Page 10 of The Seventh Circle
"I'm pleased with your handling of this matter."
The rare praise should have warmed me. Instead, it settled like a stone in my stomach.
Dinner in the Benedetto household was always a performance. Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier as servants moved silently around us, filling wine glasses and removing plates. Father sat at the head of the table, Uncle Federico to his right, myself to his left. Paolo sat beside his father, already on his second glass of wine.
"To family," Father raised his glass. "Our strength and purpose."
We echoed the toast, the ritual so familiar I could perform it in my sleep.
"Lorenzo handled the Torrino situation today," Fatherannounced between bites of Mama Lucia's risotto. "A measured response that preserved our dignity without creating unnecessary bloodshed."
Uncle Federico nodded approvingly. "The market is crucial territory. Well done, nephew."
Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Measured, Uncle? I heard Torrino walked away on his own feet." He looked at me, challenge evident. "Seems generous for someone who deliberately disrespected our family."
"The message was delivered," I replied evenly, cutting into my veal. "Breaking his legs would have gained us nothing but police attention and market disruption."
"Fear has its uses," Paolo insisted, gesturing with his knife. "Last month, when those dock workers thought they could skim from our shipments, I made sure the message wasn't so... measured."
He launched into graphic detail about what he'd done to the unfortunate workers. I maintained a neutral expression while my stomach churned. Uncle Federico looked proud, Father contemplative. This was our world—violence recounted over fine wine and delicate cuisine.
"Three days they searched for his fingers," Paolo concluded with a satisfied smile. "Found most of them in the harbor. No one's skimmed since."
"And now we pay triple to replace workers who fled the docks," I noted quietly. "Fear has its price too."
Paolo's eyes flashed. "You suggest I was wasteful?"
"I suggest balance in all things," I replied, meeting his gaze. "Even retribution."
Father interceded smoothly. "Different situations require different approaches. Paolo handled the dock issue as needed; Lorenzo managed the market accordingly. Both serve the family."
But I'd seen the calculation in Father's eyes. Paolo's brutality cost money. My restraint preserved income. In our world, the bottom line often determined which violence was acceptable.
The conversation shifted to business matters—protection payments, political connections, territorial disputes. I contributed when necessary, revealing nothing of my inner thoughts. By dessert, Paolo was detailing another act of violence with the same enthusiasm most men might describe a football match.
"I swear his eye popped like a grape," he laughed, gesturing wildly. "Blood everywhere. Ruined my new shoes."
I hid my revulsion, disguising it with a sip of wine. This was my blood, my future—men who measured their worth by the suffering they inflicted. And I was expected not just to join them but to lead them one day.
After dinner, Father beckoned me to follow him onto the terrace. The night air offered blessed relief from the dining room's oppressive atmosphere. We stood in silence for a moment, looking over the gardens illuminated by moonlight.
"You disapprove of your cousin's methods," Father said finally. Not a question.
"They're inefficient," I replied carefully. "Needlessly destructive."
"Yet sometimes necessary." He lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating the lines of his face. "You understand what others often miss, Lorenzo. When to strike hard, when to show restraint. It's why you'll make a finer Don than I ever was."
The words settled heavily upon my shoulders. I arranged my features into appropriate gratitude.
"I've watched you closely these past months," he continued. "You've grown into the role. Today confirmed what I already knew—you're ready to truly begin the transition. When I'm gone, the family will need your particular wisdom."
"I hope that day is far off, Father."
"Death comes when it comes. But I rest easier knowing you'll carry on our legacy." He placed a hand on my shoulder, a rare display of affection. "You were born for this, my son."
Born for this. Not chosen, not desired—simply born into a fate I couldn't escape.
"You honour me," I managed, the lie bitter on my tongue.
