Page 9 of Obsidian Devotion

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing," she smirks, her eyes never leaving mine.

4

Sofia

IfeelitthemomentI step into his office—heavy, electric, dangerous. Lorenzo Bellanti is in a pissy mood.

"Your drink." I place the crystal tumbler on his desk, careful to avoid his fingers.

He glances up, pushing his sleeves to his elbows. My breath catches at the sight of his forearms—powerful, veined, and covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric.

"Bad day?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.

Those impossibly green eyes lock onto mine. "Is that part of your bartending service? Therapy with the bourbon?"

"No." I smile slightly. "That costs extra."

The corner of his mouth curves up as he reaches for a silver case. He extracts a cigarette with long, elegant fingers—the same fingers that pulled a trigger and took my brother from me.

My stomach twists with disgust. With desire. With self-loathing.

Lorenzo lights the cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine as he takes a deep drag. The smoke curls from his lips when he exhales, and something hot and forbidden coils inside me.

"Nothing I can't handle," he says, his voice rough like gravel. He leans back, stretching those tattooed arms behind his head. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his broad chest.

My body responds instantly, a shameful heat spreading through me. This man killed Luciano. My brother's blood stains his hands. I should plot his death, not imagining those same hands on my skin.

When he takes another drag, his lips wrapping around the cigarette, I force myself to look away. The memory of my brother's funeral flashes through my mind—a brutal reminder of why I'm really here.

Vengeance, not desire. Justice, not lust.

"Of course. The great Lorenzo Bellanti can handle anything." I can't help the hint of sarcasm that creeps into my voice.

He raises an eyebrow. "Careful, Sofia. I might start thinking you have opinions about me."

"Everyone has opinions about you." I tilt my head. "Most are just too scared to share them."

"And you're not scared?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning beyond the words.

Am I scared?

Every day. Every night. Every moment I'm in his presence, playing this dangerous game, I’m scared that he’ll see through me and it’ll all be over.

"I respect your position," I say carefully. "But fear isn't particularly useful in my line of work."

He studies me with that unnerving intensity, like he's trying to read the thoughts beneath my skin. "And what exactly is your line of work these days? Still figuring that out myself."

"Whatever you need it to be." I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first.

Lorenzo's laugh is unexpected, a rich sound that warms the room. "Christ, you're something else, Red."

The nickname sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I force myself to remember why I'm here—the video of Luciano’s mutilated body.

I nod toward the door. "I should get back. The bar won't run itself."

"Stay." It's not quite a command, but it’s close enough. "Pour yourself something."

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