Page 21 of The Seventh Circle
"Because of who I am." I pressed my forehead against the wooden partition. "I'm the heir to the Benedetto family. I'm expected to marry, to continue our line. To maintain our position."
A soft exhale from the other side. "Lorenzo Benedetto."
I stiffened, ready to flee. The priest knowing my identity changed everything.
"Yes," I admitted.
"And the man you desire—he works for your family?"
My blood turned to ice. "How did you—"
"I am Father Giuseppe Conti," he said simply. "I hear many confessions in this neighborhood."
Antonio. Antonio had been here. Had confessed the same torment.
"Has he—" I began, then stopped myself. "No, I can't ask that. The seal of confession."
"Indeed." I could hear the smile in his voice. "But I can say that God does not create feelings to torment us. All love comes from Him, even love that the world condemns."
"This isn't just about sin," I insisted. "If my father discovered such feelings—such actions—it would mean death. Not just for me. For him."
Father Giuseppe was silent for a long moment. "The world is cruel to those who love differently. But cruelty is not God's way."
"What are you saying, Father?"
"I'm saying that fear is a poor reason to deny love." Hisvoice grew softer. "And I'm saying that discretion is wisdom, not cowardice."
I felt dizzy, as if the confessional were spinning around me. "You're not condemning me? Not telling me to pray away these feelings?"
"Would such prayers work?" he asked gently.
"No," I admitted. "I've tried."
"Then perhaps they aren't meant to." He paused. "Lorenzo, I cannot tell you what path to take. I can only remind you that God sees into hearts, not just actions. That love—true love that cares for the other's soul and well-being—is never a sin in God's eyes, whatever men may say."
"But the physical—"
"I'm not encouraging you to act on these feelings," he interrupted quickly. "Only suggesting that the feelings themselves may not be the evil you believe them to be. The circumstances—your family, your position—those create genuine danger that cannot be ignored."
I exhaled slowly. "So you're saying...what exactly?"
"I'm saying that whatever you decide, God will not abandon you." His voice was kind but firm. "And that perhaps there are ways to be true to your heart while keeping both yourself and this man safe."
"Is that really possible?" I whispered.
"With courage, discretion, and God's help—perhaps." He sighed. "For your penance, I ask you to reflect on the Gospel of John, chapter fifteen, verse thirteen: 'Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.' Consider what true love means—placing the other's well-being above your desires."
I nodded, though he couldn't see me. "Thank you, Father."
"Make your Act of Contrition, and I will grant absolution."
I stumbled through the prayer, the words feeling bothforeign and achingly familiar on my tongue. When I finished, Father Giuseppe's voice washed over me with the ritual of absolution.
"Go in peace," he concluded.
"Thank you," I said again, rising unsteadily.
I emerged from the confessional feeling strangely light, as if some great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Not completely—the dangers remained, the impossibility of my situation unchanged—but the crushing shame had receded.
