Page 12 of The Seventh Circle
"That's the third one over quota today," I noted, showing Lorenzo the figures.
He leaned close to examine my handwriting, his cologne mingling with the distinctive scents of ink and leather. "You have surprisingly neat penmanship, Romano."
"Taught myself." I shrugged, tucking the notebook away. "My mother wanted me in school, but we couldn't afford it after I turned ten."
Lorenzo's gaze lingered on my face. "Yet you quote Marcus Aurelius."
I didn't mention the hours spent with salvaged books by candlelight, the words I'd puzzled through alone. Instead, I gestured toward the cobbler's shop across the street. "Martinelli is next. He'll complain about his wife's medicine costs again."
"Let him keep an extra fifty," Lorenzo decided. "His son works for my uncle. Good family."
This was our third week working collections together. The pattern had become comfortable—Lorenzo handled the business, I handled anyone who objected to the business. But there'd been less resistance than expected. Lorenzo had a way with people that differed from other Benedettos I'd worked for. He listened. Remembered details. Adjusted terms when circumstances warranted.
The cobbler indeed complained about his wife's condition, and Lorenzo not only allowed the reduction but asked specific questions about her treatment. I watched the old man's suspicion transform to gratitude.
Outside, Lorenzo checked his pocket watch. "That's enough for today. Let's cut through the market."
We walked in companionable silence, vendors nodding respectfully as we passed. After the incident with Vito, our reputation had solidified. The Benedetto heir and his enforcer—fair but formidable.
I scanned the crowd habitually, a practice that had kept me alive since boyhood. Near the fountain, I spotted a familiar face—one of the men who'd been watching my family's apartment. He ducked behind a fruit cart when he noticed my attention.
"Something wrong?" Lorenzo asked, catching my shift in posture.
"We're being watched." I kept my voice casual. "Don't look now. Man by the fruit stand, grey cap. Been following me for days."
Lorenzo nodded, continuing our walk without obvious reaction. "Torrino's man?"
"Likely." I guided us through a narrow side street. "He's been watching my building too. Changed my route home three times this week."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "I'll have Paolo look into it."
"No need. I can handle it."
"It's not about handling it." His voice carried unexpected concern. "It's about your family's safety."
The statement caught me off guard. Most bosses considered enforcers expendable—our families even more so. "I appreciate that."
We emerged onto a quiet street lined with plane trees. The watcher hadn't followed us through the shortcut.
"Tell me something, Romano." Lorenzo slowed his pace. "If you weren't doing this work, what would you be doing?"
The question surprised me. No one in the organization had ever asked about my aspirations. "Honestly?"
"I wouldn't ask otherwise."
I hesitated, then admitted, "I'd work with books. Maybe a bookshop or a library." I felt foolish saying it aloud—the enforcer who dreamed of alphabetizing volumes instead of breaking bones.
But Lorenzo didn't laugh. "You'd be good at it. You have a librarian's memory."
"And you? If you weren't the heir?"
His smile faded. "I've never had the luxury of that question." After a moment, he added, "Perhaps carpentry. Creating something with my hands that doesn't destroy."
I tried picturing Lorenzo Benedetto in a carpenter's workshop, sawdust in his expensive hair. The image fit better than expected.
"My father was a carpenter," I said. "Taught me some basics before his injury."
"Mine taught me how to make a man regret crossing us."Lorenzo's voice carried no pride, just resignation. "Different educations."
