Page 13 of The Seventh Circle
We reached the small café where we'd begun meeting after collections. The owner nodded deferentially, leading us to a private corner table.
After ordering wine, Lorenzo loosened his tie. The gesture transformed him from the Benedetto heir to simply Lorenzo—younger, less guarded.
"Tell me about your brother," he said, surprising me again. "Enzo, right? You mention him often."
I found myself talking about Enzo's school achievements, his dreams of university, his terrible attempts at cooking. Lorenzo listened with genuine interest, asking questions that revealed he'd been paying attention to previous mentions.
"You're a good brother," he said when I finished. "He's lucky."
"I'm the lucky one. He gives me reason to..." I trailed off, unsure how to explain.
"To stay human in this work," Lorenzo finished for me. "I understand."
Our wine arrived, and Lorenzo raised his glass. "To reasons."
We drank in silence for a moment. The evening light softened the sharp angles of his face, highlighting cheekbones that belonged in a Renaissance painting.
"You ever wonder if there's more than this?" he asked suddenly, voice low. "More than collections and territories and family obligations?"
I hesitated. This wasn't safe conversation for an enforcer with a boss. But something in Lorenzo's expression—vulnerability beneath privilege—made me answer honestly.
"Every day. But wondering doesn't change what is."
"No," he agreed, "it doesn't." He swirled the wine in hisglass. "My father informed me it's time I consider marriage. The Vitelli family has an eligible daughter."
I ignored the unexpected tightness in my chest. "Congratulations?"
"It's not a choice. It's an acquisition." Bitterness edged his words. "Another business transaction."
"Most marriages are," I offered. "At least in your position, the cage is gilded."
Lorenzo looked up, something raw in his gaze. "A cage nonetheless."
Our eyes held for a moment too long. I looked away first, focusing on my wine.
"You've never married," he observed.
"Hard to support a wife on what I make." True, but incomplete. I'd never found myself drawn to the neighborhood girls my mother constantly suggested. Their soft curves and flirtatious smiles left me unmoved.
"No sweetheart waiting at home?" Lorenzo pressed.
I shook my head. "Just family."
"And books," he added with a slight smile.
"And books," I agreed, returning the smile before I could stop myself.
The wine loosened something between us. Our conversation shifted from business to literature, Lorenzo expressing genuine surprise at the breadth of my reading.
"Self-education is still education," I said defensively.
"Often better," he countered. "You've read what interests you, not what someone decided you should know."
He spoke of his university years with a mixture of fondness and regret, describing professors and ideas rather than the debauchery most privileged sons focused on. I found myself imagining him in lecture halls, debating philosophy instead of counting protection money.
"I should have studied harder," he admitted. "I knew I'd return to this life, so I never fully committed."
"Yet you remember more than most who attended."
