Page 25 of Obsidian Devotion

"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.

9

Lorenzo

"Incompetent.Irresponsible.Unforgivable."

Each word from my father's mouth lands like a physical blow. I stand before him in Matteo’s study, hands clasped behind my back, spine rigid, as he leans heavily on his cane, his right leg stiff from the bullet he took years ago.

Matteo sits behind his desk, watching with concern.

"The most important arms deal of the year, Lorenzo." Father's voice drops to that dangerous whisper I've known since childhood, but there's pain beneath it—not just disappointment, but genuine worry. "And you simply... didn't show up."

I swallow the excuses that form in my mouth. It's pointless for me to explain that I was drugged, that I woke on a leather couchwith a pounding head and twelve missed calls. No Bellanti man offers excuses. Only results. Especially not the family enforcer.

"The Vietnamese official felt disrespected," Matteo says, rising from the desk to stand beside our father, subtly offering his arm for support when Father's leg trembles slightly. "He's threatening to take the entire shipment to the Carellis. We're talking fifty million in lost revenue, but worse—the firepower advantage shifts to them."

"I'll fix it," I say, the words like gravel in my throat.

Father sighs—not harsh or brittle, but heavy with concern. He hobbles to the leather couch and eases himself down, gesturing for me to join him. "Fix it? Like you 'fixed' the Gabriel situation?" He places his hand on my shoulder. "This isn't like you, Lorenzo. You've never failed the family before. Not once in fifteen years."

The observation stings more than any accusation could. I've given everything to this family—my conscience, my future, my soul.

My role as the enforcer allows Matteo to be the strategic leader. We each have our place, and I've never faltered in mine.Until now.

"The official has agreed to meet with me tomorrow," Matteo says, pouring three fingers of scotch into crystal tumblers. "But I need you there, Lorenzo.” He hands me a glass, his eyes meeting mine with the silent communication we've perfectedsince childhood. This isn't a punishment; it's an opportunity to redeem myself.

"It won't happen again." I accept the drink.

"What's distracting you, son?" Father leans forward, his cane resting against his good leg, hands clasped in front of him. "First Gabriel slips through your fingers. Now this. You've built your reputation for reliability. The men fear you because you're methodical. Uncompromising."

"It's that bartender," Matteo mentions carefully, as he takes a seat across from us. "Sofia. The reports say you've been spending considerable time with her."

Something cold slides down my spine at the mention of her name. "She's a distraction, nothing more."

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