Page 18 of The Seventh Circle
My feet carried me to Santa Maria Deli Angeli without conscious decision. The cathedral stood solid against the pale morning sky, its bell tower reaching toward heaven like a finger pointing the way. I hesitated at the steps, almost turning back. But the weight in my chest needed release, and who else could I speak to? Not my father, who would either laugh or rage. Certainly not Lorenzo himself.
Inside, the cathedral was cool and dim, scented with incense and old stone. A few old women knelt in prayer, black-clad and murmuring their rosaries. I dipped my fingers in the holy water, making the sign of the cross with hands that had broken bones two days before.
The confessional booth stood in shadow, its heavy curtain promising anonymity. I knelt in the pew before it, trying to remember when I'd last made confession. Six months? A year? The sins had piled up—violence, threats, intimidation. But none of those had driven me here today.
Father Giuseppe emerged from the sacristy, his young face serious as he prepared for morning mass. I'd seen him around the neighbourhood—younger than most priests, with kind eyes that seemed to see beyond the surface. He nodded at me, perhaps surprised to see one of the Benedetto enforcers in his church at this hour.
I waited until he entered the confessional before approaching, my heart hammering against my ribs. The curtain felt impossibly heavy as I pushed it aside and knelt in the darkness.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," I began, the familiar words dry in my throat. "It has been... many months since my last confession."
"God welcomes you back to His grace," Father Giuseppe's voice came softly through the screen. "What weighs on your soul, my son?"
I swallowed hard. "Father, before I speak... what I say here, it stays between us and God, yes? No one else will ever know?"
There was a brief pause. "The seal of confession is absolute. Not even under torture could I reveal what you tell me. Your words are between you and the Lord alone, with me only as humble witness."
I nodded, though he couldn't see me. My hands were trembling. I clasped them together to still them.
"I've done... many things working for the Benedettos. I've hurt people. Threatened them. Taken money that maybe wasn't always fairly earned." The words tumbled out, but these weren't the sins that had brought me here.
"God understands the difficult choices we make for family, though He calls us always to a better path," the priest replied, his voice gentle. "Is there something specific troubling you?"
"Yes." My voice cracked. "Father, I... I think I..." The words wouldn't come.
"Take your time," he said. "God is patient."
I took a deep breath. "I think I'm falling in love with someone I shouldn't." There. A partial truth.
"Love itself is never sinful," he answered carefully. "Though its expression can be complicated by circumstance."
"It's not just circumstance." My voice dropped to a whisper. "It's the boss's son. Lorenzo Benedetto."
The silence that followed seemed eternal. I waited for shocked condemnation, for outrage, for him to throw open the curtain and expose me.
"I see," he finally said, his voice thoughtful rather than disgusted. "And these feelings trouble you."
"Of course they trouble me!" I hissed, keeping my voice low. "It's unnatural. An abomination. I should be thinking about girls, about marriage someday. Not about... not about him."
"Is it?" Father Giuseppe asked quietly. "Many would say so. The Church certainly teaches this. But I've lived in this parish long enough to know that love appears in many forms, and the heart does not always follow the path we expect."
I blinked in the darkness, uncertain I'd heard correctly. "But... it's a sin."
"The Church teaches that acting on such desires is sinful," he clarified. "But the feelings themselves... God made your heart, Antonio. He knows what lies within it."
Hearing my name startled me, though of course he would know who I was.
"What do I do?" I asked, a plea more than a question. "I can't stop thinking about him. When he speaks to me like I matter, when he asked me about books..." I trailed off. "He gave me his scarf yesterday. I've barely put it down since."
"Do you believe he returns these feelings?"
I laughed bitterly. "How could he? He's the heir. He's goingto marry the Vitelli girl. He needs sons to carry on the family. And even if by some miracle he felt something... it would get us both killed."
Father Giuseppe sighed. "The world can be cruel to those who love differently. I won't pretend otherwise. But neither will I tell you that God abhors you for feelings you didn't choose."
"You're not saying what I expected," I admitted.
"What did you expect? Fire and brimstone? Demands that you flog yourself?" There was a gentle humour in his voice. "I've seen too much suffering in this parish to believe that more condemnation helps anyone."
