Page 11 of Obsidian Devotion

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Sometimes getting your hands dirty is the only way to truly clean up a mess."

I think of Luciano, of what these hands did to him, and my jaw tightens. "There are other ways."

"Like what, Red? Tell me your secret method for handling men who want to destroy everything you've built."

The challenge in his voice is impossible to ignore. This is my opening.

"Psychological warfare," I say coolly. "Physical force is effective, but messy. People expect it from men like you."

His eyebrow raises. "Men like me?"

"Powerful. Dangerous." I meet his gaze. "Feared."

"And what would you suggest instead?"

"Target what they care about most. For most men, it's not their bodies, but their reputations. Their legacies. Their sense of security." I move closer, forgetting myself in the conversation's thrill. "Make them destroy themselves."

Lorenzo watches me with interest. "Spoken like someone who's given this considerable thought."

I realize my mistake immediately. I've shown too much of my hand.

"Just an observation," I say lightly. "People confess all sorts of things to their bartenders."

"And what would you confess, I wonder?" His voice drops lower. "After a few drinks, alone, with no one to overhear?"

Heat crawls up my neck. "Nothing interesting."

"Liar," he mumbles, but there's no accusation in his tone. Just certainty.

Before I can respond, Olivia bursts through the door, her normally perfect composure visibly shaken.

"Lorenzo, we need to talk." Her eyes flick to me, and for the first time since I've known her, there's no warmth there. Just a curt nod before she turns back to her brother. "Now. Privately."

The transformation is immediate. Lorenzo's entire demeanor shifts, shoulders squaring, jaw hardening. The man who was almost vulnerable moments ago vanishes, replaced by the Lorenzo Bellanti who makes grown men tremble.

"We'll continue this later," he tells me.

I nod, gathering his empty glass. "Of course, boss."

As I turn to leave, his hand catches my wrist, the touch sending electricity shooting up my arm. His thumb brushes over my pulse point, and I know he can feel how it races.

"I'm not finished with you, Sofia," he says quietly, dark promise in his eyes.

It sounds like a threat, but it feels like a promise. Either way, it terrifies me.

"I'm counting on it," I reply, pulling away before he can feel me tremble.

As I close the door behind me, I glimpse Olivia's expression—tight with worry. Something major has happened.

Good. Let their empire crumble. Let them feel a fraction of what I felt when they took everything from me.

I touch my wrist where his fingers were, the skin still burning. This is getting complicated. I'm supposed to be bringing him down, not wondering what his lips would feel like against mine.

Focus, Sofia. Remember why you're here.

But as I walk down to the bar, I can't help but wonder which is the real Lorenzo Bellanti—the ruthless killer who tortured my brother, or the man whose eyes hold shadows of something like conscience.

And worse, I'm not sure which version I'm more drawn to.

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