Page 6 of Obsidian Devotion

None of us saw it coming—the day our ruthless, analytical brother fell for Elena, the single mother he saved from Massimo Caruso, a man who overstepped his boundaries. Elena somehow thawed the ice in his veins and made him more bearable.

My fingers glide over the phone as I reply: “50 grand, he'll grow up to be a playboy like Angelo.”

The responses are almost immediate. Angelo protests, Matteo curses me out, while Isabella and Olivia send laughing emojis.

I tuck the phone away and head to the roof. From here, I can see the whole of New York.

Beautiful and corrupt, just like my family.

This warehouse sits on the edge of our territory, a nondescript building that's witnessed countless confessions and blood spills.

My father built this empire from nothing. Paving the way with his blood and sweat.

Now, it's our responsibility as his children to protect it. To grow it. To ensure the Bellanti name strikes both fear and respect for another generation.

And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to interfere.

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Peccato Noir, a/k/a Black Sin, pulses with sensual music when I arrive.

It's a recent business that I opened. It's a club that provides neither service nor entertainment. It facilitates desires, fantasies, and hedonism.

That’s a fancy way of saying,“what happens at Black sin, between two—or frequentlyover two—consenting adults, stays at Black sin.”The wealthy, powerful, typically connected mafia heads—their wives come to my house of ill repute to play how they like.

But always consensually, and with no money changing hands. There’s a membership fee, but that’s it.

This is important. One, because I’m not, nor have I ever once wanted to be, a pimp.

Those who come to play at Black Sin are here because they one hundred percent want to be—I know this because I personally and thoroughly vet every single member.

Black Sin is not a place for escorts, sex-workers, or anyone else who’s only here because they have to be.

Because Fuck. That.

I abhor any situation where someone has to participate in sex for money, and the Mafia shares that loathing. Or at least, they have a strong intolerance.

The Commission agreed almost thirty years ago to stop any involvement in the sex trade. As in: the Italians don’t pimp anymore. At all.

One, it’s morally reprehensible. But more than that, speaking in a purely business sense, it’s just not worth the bullshit involved.

Despite its appeal, Peccato Noir isn't open to the public. It caters to a very specific clientele: powerful men and women with deviant appetites who would pay anything to keep their vices private.

It also provides me with the opportunity to use these vices against them when necessary. The women and men here… They all work for me to get information when necessary for these clients.

Nothing works hand in hand with violence better than blackmail.

I go to my office above the main floor and pour myself a whiskey from the mini shelf by the window.

Taking a seat, I open the file on my desk.

Sofia Russo. Twenty-seven. Orphaned at sixteen. Worked her way through college tending bar at increasingly exclusive establishments. Perfect employment record. Glowing references.

Too perfect.

I study her photograph. That copper hair, those blue eyes. The way she handled the Russian—that was... Interesting.

I don't think she's just a bartender. No one is ever just what they seem, especially in my world.

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