Page 3 of Obsidian Devotion

Voices filter through the doorway before the Bellanti siblings sweep in. Isabella first, then Angelo, with his easy smile. Despite being the youngest at twenty-five, Angelo carries himself with the confidence of a much older man. His sharp features mirror Matteo's, though his green eyes hold more warmth. He perfectly styles his black hair, not a strand out of place, and his expensive suit proclaims old money and good taste.

Olivia follows, phone in hand as always. At twenty-seven, she commands respect with her professional demeanor and razor-sharp mind. Her straight, black, shoulder-length hair frames her face.

Her brown eyes glance at me from behind designer glasses, nodding slightly.

Matteo enters last, scanning the room like he expects an ambush. At thirty-five, he has finally become the Don of the Bellanti Syndicate.

Standing at 6'1", he cuts an imposing figure into his precisely tailored suit. His short black hair is meticulously cut, emphasizing his cold gray eyes and angular features. I notice the burn scars on his hands as he adjusts his cuffs—badges of honor from "work" that no one dares question.

I pour drinks. Champagne for Isabella. Negroni for Angelo. Gin martini for Olivia. Bourbon for Matteo. I gently place each one before its owner.

"You're new," Matteo says, eyes narrowed as he inspects me.

"Sofia's been with us three months," Isabella interjects.

"Three months?" Matteo's gaze is distant. "And I'm just meeting her now?"

"You'd know my staff if you bothered visiting more than once a moon cycle," Isabella retorts.

Angelo laughs, raising his glass. "To family dysfunction!"

I slip away as they bicker, arranging Lorenzo's whiskey on a separate tray. The bottle of Macallan 25 costs more than my monthly rent. I pour a generous measure, positioning the glass perfectly.

"Fuck, he's bleeding on my floor." Isabella's voice snaps through the room.

I turn in time to see him enter—Lorenzo Bellanti.

Blood streaks the side of his white dress shirt. His eye is swelling, split at the brow. But it's the way he moves that catches my breath—like violence barely contained in human form.

Photographs haven't done him justice. At 6'3", the second-oldest Bellanti brother dominates the room with his sheer physical presence. His dark long hair, usually packed in a man bun, looks disheveled, partially obscuring green eyes that hold a disturbing intensity. His muscular build is clear, even beneath his leather jacket and dark clothes.

I can see trails of ink peeking from beneath his cuff. Fresh marks layer over his bruised knuckles, adding to the old ones.

He is all sharp edges and icy beauty, dark hair pushed back from features that would make Renaissance sculptors weep.

But it's his eyes that stop my heart—green as forest shadows and just as dangerous.

Eyes that belonged to the last face my brother saw.

"What the hell happened?" Matteo demands, taking a sip of his drink.

Lorenzo waves him off. "Business disagreement." His voice is deeper than I expected, rough-edged but cultured. He spots me hovering with his drink and raises an eyebrow. "That for me?"

I step forward, every nerve ending alive. "Macallan 25, neat."

His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass, gaze assessing me from head to toe. "You're new."

"Sofia," I offer, letting my accent slip a little more than usual. Let him hear the Italian in my blood.

"Sofia," he repeats, testing my name like he's tasting it. "You always serve whiskey to men covered in blood?"

I meet his eyes steadily. "The job is the job.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, but something dangerous all the same.

"I like her, Isa." He doesn't look away from me. "Where'd you find this one?"

"Hands off, Lorenzo. She's the best bartender I've ever had."

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