Page 28 of The Seventh Circle
"You think he's planning something more permanent than intimidation?"
"I think we should leave nothing to chance." I ran a hand through my hair, a casual gesture to mask my nerves. "There's the old tannery by the river, the abandoned flour mill..."
Antonio made a thoughtful sound. "The mill would be too obvious. The tannery still has workers nearby who would notice new faces."
"There's also Villa San Michele," I suggested, my heart accelerating slightly. "It's been empty since the count's family moved north five years ago. Isolated enough for privacy, but close enough to access the market district quickly."
"I know of it," Antonio said, "but I've never been inside the grounds."
I hesitated, then took the plunge. "It's worth investigating. We can cut through the cypress grove and approach from the east. There's a gap in the wall that few know about."
Antonio raised an eyebrow. "You seem familiar with the property."
"I used to go there as a boy," I admitted, offering him a sliver of truth. "It was... somewhere I could be alone."
Something shifted in his expression—recognition,perhaps, of what I was really offering: not just a tactical detour but a piece of myself, a glimpse into my private world.
"Lead the way," he said quietly.
We finished our remaining collections in record time, my mind already racing ahead to the villa. This was madness, of course—using a security concern as pretense to show Antonio a place no one in my family knew I frequented. Yet after Father Giuseppe's words, I felt emboldened by possibility.
The villa lay a kilometer outside the main district, once the summer home of nobility now fallen on harder times. As we approached through a stand of cypress trees, the familiar scent of pine and dry earth transported me back to my adolescence. How many afternoons had I spent here, escaping my father's expectations and the suffocating weight of my predetermined future?
"The wall's just ahead," I said, slowing my pace. "The eastern side has partially collapsed—the count's heirs never bothered with repairs after they inherited."
Antonio scanned our surroundings with professional vigilance. "Doesn't look like anyone's been through here recently."
"That's good," I replied, though part of me was disappointed we wouldn't have a legitimate security concern to justify our detour.
We reached the crumbling section of wall, ivy claiming most of the weathered stones. I navigated the familiar opening with practiced ease, Antonio following close behind.
The gardens had grown wild in the years since I'd last visited, nature reclaiming what had once been meticulously tended grounds. Marble statues peered from beneath climbing roses, their faces half-obscured by untrimmed growth. The fountain at the center stood dry, leaves collected in its basin.
"Beautiful," Antonio murmured, his usual alertness momentarily softened by appreciation.
I watched him taking in the overgrown splendor, seeing it anew through his eyes. "It was more manicured when I used to come here, but I think I prefer it this way. There's something honest about it."
"Like watching something return to its true nature," he agreed, then caught himself. "But we should check the main house. If anyone's using this place, that's where they'd be."
We crossed the garden, our footsteps muffled by the carpet of soft grass and fallen leaves. The villa itself stood three stories tall, its pale yellow façade faded to the color of aged parchment. Shuttered windows stared out like closed eyes.
"There's a servant's entrance on the south side," I said. "Less conspicuous than the main doors."
Antonio gave me another questioning look but followed without comment. The door was unlocked as it had always been—the caretaker had stopped bothering years ago when there was nothing left worth stealing.
We stepped into the cool dimness of the kitchen, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light that penetrated the shutters. The silence held a quality I'd always loved—not the tense quiet of my father's study or the performative hush of church, but a patient stillness, as if the house were merely waiting.
"No signs of recent entry," Antonio observed, noting the undisturbed dust on the floor. "No footprints but ours."
"We should check the upper floors to be thorough," I suggested, though we both knew by now this was no Torrino hideout.
I led him through the servants' staircase to the main floor, where sheet-covered furniture stood like ghosts in the grand salon. Watching Antonio move through these rooms—my secret refuge—created a strange intimacy that made my chest tighten.
"You really did know this place well," he said as I navigated a particular corridor without hesitation.
"I used to bring books here," I admitted. "Novels my father would have considered frivolous. Poetry. Sometimes just a journal."
Antonio paused, studying a faded fresco on the ceiling. "Why here?"
