that creates men like Lorenzo as often as it destroys them.

No, I want him to face me. To know exactly what he’s done.

"Can you stand?"

He nods weakly, and together we get him upright. His body is heavy against mine, solid muscle turned deadweight. The scent of blood mixes with his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, like gunpowder.

"Hospital," I say, half-dragging him toward my car.

"No." His grip on my arm tightens painfully. "No hospitals."

"You've been shot, Lorenzo. You need—"

"Basement," he interrupts, each word an effort. "Take me... to the basement."

I frown. "What basement?"

His laugh turns into a grimace. "Secret... door. Behind the bar storage."

Great. Of course, the mafia enforcer has a secret torture chamber. Because why wouldn't he?

Somehow, I manage to half-carry, half-drag him through the club's back entrance, grateful that most of the staff has already left. The storage room is dimly lit, stacks of liquor cases creating narrow pathways.

As I adjust my grip on his shoulders, I tell myself that this is justice, not mercy. That keeping Lorenzo alive is the cruelest thing I could do to him. That watching him heal, only to face what's coming, is the revenge I've dreamed of.

But as I feel his weight against me, as I catch the familiar scent of his cologne beneath the copper tang of blood, another part of me—a treacherous part—whispers, " Maybe I'm saving him because, despite everything, I'm not ready to live in a world where Lorenzo doesn't exist. "

And that terrifies me more than any threat he ever posed.

"There," Lorenzo mumbles, pointing weakly to what looks like an ordinary wall.

I shift his weight, reaching for the spot he showed. My fingers find a recessed panel that slides away, revealing a keypad.

"Code?" I ask.

"Eight... four... seven... two..."

The door slides open silently, revealing a steep staircase leading into darkness. As we descend, motion sensors trigger soft lighting, illuminating a space that makes my blood run cold.

It's a medical room and torture chamber combined. Surgical tools laid out with meticulous precision. Restraints bolted to a steel table. A drain in the center of the concrete floor.

I swallow hard, forcing down the bile rising in my throat. God knows how many people have been killed in here.

"Put me... on the table," Lorenzo gasps, his usual tan skin turning dangerously pale.

I help him into the cold steel. He fumbles with his shirt buttons, fingers slick with blood, until I push his hands away and rip the fabric open.

The bullet wound sits just below his ribs, dark and angry against his taut skin. Not his heart. Not immediately fatal. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

"Cabinet," he mutters, gesturing weakly. "Medical supplies."

I move to the stainless steel cabinet, finding it better stocked than some hospital emergency rooms. Forceps, scalpels, gauze, antibiotics, even bags of blood stored in a small refrigerator.

"You've done this before," I observe, gathering supplies.

"Professional hazard...." He attempts a smile that turns into a grimace. "Need to remove the bullet."

I raise an eyebrow. "You want me to perform surgery? I'm a bartender, not a doctor."

"Trained field medic," he grunts, gesturing to himself. "I’ll talk you through it."

My fingers tremble slightly as I pull on surgical gloves. I've never dug a bullet out of someone before, but I've patched up worse injuries during my time with Carlos. Still, there's something intimate about this—having Lorenzo Bellanti's life literally in my hands.

One slip, one "accident," and I could end it all now.

"Forceps," he instructs, his voice growing stronger as he focuses. "Clean the wound first."

I do as he says, trying to ignore how his muscles tense beneath my touch, how his breathing quickens when my fingers brush his skin.