Page 2 of The Seventh Circle
The mention of my mother hit like a physical blow. She'd died when I was twelve, too young to understand the full scope of what my father was, old enough to remember her gentle hands and quiet prayers. Would she truly have been proud to see me break men's bones for money? To see me become another link in a chain of violence that stretched back generations?
"Thank you, Papa."
I left the study with my father's expectations weighing on my shoulders like a funeral shroud. The hallway stretched ahead of me, lined with portraits of dead relatives who'd built this empire through blood and betrayal. Their painted eyes seemed to follow my progress, judging whether I was worthy to join their ranks.
"There he is—the prince himself!"
The booming voice belonged to my uncle Federico, my father's younger brother and most trusted lieutenant. He emerged from the drawing room with a half-empty glass of brandy in hand, though it wasn't yet noon. His presence in the house meant something significant was brewing; Uncle Federico preferred to oversee our shipping interests at the docks rather than engage in family politics.
"Zio," I nodded respectfully. "I didn't know you were back from Naples."
He clapped my shoulder with a hand heavy enough to buckle lesser men's knees. "Your father called me back. The Torrinos are making moves we can't ignore." His eyes, thesame calculating shade as my father's, studied my face. "You've been given the market situation, I hear."
"Just now. I'm meeting Romano to handle it."
"Romano." He swirled his brandy thoughtfully. "Good choice. That boy understands loyalty in his bones. Not like some of these new recruits who think this is all about money." He leaned closer, breath sharp with alcohol and secrets. "Listen, nipote, this market business—it's not just about a few lire from vegetable vendors."
I waited, knowing Uncle Federico's information was always worth the patience.
"The Benedettos have held the San Lorenzo market since your grandfather wrested it from the Calabrians in '79. Three generations of blood spilled to keep it. Your grandfather lost two brothers in that fight." His voice dropped further. "But more importantly, it's the gateway to the eastern neighbourhoods. Whoever controls that market controls the flow of goods—legitimate and otherwise—to five thousand people."
"And the Torrinos want more than just the protection money," I concluded.
"Exactly." He tapped his temple. "Always thinking, just like your father. The Torrinos started as nothing—dock rats and thieves when we were already established. Giovanni Torrino's father was a fishmonger who couldn't even write his name. Now his son thinks he can challenge the family that's been Roman nobility since before Garibaldi's time."
The Benedetto origin story—I'd heard it countless times. We weren't just criminals; we were aristocracy who'd simply adapted to changing times. Three generations of calculated violence had transformed our family from minor nobility with dwindling fortunes to the most powerful criminal organization in central Italy.
"There's something else," Uncle Federico said, glancingdown the hallway to ensure we were alone. "Giovanni's son Vito—the one they call 'The Blade'—he's pushing his father to expand. Word is, he's been making promises to the Sicilians about new smuggling routes if they back a push against us. If they get the market, they'll have a foothold to challenge us throughout the east side."
This was new information—and it changed the stakes considerably. A turf war with Sicilian backing would mean bloodshed beyond anything we'd seen in years.
"Does Father know about the Sicilians?"
Uncle Federico's smile was thin. "Why do you think I'm back from Naples? Your father doesn't just want you to deliver a message today, Lorenzo. He wants you to cut off this problem before it grows teeth."
My cousin Paolo appeared at the end of the hallway, nodding at me with the distant respect our fathers had instilled in us since childhood. Though only two years younger than me, Paolo had already earned a reputation for creative cruelty that made even hardened soldiers uncomfortable. Where I approached violence as a necessary business transaction, Paolo seemed to savour it like fine wine.
"Cousin," he acknowledged. "Uncle needs me to go with you today?"
"No," I said firmly, perhaps too quickly. "Father specifically assigned Romano."
Something flickered in Paolo's eyes—annoyance, perhaps jealousy. "Antonio Romano? The street rat from Trastevere? Interesting choice."
I kept my expression neutral, though something protective flared in my chest. "Father's orders."
Paolo shrugged with exaggerated indifference. "Well, if you need real muscle instead of a bookworm playing at soldier, you know where to find me." He disappeared backdown the hallway, the threat in his words lingering like cigarette smoke.
Uncle Federico watched him go with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Your cousin is eager. Perhaps too eager sometimes." He finished his brandy in one swallow. "Be careful today, Lorenzo. Show strength, but be smart about it. The Benedetto name wasn't built on mindless violence—it was built on calculated fear."
"I understand, Uncle."
"I hope so." He squeezed my shoulder once more. "Your father sees himself in you, you know. More than he ever admits. Don't disappoint him."
The weight of those words followed me as I finally escaped the house's oppressive atmosphere. The morning air outside was crisp with the promise of autumn, carrying the scents of fresh bread and wood smoke from the neighbourhood hearths. Normal people beginning normal days, unaware that their peace depended on the violence men like me did in the shadows. Children played in the narrow streets while their mothers hung washing from upper-story windows, the picture of innocence that my father's world existed to protect—or control.
I walked toward the meeting point, my mind churning with the weight of what lay ahead. Another territory dispute. Another lesson in dominance written in blood. Another step toward becoming the don my father needed me to be, regardless of what my conscience whispered in the dark hours before dawn.
The irony wasn't lost on me that the man I was walking to meet—Antonio Romano—represented everything I yearned for and everything I could never have. Intelligence without formal education, strength without cruelty, loyalty without the burden of succession. He did his job because he had to, not because he'd been bred for it since birth.
