Page 4 of Obsidian Devotion

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Bellanti?"

"Lorenzo," he corrects, swirling his whiskey. "And yes. Tell me how you knew my preference without asking."

“Isabella mentioned it earlier."

"Hmm, and if she hadn't?"

I allow myself a small smile. "Then I would have served you the Macallan 18. Second shelf, left side. The dust pattern shows it's favored by someone who doesn't visit often but has expensive taste."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Observant."

"It's my job."

"Your job is making drinks. Observation is a bonus." He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. "Or a sign of someone with ulterior motives."

My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression neutral. "The only ulterior motive in a place like this is a better tip, Lorenzo."

A commotion at the door saves me from his scrutiny. I excuse myself to check what's happening, heart hammering in my chest.

In the hallway, a red-faced man with a thick Russian accent is attempting to push past security. "I have business with Bellanti!"

I assess the situation quickly. The man is drunk but dangerous—thick neck, arms built for violence, and a bulge under his jacket that screams concealed weapon.

"Sir," I step between him and the security guards, "perhaps I can help."

The Russian snorts. "Get out of my way, pretty girl. Men are talking."

"How's Mikhail?" I ask quietly, leaning close like I'm sharing a secret. "Still meeting the Bratva rivals at the Brighton Beach sauna every Tuesday? I've heard some fascinating rumors about those meetings."

The blood drains from his face. He steps back, muttering something in Russian that sounds like a prayer.

"Perhaps another night would be better for business," I suggest. "When you're more... composed."

He backs away, nearly tripping over himself.

"That was impressive."

I spin to find Lorenzo leaning against the wall behind me, watching through hooded eyes. How long has he been there?

"Just doing my job," I say.

"Now you're lying." He arches an eyebrow. "How does a bartender know about Bratva internal politics?"

I shrug. "Men talk too much when they drink. Especially to women they underestimate."

He studies me for a long beat. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs—a low, rich sound that makes something warm unfurl in my stomach.

"I should keep you close," he says. "In case I need something more than a drink."

Before I can respond, Olivia calls from the doorway. "Lorenzo, stop terrorizing the staff and get in here. We have things to discuss."

He pushes off the wall, wincing slightly.

"Sofia," he says my name like he's filing it away for future reference. "We'll continue this conversation soon."

As he walks away, I allow myself to breathe again. First contact made. Interest was established.

Step one of getting closer to Lorenzo Bellanti is complete.

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