Page 5 of Obsidian Devotion

The satisfaction that washes over me is cold and sharp. No one sees the hatred simmering beneath my carefully crafted smile. No one knows that every step closer to him is calculated, measured in the beats of a heart that stopped caring about anything but vengeance two years ago.

Because revenge is a drink best served neat—no dilution, no sweetener, just pure, burning hatred.

And I'm going to pour until there's nothing left.

3

Lorenzo

Freshbloodfillsthesurrounding air, and I inhale deeply, feeling my pupils dilate as the scent floods my senses. The fear emanating from the man strapped to the chair before me makes my skin tingle with anticipation.

This is why I love what I do.

"Last chance," I say, wiping my fingers on a handkerchief. "Where are they moving the weapons to?"

The soldier—some low-level Catalina family enforcer—spits blood onto the concrete.

"Fuck you."

My chest rumbles with laughter. “Thank you for making this more entertaining.”

I move to the metal table across the room and grab the pliers.

“W-w-h-hat are you doing?” The man splutters, and for the first time, I can see genuine fear in his battered face.

Ignoring him, I place the pliers in his mouth and wrench his teeth from his gums.

I watch his eyes bulge as he screams loudly, his pleas sending a wave of pleasure coursing through my veins.

"That was just practice," I whisper, dropping the pliers. "We haven't even started the main performance."

I select a scalpel from my custom leather case, holding it up so the overhead light catches the edge. The blade is German steel, perfectly balanced—a proper tool for proper work.

"You know what fascinates me?" I drag the tip along his forearm, not cutting yet, just introducing the metal to his skin. I can feel his pulse jumping beneath my touch. "The human body can endure so much more than the mind believes possible."

When I finally slice into him, the rush hits me like a drug. The scent of fresh blood blooms in the air, rich and metallic, and my body responds instantly—pulse quickening, every nerve ending electrified, cock hardening against my zipper.

This moment—life and death held in perfect balance at the edge of my blade—is better than any high.

"I can do this for hours," I explain casually as I carve patterns into his flesh, blood oozing out. "In fact, I hope you hold out. The ones who break too quickly... they disappoint me."

Thirty minutes later, when his leg cracks under my tools, he begs. His fear has changed, deepened into something primal and desperate.

By the time it reaches an hour, as I methodically separate his skin from his muscle, almost like peeling an orange, he's offering information.

Fifteen minutes later, we have our answer.

I send a quick text to Matteo:"The Russians. Working with the Albanians to push weapons through our southern corridor."

Then I send another text to one of my men, telling them to come dispose of the remains.

My phone buzzes with a text from our family group chat. Matteo sent a picture of his infant son sleeping. Little Leo, just three months old, was a perfect miniature of my cold-blooded brother.

The baby's eyes are gray, just as Matteo's. His tiny fists are curled against the designer onesie that Isabella undoubtedly purchased.

‘Little man's gonna be just like his daddy,’the caption reads.

I study the image, still shocked by everything that happened in the past year.

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