Page 23 of Obsidian Devotion

It’sher.

I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone.

Maybe it’s not just the blood rushing to my cock. Maybe this is what it feels like when you fuck someone you're falling for.

The problems waiting outside this door haven't disappeared. Gabriel is still out there. My family still demands answers.

And Sofia—Sofia remains a beautiful enigma I can't afford to trust completely.

But for now, with her head resting against my chest, I allow myself this moment of peace—the calm before the storm that's surely coming.

8

Sofia

Istareatmyreflectionin 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 ofhim. 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 firethat 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.

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