Page 17 of Obsidian Devotion

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.

"What happened?" I ask, partly to distract him, partly because I need to know.

He hesitates. "Ambush. Went after the wrong person."

"The'him'Matteo mentioned?" I probe, keeping my tone casual as I prepare to extract the bullet.

His eyes sharpen, despite the pain. "Exactly how much did you overhear that night?"

"Enough." I hold his gaze steadily. "This is going to hurt."

I don't wait for his response before pushing the forceps into the wound. His body arches off the table, a strangled sound escaping through clenched teeth. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.

"Easy," I murmur, not knowing if I'm talking to him or myself. "Almost there."

I feel the forceps connect with something solid. "Got it."

The bullet comes free with a sickening sound, and I drop it into a metal dish. Lorenzo releases a breath that sounds almost like a sob, his grip on my wrist finally relaxing.

"Not bad," he exhales, watching as I clean and dress the wound. "Ever consider a career change?" he grunts.

"Digging bullets out of mafia bosses? Not exactly my life goal."

He actually laughs at that, then winces. "What is your life goal, Sofia Rossi?"

The question catches me off guard. What is my goal? Once, the answer was simple: make Lorenzo Bellanti pay for what he did to my brother. Now...

"To survive," I answer honestly.

Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. Understanding. "That's the only goal that matters in our world."

Our world. As if we share something, belong to the same dark universe. And maybe we do, though he doesn't know it yet.

"You didn’t go with your men? How come you came back alone, bleeding out?" I ask, securing the bandage over his wound.

His eyes close briefly as his jaw clenches. “Operation went wrong.”

“This guy… how dangerous is he?”

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