Page 9 of Obsidian Devotion (Empire of Sin & Blood #3)

Sofia

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, recognizing the woman staring back at me.

Dark circles rim my eyes and my skin paler than ever, despite the flush that rises whenever I think of him . Of Lorenzo. Of what we've become.

"It's just sex," I whisper to myself, the lie bitter on my tongue.

It's been happening for weeks now. Ever since that night in the basement, when I pulled a bullet from his flesh and felt something shift between us. And then, weeks after, his lips claimed mine with a hunger that matched my own.

We've been insatiable. His office. The basement. Once against the bar after closing. No surface seems safe from the fire that ignites whenever we're alone. No words necessary beyond rasped commands and breathless pleas.

But there's no tag on whatever this is. No definition. And I refuse to admit that I care.

"It's just part of the plan," I tell my reflection, but the woman in the mirror looks unconvinced.

The plan. My brother. My sweet Luciano, whose tortured screams still echo in my nightmares. They returned his mutilated body to us as a message.

I close my eyes, willing the images away, but they persist—Luciano's fingers broken. The video they sent, showing Lorenzo Bellanti working with calculated precision as my brother begged for mercy.

"Remember why you're here," I hiss, gripping the sink until my knuckles turn white.

But even as hatred burns through me, guilt follows close behind. Guilt for the information I've been feeding Carlos. Guilt for the way my heart races when Lorenzo looks at me. For how I'm seeing the human behind the monster—the brother, the protector, the man whose touch I crave despite everything.

I straighten, splashing cold water on my face. It doesn't matter what I feel. Lorenzo Bellanti must pay for what he did to my family. Even if I'm damning myself.

When I arrive at the club, Lorenzo is already there, his dark gaze tracking me as I move through the space. I offer an awkward wave, then regret it.

What are we, teenagers? But he responds with that half-smile that makes my stomach flip, and I hate myself a little more for the reaction.

Hours pass in a blur of customers and cocktails. I'm reviewing inventory in the storeroom when my phone buzzes with a message from Lorenzo: ‘My office. Now.’

No please, No explanation. Just a command he expects to be obeyed. The worst part is how quickly I move to comply, my body already humming with anticipation.

But when I push open his office door, all thoughts of pleasure evaporate. A man kneels on the floor, hands bound behind his back, face bloody and swollen.

Lorenzo stands over him, his face closed off.

"Close the door," he says without looking up.

I obey, heart hammering. "What's happening?"

"This is Rodriguez Vassallo." Lorenzo circles the kneeling man like a predator. "He's been selling information about our shipments to the Carelli family."

The man—Rodriguez—whimpers something in Italian that sounds like either a denial or plea. Lorenzo silences him with a sharp kick to the ribs.

"I've confirmed it through three separate sources." Lorenzo's eyes are flat, devoid of the warmth I've glimpsed in our private moments. "He's guilty."

I swallow hard. "Okay. So why am I here?"

Lorenzo retrieves a gun from his desk drawer. He checks the chamber with practiced ease before extending it to me, grip first.

"Handle it," he says.

The weight of the gun feels alien in my palm. Wrong. I've held firearms before—Carlos insisted I learn—but I’ve never practiced intending to execute a helpless man.

"Problem?" Lorenzo's voice carries a dangerous edge as I hesitate. His eyes narrow. "You said yourself that sometimes getting your hands dirty is necessary. Were those just empty words?"

Rodriguez begs in broken English, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood on his face. "Please, miss. I have children. Three little girls. Please."

I tighten my fingers around the gun, willing them not to tremble. Is this a test? A trap? Or Lorenzo bringing me deeper into his world?

"If you're going to be part of this world—part of my world—I need to know you can do what's necessary," Lorenzo says, his expression unreadable.

I raise the gun, aiming between Rodriguez’s eyes. My finger hovers near the trigger as a war rages inside me.

Carlos would want me to maintain my cover at all costs. But this man has children. Little girls who will become orphans with one squeeze of my finger.

Could I live with that?

Lorenzo observes my internal struggle, then takes the gun from my trembling hands. Relief floods through me, only to freeze into horror as he speaks again.

"It was a test." His voice is soft. "If you had pulled that trigger without hesitation, I'd have known you weren't who you claimed to be."

Before I can process his words, Lorenzo raises the gun and fires a single shot. Rodriguez crumples to the floor, the back of his skull painting the expensive carpet red.

I flinch at the sound, at the spray of warm blood that mists my face. At that moment, I realize Lorenzo's suspicions run deeper than I thought. This wasn't just a test of my ability to kill—he was looking for something else.

“You think I don’t recognize someone trained to kill?” Lorenzo tucks the gun into his waistband. "It becomes instinct. Automatic. You hesitated because it's not in your nature. Not yet."

His hand cups my cheek, thumb wiping away a speck of blood. "That's what I like about you, Sofia. You're still... clean."

The next day, I'm opening the bar when my phone rings.

Carlos.

I glance around before answering, moving to a quiet corner.

"What did I tell you about calling me at work?" I hiss.

"Is that any way to greet family?" Carlos's voice drips with sarcasm. "You've been distant, Sofia, darling. Is something changing?"

"Nothing's changed," I snap, but the lie tastes sour.

"Good. Because I'd hate to remind you why you're there." His tone hardens. "Your brother's face when they sent back his body —you remember that, don't you? How they carved Lorenzo's initials into his chest while he was still breathing?"

Bile rises in my throat. "I remember."

"Then listen. Lorenzo has an arms deal tonight. He's meeting with a military official from a neighboring country—advanced weapons, big money. This deal would boost the Bellanti's firepower."

I grip the phone tighter. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You're going to make sure he doesn't make that meeting," Carlos states. "If Lorenzo doesn't show, the official will feel disrespected. The deal will fall through. The Bellanti's reputation takes a hit, and rival families seize the opportunity."

"And how am I supposed to stop him?" I ask.

"Figure it out," Carlos snaps. "Or have you forgotten Luciano's screams already?"

He hangs up.

Fucking hell.

Hours later, I'm dressed as one dancer, unrecognizable beneath a dark wig, sequined mask, and colored contacts.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I approach Lorenzo's private booth with a drink in hand.

It’s whiskey, good quality and laced with enough sedative to ensure he sleeps through the meeting.

I place the drink before him, my voice pitched higher than normal. He glances at me, distracted by a phone call.

Perfect.

Minutes pass and he downs the entire glass.

I watch from the shadows as his movements slow, his eyelids growing heavy. When he slumps in his seat, I move, helping the "drunk boss" to a back room to "sleep it off."

As I lay him on a couch, his fingers catch my wrist, the tiny bell on my bracelet tinkling. His eyes flutter, struggle to focus.

"Sofia?" he murmurs, confusion clouding his features before unconsciousness claims him.

I freeze, heart stopping for one terrified moment. Then I run, leaving behind the man I'm caring for and the vengeance I'm no longer sure I want.